Almost Never A Novel

4


So much to talk about. A random recounting of minor troubles and modest joys. The breakfast conversation was merely a sketch that mother and son would fill in with details and inventions on the train. It was five in the morning, and due to their nerves, or their haste, they decided to finish chewing their toasted totopos and bread on the way to the station in their horse-drawn carriage. Among the most important things the mother—her name was Telma—told her offspring was one as portentous as:

“I’m sure you will find the woman of your life in Sacramento, the woman who will be the mother of your children.”

For Demetrio, this was a vain prophecy. He’d rather imagine Mireya’s marvelous vagina and her breasts like well-hung melons. She was the ideal, even the superlative, mamacita, who would bear him a whole legion of children …

“Did you hear me? There are lots of good and beautiful women in Sacramento; dutiful, not at all tiresome. What do you think?”

“I’ll see. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”

This was the main subject of conversation en route. Hour after hour she insisted. Irksome to the son, who had to hold his tongue. Not a chance he’d spill the beans to Doña Telma; what if he told her that he was sleeping with a spectacular whore in Oaxaca, and even that he had screwed her in many different positions? A son should never confess such depraved sins to his mother. What a terrible lack of respect that would be—right? hence it behooves us to set this scene in a precariously balanced rowboat. A touch of anxiety, a hint of fright, perhaps a moment of relief or something of the sort, all anticipated hours beforehand. Apropos, we must relate a geographic detail Doña Telma and her son, Demetrio, discussed on their way to Sacramento in the first-class carriage—“first” implies the presence of ceilings and walls upholstered in green velvet … anyway, the point is that the Nadadores River runs parallel to the railroad tracks for two and a half miles. If you think that there’s no friction in this kind of kinship, there’s no point in mentioning the subject. But the mother thought there was, for she had heard that sometimes the rising waters covered the rails. An anomalous event that created the illusion that the train was floating. Many had witnessed this delightful effect from afar, but to experience it from inside the train: to feel afloat and derailed: which she never … maybe this would be the first time? Fear. And, it being December, the river is higher, they say, or the contrary: almost not. Hence, until they passed that stretch … just before La Polka station, where mother and son would detrain with their heavy suitcases. A bit more than a mile before said station the river bore east. And the only thing they, as well as the other passengers, saw at any given moment was a sprinkling of the rails: the one on the left: where: unwanted kisses: liquid moderation, which outside observers might have perceived as flotation. Probably not. The river had risen, undoubtedly, but not enough to produce a more or less virtual image … And having thus avoided serious difficulties Doña Telma offered her gratitude to God, and Demetrio seconded that, if only to cover his bases. They crossed themselves ostentatiously, though the one, full-fledged; the other, hypocritical. Anyway, they’d almost reached La Polka. Both had stood up, the son carrying the heavy suitcase to the exit: he staggered under its weight. His mother had warned him that they would have to cross the Nadadores River by boat. On the other shore a horse-drawn carriage would take them to Sacramento. Two old-fashioned conveyances that then and perhaps even now remain the same … Yes, there was the proof, at that point in the century nobody had yet taken the initiative to build a bridge: how difficult could it be so as to avoid the rowing nuisance? For how long had it been thus? And how about buying an automobile to replace the horse-drawn carriage. No, no modernity here, and hence we have mother and son trembling in the boat. Rowing the whole way. The narrow boat was agile. The current would never hold sway. A gentle pull, ah; a glimmer of danger: yes: as stated, the cloud of dust still to come: a mock or imminent attack? the latter: which is what regrettably occurred: the wheels churning dust off the ground: as if to replicate rusticity they arrived in town like a couple of clowns (dust even in their armpits)— Sacramento was three miles from the river. Before that: a third of a mile from La Polka to the riverbank, but on the other side. The load, for Demetrio. Suffice it to say that the aforementioned crossing was more perturbing than the dusty jaunt: a bath at once, compulsory, with brush, soap, and soap-root plant, as soon as they arrived at the home of Aunt Zulema, Doña Telma’s cousin, where they would stay, for the town had no hotels, not even a modest one, not even a hostel. In short, the clouds of dirt were an added touch. A form of welcome … aggressive? Constant coughing, starting with the coachman. The important thing is that mother and son conversed between bouts. She repeated that Sacramento had an abundance of … et cetera. Demetrio’s rude riposte: You’ve told me more than ten times, Mama. And what if it turns out not to be true? Better just forget about it. But the mother, wearisome and defeated, nonetheless hedged her bets: At least in my day there were lots of beautiful women … I don’t know about now … Hopefully it will be like it once was. And once it was like this and like that, and as the horse-drawn carriage made its way through the streets of the town: one over here, another over there, wow, such well-groomed beauties—abloom! such bodies! such faces! such tresses! through the dust …

