Almost Never A Novel

37


This begins where Doña Telma’s speech ended. It ended when she discovered that Egipto and Gonzala were missing. A quandary, a surprise. They’d escaped, it seems, with the money, which wasn’t much. Even so, desperate screams ensued, louder and louder, there must have been vibrations everywhere, up and down the walls, and now for the part you are not going to believe: Doña Telma looked under the beds. The servants fled with all the money and of course they pinched some other things as well. The lady went to the safe, which was, as she intuited, open: her jewels!, gone! Macabre emptiness, because the thieves had also taken several very beloved gold coins, as well as some valuable presses, metal scraps, and tools. Hence, the lady’s cries burst forth; she cried out with good reason, in the end, all that tremendous moaning heard by Demetrio, who came to embrace her and showed great compassion. My jewels, those two took everything I most loved. Then she said that she had already suspected they were secret lovers, and the worst part was she had nowhere to turn. Egipto was from a hamlet in some godforsaken place, and Gonzala was from another, far away. A problem to go to each hamlet, even getting there would be no cakewalk, moreover their relatives would protect their loved ones and who knows anyway if they would even know about the robbery; no, perhaps they hadn’t even gone back there. In the end, a perfect crime, irrevocable. All lost—and now what? Good thing the inheritance had been deposited at the local savings bank. Then the larger conjecture: Egipto as well as Gonzala had worked in her house for more than twenty years. They never stole a cent—why now? Because of the love they had sworn to each other?

The opportunity to do it right.

More than enough money.

They could even buy a house somewhere.

But the barbarity of this act still had a much wider reach. A major robbery, in the end. Doña Telma suggested that her son go to the pool hall to … Already Demetrio was thinking that Liborio and Zacarías were likewise two filthy thieves, or if not they would be able to give him some information about what had happened at the house. A modification, an increase in horror, because at the pool hall certain balls and cues and (to top that off) some chalk were missing. He went to check the cash register. No, or rather, empty, not a single bill or coin. More thieves, as we see, but let’s see if they had anything to do with Gonzala and Egipto? Theft here and there? Really? All on the same day—right? So maybe two separate crimes, or maybe the four had made some kind of pact—but how? There might have been a meeting, a supper, perhaps? Demetrio was already piecing together an approximation in the air: layers of mud (on top of each other), the cash all gone, and another thing, they must have done it at night. But the big guy didn’t waste more time making further conjectures but rather went out to the street and shouted at full throttle: I’ve been robbed! I’ve been robbed! They robbed my pool hall! He ran about wildly, indeed he did, going around in circles as if he were playing a game. He stood there screaming in the middle of the street, then suddenly turned south, toward his house, but not. Many passersby were watching the scene and they were moved and they approached to touch the body of the shouter to tell him to “Calm down!” and other things of that sort, but Demetrio kept on in the same vein: shouting wildly, as if he were taunting fate by spewing barbaric things such as: I’m going to hang those thieves! Their names are Liborio and Zacarías! No matter how much they tried to console him, nobody managed to calm him down, and he continued spitting out incoherent babble. With their combined forces, however, they did carry the giant, but only for half a minute, after which Demetrio violently bolted. They wanted to take him home, which was only—how many blocks away? But he told them to let him go because he would walk on his own two feet and just fine, thank you. The thing is, once he was put down (roughly) on the ground, Demetrio stopped shouting. On the contrary, he showed a curious kind of dignity as he walked away. A respectable upright man, casually straightening out his shirt and pants. It was a good thing that he had become quite sober, as was appropriate, and he stayed that way until he reached the house. A few followed him, just because. Imagine, then, the embrace between mother and son. The defeated duo, alone. Or, rather, inside the house and with the door closed. Or, rather, they cried a lot. Yes, there was a big because.

The coincidental robberies. The unimaginable. Too much trust given to those who didn’t deserve it. And Demetrio lodged the most serious complaint:

“I always have to start from scratch, always, always, always. I want to come out ahead for a change.”

“It’s not the end of the world. We won’t be starting from scratch. Fortunately, I still have money saved. Though I never thought such a thing could befall us.”

They kept talking sorrowfully, standing up, without losing their balance, and embracing each other, though soon they loosened their grip. There in the middle of the courtyard their desolation pointed in a certain direction. Then the pair began making futile speculations. Here’s one example: why were others able to lift themselves up with no problem, while they, no matter how hard they struggled, just couldn’t. God doesn’t love us, she declared, then immediately added nuance to her affirmation, beginning with the following banality: Or, He loves us with tough love. After elaborating on the advantage of being close to God, his mother proposed they go to church to pray for more than two hours. Demetrio, without hesitating, agreed and rejoiced, for it was of utmost importance to thank the Almighty that they hadn’t been completely scalped; for the robbery, in both cases, had been somewhat prudent. It was not a catastrophe, it just was, and—what might have happened if they’d stayed in Sacramento for two more days? or a week? eh? For now, let’s watch mother and son walking with their heads down, leaning on each other with good balance and clutched hands. Many passersby saw that saddened pair take one step after another. But what they mostly noted was their entrance into the temple. Their rustic humility that would be rewarded in the great beyond. Anyway, finally they kneeled and then began a kind of harsh penitence, parabolic, parodies of Our Fathers and Ave Marias: whatever they knew partially, thus: a gallimaufry of somewhat dim-witted prayers, and wedged in there were mother and son requesting that nothing dark happen in their lives again. In the end, their prayers were spicy enough to burn their tongues. There was generosity and even pain, for they remained kneeling for three hours, and their knees … ayayay … Then they left, almost stumbling over themselves. The walk back was more difficult. Mother and son were thinking—in between the ays—about everything they had to do. Renew their trust in people, but—to whom, what nature of folks, would they give it? The truth is, things were complicated, really, supercomplicated.