Almost Never A Novel

5


Romantic music in the penumbra, a bit of rumbling from behind the four walls: sequestered with memories. He deliberately made the volume overflow. Demetrio had no regard for the other lodgers’ privacy. A mere quarter of an hour had passed and Doña Rolanda was already knocking on the door: her voice through the wood: Turn it down! Please! The good part: prompt compliance; the response: the act: down it was turned, without another word spoken. But the following night, the same thing—ugh!—and even more rumbling: the continued increase the result of love’s pull or the lover’s thickheadedness: an inexorable ascent or, better said, a brutal one. And again: Turn it down! Please! The third night of folly, it resounded even louder, and Doña Rolanda had no choice but to present him with the ultimatum that she would forbid him from having a radio in his room if … et cetera … and thus we put an end to the music problem. Of course, the music continued, but the volume: a wisp that only barely stoked the delirium of he who longed for the ranchera goddess. It’s also worth mentioning that Demetrio had not been visiting Mireya. His longing for her and the oft-dreamed-of screws had steadily diminished during the return trip, a great doubt about the future of his love life having conclusively intervened. To make a sacrifice for a hope (unfortunately, always vague) as opposed to his need for a sexual workout, his apprenticeship, his fantasies, but … desire, that unscalable peak, that muddling and stirring blur … Abstinence, to be so wholly parched, the denial of all sorts of urgencies in order to fortify his tattered spirit. An expiation, perhaps, or a punishment—for how long? and moreover, in order to render what, exactly, clear? The truth was that while listening to those songs that waxed poetic about love’s miseries, Demetrio made several attempts to write his first promised letter. He couldn’t decide whether to write “Highly esteemed,” “Dear,” “Wondrous,” or simply, “Hi, Renata,” or the name by itself, next to a drawing of a flower, using five colored pencils. No! Such vulgarity, quickly shunned … Indolence. Inanity … Nonetheless, try, try, try again, knowing that sheer obstinacy would carry him to his goal, whatever that might be, which might provoke stentorian laughter that was nonetheless sympathetic … to enthuse her, make her forgive such … The agronomist managed to eke out only three sentences, not even particularly shapely ones, in an entire week. No reason even to quote them. They cajoled so blatantly that even he felt like a hypocrite, and the worst part: they lacked all credibility. His mission was to fill three sheets of paper, back and front—six pages in all, though at the rate he was going he calculated that it would take him more than a month. Dig out what was most natural in himself (climbing a mountain carpeted in treacherous snow), and express it, and—what words would sound really and truly sincere? what ideas that Renata could interpret as feelings rising from a limpid depth? Ah. So, no. Indolence won the day, and the other; the brothel, the awaiting brunette, the one to whom he need only say: Hey, you, let’s get it on! Away, now! Resist. No, he didn’t go. Abstinence is better … auspicious? Better to concentrate on his work in the orchard, as he was doing. In the midst of it all, Demetrio masturbated one night with great delight to the rhythm of the music. When he felt the semen seeping through his fingers, a mumbled sentence took shape, almost through attrition: I am turning into a chaos.

A chaos, indeed, what survived, awry, as an inexpugnable, growing glob. On top of which from time to time Demetrio remembered a few of his mother’s sentences, especially those uttered in the course of that sad Christmas dinner, while both were eating chicken awash in green mole sauce, with a garnish of yellowish guapilla peppers: You are the perfect age to get married. Or: I can’t wait for you to give me grandchildren. Or: In Sacramento you will find … Why listen to her? Little digs (pricks), irritations, itches, and redundant splashes of what he should be or what he should do. Fortunately, he found the counterpoint elsewhere, his triumphs, the remarkable ease of his job … Everything he’d left hanging had turned out as well as could be hoped … Except for one problem: the boss asked him for the checkbook. He didn’t make a fuss. His point was subtle. His request came just as they were exchanging a New Year’s hug. Then Demetrio’s automatic acquiescence, and from now on he would receive his expenses on a weekly basis. Full focus on his work; again his recreation would be games of dominoes and evening cups of coffee. Those ancient calumnies.

Those decent and inane contours.

To be as he was before.

The other splendor. The more authentic one.

But, how long would he bear up under it?

If his compensation was to write raptures both extravagant and purposeless to an enigma, moreover, rather than a woman, his would be the emotional effort of a novice: a “maybe no” over here and an “I guess yes” over there, a “perhaps” in the negative, until he realized he had written a little more than a page. Many corrections, but … Well, we’re still talking about disarray. All this in opposition to what had once been a genuine talent: the constant penning of letters to known but ghostly beings. On the other hand, he had Renata as an ulterior pretext, or an inanimate shape …

Sweating here.