The magic dust acting as a filthy screen: do the beauties bathe … and how many times a day? If so, as Demetrio imagined, it would be the ultimate consolation, because the gaga gawker was already fully engrossed in painting pictures in his mind. He could imagine them (almost) floating. And above all, how beautiful they must be when even with all this dust … was there really that much? Demetrio imagined them naked, like Mireya, sculpted, but, why the comparison when any one of them was ten times as good as … ? Walking loveliness: well-nourished. The agronomist probably thought that those he was watching (lecherously) would attend the wedding. A host of invitations—with any luck! At night, visual delerium: many baths in between … In the meantime the aftereffects of the strenuous journey: colossal exhaustion. For Demetrio felt as though he’d come from the other end of the earth. Hence there rose from his subconscious the utterance “Hi-ro-shi-ma”—disgusting! so many dead. No! he wasn’t in Japan but rather in this small place: where life was flourishing—gorgeous! so healthful, so removed from catastrophes and other degradations … To clarify: Sacramento was horrible. A town staked down in the middle of a desert in a broad valley: irredeemable ugliness, except for the local women … Divine wisdom, could it possibly compensate? or not? Still to be seen if all were really so angelic … and hot! And of foremost importance: capable of whipping up a hearty stew.

An incidental fact. The scene of the dust-laden ones’ arrival at their relative’s house may seem spurious after the chug-a-chug-chug of the trip: a whole day long. The weather was cool, pleasant: a hoax in the month of December. By the same token, a dust storm at that time of year: why?

A local phenomenon, and on to the next thing: the dirty embrace. Zulema, with her expansive happiness, bubbling profusely about so many things (unstoppable, incorrigible), and the recent arrivals with their timid pleas: We want to take a bath. May we? Or: It’s urgent, and other such phrases sprinkled about. But Zulema: No! Wait! First let’s talk. How unkind! Or do we need to know that the hostess hadn’t seen Telma in more than ten years? She’d met Demetrio when he was about sixteen, and now an agronomist, a bachelor; tall and thin; such a manly impression he made. I’m so glad you brought him. He’ll find beautiful women here—spot-on!—I assume you have demanding taste. Well, you’ll find a lot to choose from around here, you’ll see. But a bath, please. The deliberate delay was due to the absence of showers in Sacramento, no exceptions, not even for the wealthiest: so: by the bucketful. And putting the water on the woodstove to heat: a delay, even of two or three hours, would still be a delay: and: no way could they attend the wedding filthy. Don’t worry, that won’t happen. A terrible hostess, this Zulema. An old maid, and bitter to boot, a sweet face despite the wrinkles, obvious right away she wasn’t used to having guests; at the house, to be precise, because in her grocery store … but that’s another story altogether … Her obstinacy triumphed against the two clamors for cleanliness. The contingency plan: conversation! But mother and son remained silent. Even Telma’s eyelids drooped at the onslaught of words hurled their way. Silence as revenge and sleep as revenge. The three of them sat in the salon. The suitcases on the floor. The hostess still had not assigned her guests a bed or beds because she was summarizing her entire life, bringing them up-to-date. Unstoppable, incorrigible. A bother. If the dear lady had not had such a pretty face, Demetrio would have strangled her, in fact he felt quite like doing so, as he looked at his own large, bony hands, which he began to raise above his head as if he were learning flamenco, while the other continued with her verbal grist. Playing the fool, she made an awkward mention of the number of suitors who, shall we say, had sniffed her out: and: all rejected! any excuse would do, the premise being her pride (without adjectives) of feeling herself desired. A bit later it was she who took the initiative and said she had neither beds nor rooms available (liar, two closed doors in plain view, how odd!), that all three of them would sleep in the only bed she had: hers, quite creaky. If the dear lady hadn’t had a pretty face, Demetrio would have chosen to sleep on the floor, but the proximity of mature beauty: come on!: she was but a distant aunt. What if he brushed against those hanging breasts. I’d like to sleep in the middle. May I? The mother said nothing, she was already nodding off. But Zulema said: Yes! Of course, then calmed down, finally.

She didn’t even offer them something to eat. Didn’t even mention the subject.

Could Demetrio’s bony hands with their flamenco flourishes have soothed her?

No!

His aunt then embarked on a second discursive romp. She began talking about the family tree. Recounting those who had died and those whose whereabouts were unknown.

And bathing? It was getting late. Pressure. A brief lapse getting briefer whereby each minute became a stigma with meaning, not to mention the squeezed seconds: ticking: throbbing, a range of rudeness, more than one raised eyebrow between the guests. And the filth? More, then. And the redolence of the threads of their garments. And what about the wedding? A calamity, the only option was to wash in cold water. Alas, mention has already been made of the unseasonably chilly air. A shivering bath … The last to wash was the agronomist. Anyway, they were late and wouldn’t arrive in time for the service, better, at least. Such a predictable ritual … Let’s go straight away to the party outdoors, the mother, aunt, and son together … He, proudly wearing a fairly wrinkled gray suit, though of high quality … There simply hadn’t been time to press it. We have to take into account the jammed suitcase, packed with such haste in Oaxaca. The same goes for the mother and her pink dress—flamboyant: due to her haste in Parras: let’s proceed, it doesn’t matter anyway; the aunt was another story, with her well-pressed deep blue dress … The bride was a niece in her twenties, her belly six months gone and showing. The party would be held in the playground of the local primary school.

Dust …

As long as there’s dancing …

A dusty orchestra, and dusty beauties.

A crush of crinoline: encountered upon arrival. For Demetrio the sight of such concealing garments was regrettable. Harshly corseted women. Exasperating uniformity. Only the beauties’ waspish waists could be seen. No asses or legs—quite a pity! because, where’s the excitement? Busts, yes: though: no striking cleavage. Faces, yes: and what faces they were! Green eyes aplenty, enormous: most of the women were like cats: though a few dogs with brown eyes; a donkey or two, not even worth mentioning; one or another fox … let’s see … plenty of these in most milieus: and: now, yes: delight for the sake of diversity. So many women for so few men. And they kept arriving: in droves, really! and the men?: here and there. All to the advantage of Demetrio, who was recalling the moment he entered the Presunción brothel, yonder, that is to say, at the other end of the earth: in Oaxaca, oh, all those randy asses, who, compared with these Sacramento dolls, were hardly worth remembering. Moreover, one could conjecture that these beauties—so fair and so varied, glimpsed fleetingly and from afar—held the promise of many a hearty stew, each and every feature, but more of that later, hmm … Now for the most evident, the many eyes, and their honeyed looks above all … Perhaps up close Demetrio would find, if he decided to scrutinize closely, one or another telling detail: this one would make a good chorizo con huevos; that one was the queen of any of hundreds of pork dishes, and so on, but then came one: a goddess emergent, oh, and upon her his eyes settled—oh my!, he couldn’t stop staring at her, no, not even when the bride and groom arrived. Distractions? Not for him; for the others, perhaps. Unto himself: She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. He espied the striking green of her eyes from thirty feet away. A vague moan escaped his lips, accompanied by a slight quivering thereof, and the muttering of syllables: and: his aunt and mother caught a glimpse of his hidden indiscretion. They spoke to him.