Sweating there … hmm … Perhaps a cool breeze. An emotional titter.

Demetrio didn’t want to make his life difficult, and at a certain point, without thinking twice, he made his way to the Presunción brothel in desperation.

He arrived only to discover that Mireya was otherwise engaged. The wait chafed. He wondered if her occasional client was an incomparable ejaculator, an unbeatable mover and shaker; a shot of rum in the meantime: ponderous sips, as if going slowly would help him bring order to everything he had made chaotic by prolonging his absence, now further prolonged—for how long? an hour or two? Sadly, two and a half hours went by … and there he sat. During this lapse he downed several more shots, three in all; hence a touch of blue-tinged giddiness, dragging him down, while he remembered Renata’s sanctity ascending steadily toward that dismal ceiling of painted stars. Overhead, the blessed one in flowing white garments …

Overhead is the problem: inaccessible. The ranchera goddess spoke to him: You won’t see me naked until after we’re married. An immaculate and august edict, which though nonexistent the suitor already inferred because he would hear it in all its splendor if he visited the aforementioned: how long? Herein the knotty dilemma: it came down to the temporal (and geographic) distance, the gathering of steam to embark on such a vexatious journey. His annual vacation … not till August. Long months of indigence—still—so? There was largesse in the genuine if perhaps unwholesome proposition Do you want to sleep with me? And the predictable response, stamped on that dive’s dark though dimly shimmering ceiling, those heights as artificial as any presumption that Renata, why not and to his absolute astonishment, would make: Yes! Of course, I thought you’d never ask. And he: You really want to? And she: Absolutely! The only problem is that in Sacramento there aren’t any hotels, so we’ll have to do it in the hills. It will be beautiful. The desert wind will caress our skin. We should make love naked in the afternoon. I can’t wait. Nevertheless, the improbability, the demise of such an uncertain speculation, given that true (or enduring) love should be a battlefield. A feat or, rather, the expansion of a feat. A struggle so cruel and so prolonged that not just anybody … Then those words and the entire apocryphal scene falling onto the orange chairs, where those statuesque (now crushed) women were exposing the coarseness and wonder of their lower limbs, ready for … Extravagant payments. Nifty logic—eh? And Mireya: invisible, busy moving her own parts. She was taking her time because she was experiencing unprecedented pleasure—or not? Hence: another shot of rum? a perfectly good way to prolong one’s patience. But no! and: what a pity! He could always betake himself to the other dive, check out La Entretenida. Departing in defeat but with his curiosity swelling. He left. First he paid, looking miffed. The best part was that he was no longer thinking about Mireya and much less about Renata, both had now become rearguard fixations. Symbols to return to later, at the risk of going loopy … Evil, good, vile twisting: here unhappy, there dramatic. Now for something new—much more expensive! The cover charge: almost highway robbery, and the prime attraction: suggestive lighting in a brothel with an abundance of foreign beauties. He was approached by women who did not speak our language well or who spoke it with unfamiliar accents. An improvement? These women were more aggressive. They sat down at his table without asking leave. He was obliged to say: You, no … You neither. Go away! … I want to be alone … The policy of the place came to light the moment he spoke those last words. No, he couldn’t be alone. If he didn’t hook up with one of them—sorry! he’d have to leave. The third one told him as much and a skinny waiter repeated it, a very short waiter with an arabesque forelock, who casually informed him that the entire cover price would be refunded if he decided to leave at once. A boon. A relief. At least, and—out of there! To his lodgings. To imagine Renata as she so divinely was (a sacred being—gorgeous! descending from the heavens and alighting on her feet—gently—for him alone!). To carry on, but not before he made corrections to the letter. Foreseeable wakefulness.