Some claim that when one person stares at another, the other will finally stare back: thus it came to pass between them; a magnet or—who knows what! (whose plan?)—the green: the setting, and the bodies passing back and forth between them: furtive interruptions, but no real distractions, because of the focus and the commitment between she who had just arrived and Demetrio, wow!: a honing in, to such an extent that her parents, who stood with her, had words for her. Her mother nudged her arm, as did his mother over here. Here, not a word passed, but there, father and mother whispered and wagged index fingers. Now they were both obliged to look elsewhere, although their bond had already postulated a “hence,” referent to when the newlyweds initiated the dancing … Which didn’t take long—thank goodness! anon!, along with all the lauding and applause … As a result, it was as if an invisible machine suspended in midair were moving x number of males in pursuit of seated females. In the end there arose a musical dynamic that consisted of holding waists and taking steps. Eighteen couples—giving it their all! The movements were quite corny, waltzing, which would have looked even cornier if viewed from the top of any tree: a changing—and pretentious?—flower, or something of the sort, whatever occurs to you. Couple number nineteen was missing. Let’s watch Demetrio ask the aforementioned woman to dance. The parents looked him up and down, from head to toe. His wrinkled suit at night—consider the advantage of the dim lighting—wouldn’t matter even when they did notice, perhaps later. Anyway. Couple number nineteen’s steps were discreet: he was quite tall (almost six feet) and she rather short (what would you call five foot two?). Be that as it may, they never took their eyes off each other; moreover, and because of their somewhat awkward steps, they were continually bumping into other couples. Sorry here, sorry there, and sorry yonder. Their dancing deteriorated as they sidled over to the edge of the dance floor, which didn’t matter because first and foremost they had to introduce themselves: he took the initiative: his name, where he was from, his profession, his reason for being in Sacramento, and the unrivaled privilege of being face-to-face with a ranchera goddess … No, how could he use such an inaccurate adjective; he must remain cool …

And on they went. They danced four rounds.

Vigilant parents. No problems observed. His enormous bony hands made no mischief.

Before leading her back to her seat, he asked for her address so that he could write to her, from Oaxaca! The answer was a cinch: General Delivery, Sacramento, Coahuila. He carried no pen, so consigned it, effortlessly, to memory. Then came her name: Renata Melgarejo. Difficult. What a hodgepodge of a family name! Her given name: a bit odd, though sonorous. True, Mireya’s was more vivacious, but it was a whore’s name, whereas this one—how could he think of her? Decent: a bit; indecent: no, not that! Re-na-ta as opposed to Mi-re-ya. Purity tending toward impurity … Better not to think such filthy thoughts. Better to think about the sanctity therein, in her sweeter than sweet demeanor and her body, oh, like a wildflower …

“I will write you twice a month. You are enchanting.” He used the familiar “tú” form of address.

“We just met and already so familiar?”

“I’m sorry—oh boy! It’s just that I’m from the city … Please, forgive me.”

“When you return, if you return, I’ll allow it.”

A fleeting association: Mireya never made a fuss about that, in fact, she never made any fuss at all.

“Of course I’ll come back. I promise you. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in my life and, I presume, the kindest. It would be a great honor for me to see you again soon.”

“You have a way with words. I like what you’ve said, and I must confess, I’d like to hear more.”

In the face of such fair rusticity, the agronomist could not possibly use the base language that he used with Mireya, perhaps eventually, but who knows when.

“I will always speak tenderly to you. With words as soft and beautiful as you are.”

“And I will always be grateful.”