Insomnia’s contribution: the risk of a hopeless muddle or the unlikely chance that all will flow brilliantly. It was difficult for Demetrio to find the point of deterrence, hour upon hour of toiling over praises as if he were trying to cram a square into a circle that was, in itself, imperfect; we must imagine the erasures, the sweats, the failure to descry any happy middle ground where he could assert his own importance and still strike a note of supplication where phrases such as “Really, believe me, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met” or “What I wouldn’t give to kiss the back of your hand” wouldn’t demean him or, better stated, wouldn’t make him the butt of Renata’s perhaps concealed and scornful laughter. So as not to cram it full of lyrical treacle, the agronomist untangled the threads of his composition, written of course in such a stylized hand that it looked like a missive from another world, and set himself the task of recounting unusual anecdotes from his life, placing particular emphasis on his childhood longings and fantasies. He had once wanted to be a doctor: when he was young he played doctor with his friends; later, he dreamed of being a bullfighter and was enthralled by the idea, practicing alone with a bath towel while imagining an enormous bull approaching from a great distance. Oh, to describe the details of the snorting: the variety of noises the animal made: torrents of descriptive largesse, enough details to round out the tone and even a state of mind, and the diarrheic prosody of very long sentences. Albeit: effusive imbalance, to the extent that he filled both sides of ten pages and he still couldn’t, no, who knows when. Then the brilliant unleashing, full of niceties (some fictitious, some truthful), seemed unstoppable until he was swept away by the monster of somnolence: galloping up from behind: horrors! may it be warded off till the final period be penned. He sought it. It was a strain.

The signing off was a vulgar rapture. “Good-bye, my dear.” Why “my dear”? What a subconscious! Still to come was the most arduous prolongation of his perfectionist—yes, that is what it was—integrity: to copy over with more calligraphic care the entire odd chorizo. Further corrections, increased frenzy: on and on, in spite of himself, knowing that dawn would soon arrive and with it the daily grind. In the end Demetrio didn’t sleep a wink. Worse, he had no time to eat breakfast, either. Thus delirious, his mouth sour with fatigue, he forced himself to go (stumbling) to the orchard; he managed to remain upright for about three hours. Then he collapsed. We will not consign to these pages his period of repose in that tiny room crammed with tools, where his position could not possibly be horizontal. In the eyes of the peasantry in his employ, it seemed a bad omen: what’s up with the boss? he had always been a model of industriousness. What’s more, awaking quite giddy he casually stated that he was off to the post office. Almost in the blink and twinkle of an eye, followed by an almost improbably quick return that nonetheless did nothing to exculpate such inexplicable exhaustion, particularly in a person who regularly berated his subordinates with the oft-recycled harangue “Put a bit more backbone into it!” Catapult, now—a backhand? from them to him? No, not a chance. This strange behavior also included taking hour-long naps all week, well, a few seconds more or less; or rather: disorder, but also discipline. He took them at the wrong times: from eleven to twelve, smack in the middle of the workday. My, my! And his subordinates’ deduction (take it as a glitch): their immediate superior was staying up late on a daily basis, or even: he didn’t sleep, or very little, which was correct (for better or worse). In fact, to be precise, who knew. Who would know that he suffered all the stages of insomnia and that Renata was the true cause? Who would hear him lament: “I forgot to tell her the most important thing”: his trip to Sacramento—when? surely in August? Who would watch him write a second letter, this one more informative … I? or the one who makes presumptions while prowling around? Or another who never errs? Let’s go with the second, who was watching from who knows what angle as Demetrio wrote half a page with almost sickening care. A plethora of attempts. Why? As for his timid subordinates, they inferred nothing beyond what they could observe: the siestas and the subsequent parsimony at work. There was no second trip to the post office, not that week, nor the following. But here, on the possibly realer side of things, the evidence was evident: Demetrio had not had a chance to speak with his boss to find out the dates of his annual vacation in August, guaranteed by law—right? He needed urgently to know so he could tell Renata when he would come.

Nonetheless, the half page was ready as soon as … The real is always paradoxical, for the view from angle x can never be more than a partial perception … The meeting with his boss lasted an entire afternoon. The roughest part of the conversation is worth noting here:

“So, you have a girlfriend in Coahuila …”

“Yes, so it seems.”

“You’ll be able to see her only once a year, maybe twice if you use your Christmas break.”

“I’m in love and I don’t care if I can sustain the relationship only through frequent correspondence.”

“Hmm … You are a good employee. It would be a terrible shame for you to leave such a good job for a faraway love … Hmm … It won’t be easy for you to find another boss like me, one who trusts you like I do and pays you this well.”

“Don’t worry … For me, my job comes first. I am very happy working for you.”

“I hope you don’t lose your head, Demetrio: and remember, I’d even be willing to double your salary.”

Bull’s-eye! said on the sly … A substantial raise, without his even asking for it, and this in addition to the not negligible 15 percent—already granted! A delight to hear! And the question: when would he get the raise? and the answer: as of tomorrow …

As of tomorrow! Ooohhhhh!

Wow, how glorious love is and will be … from afar!