A chivalrous adieu. Obsequious smiles for the parents as he accompanied Renata to her seat. When he turned his back upon all of that—quite decently done, of course—Demetrio took long jaunty strides across the basketball court. His mother and aunt greeted him with smiles. They: eager. He: excited. It was still not time, however, to speak about how things had gone with the girl. Instead, what was worth noticing after the agronomist’s abrupt about-face was that Renata and her parents were leaving: we still have to find out why: perhaps these gentlefolk had decided that their daughter should not dance with another: this also to the outlander’s advantage, who thought in a flash: I’ve got my foot in the door. I’m like a Prince Charming from far away. He said as much within earshot of his mother and aunt. They: swelling with pride, smiling. It was best he say no more. Every silence is strategic. It might also help him to think ahead, especially because he was pondering the nature of the summary impressions he’d made upon those who had left, impressions that might even be marvelous: the outlander appeared to be a well-educated man, with good social standing and a promising future; moreover, his height—incredible! impressive!—his self-confidence, his good manners, that sort of thing. Correct impressions of Demetrio, but ones that he had foisted upon the departed trio. Now, here come the comments of his own dear aunt! who didn’t hold her tongue—nor did she overstate her joy—: I know that family. One of the most respectable in Sacramento. That’s all, then on to the next subject. Doña Telma wanted to congratulate the newlyweds, especially the parents of the bride: old friends of hers, and most important: the inviters who’d wired to Parras. Anyway, the three of them proceeded: best wishes were proffered. The introduction of the agronomist son. Then followed more praiseworthy observations pertinent to the couple’s happiness—a sampling? Naw, enough already! The party’s over. Let’s be gone! And why even dip our toes into the flood of verbiage provoked by Renata and Demetrio’s spin on the dance floor, once they were back at the home of that aunt, who mentioned in passing how bad the food was, how there weren’t even enough tables, and, oh—so many unbearable details? Just to make clear, the agronomist ate neither potato salad nor sandwiches made with scrawny bits of chicken soaked in chorizo juice. Would such aloofness be harmful? No, because at least the hungry man had his plate full of love’s frenetic beginnings, more than enough to keep him up all night talking. And now for an aside: Renata Melgarejo was the only daughter left to those refreshingly respectable gentlepeople; the other four, all older, had already been carried off by other outlanders, outlanders with great futures! Et cetera. Many weddings. Ugh! An anodyne extension of the conversation. Bitter pills for Demetrio to swallow as he begged for a bed. Please. Agreed. Go to sleep! the aunt finally exclaimed. Gossip’s full delight to be enjoyed on the morrow. And there he lay in the middle of the mattress, unblanketed. He wore lightweight pajamas. Now for the final frame: the bedded trio—but careful! all wearing pajamas. Dreams and fatigue lasting till noon, and from Demetrio, not the slightest lascivious touch, even when his aunt was well within reach. Only a nudge with a leg and a brief caress of the old woman’s face. Incidents that took place moments before the hostess awoke.

And no drawn-out gossiping.

It would have been a waste of time for both mother and son.

A bold and hasty return to Parras. Then a dreary Noel.

Still, the effects of that memorable dance lingered for many a long evening and night, when Telma and Demetrio’s thoughts mingled in bittersweet conjectures.

A vast illusion they willingly recycled, always seeking new angles.

Until Demetrio said: I don’t want to talk about it anymore! His mind was, instead, pulling him in a more benign direction: Mireya from a distance like a circle with a ceaselessly shifting center: legs, breasts, ass, a cleaving—perhaps? The conjuring of a waiting nakedness, accompanied by a large number of banknotes descending, floating through the air, the whimsy of each movement—would it? could it?

But those Christmas days seemed long, so long that Demetrio spent hours in his room, entertaining himself with his sexual longings. Why not! He masturbated five or more times. What a greedy sinner! Such solitude exasperates and baffles, but he simply didn’t feel like going out and wandering the streets of Parras nor talking to his mother about his plans regarding that angel named Renata. Finally, the New Year swelled with hope that would never be fulfilled or disappointed: hence: to leave, to feign ignorance yet know he was carrying the onus of an illusion. The material thing was in far-off Oaxaca. Nevertheless, first a toast. New Year’s Eve: stiff, then soft and therefore remembered. Two solitudes embraced. Mother and son—contrite? The hug lasted a long time.