Almost Never A Novel

8


Nobody can predict when one illness might lead to another, nor when unexpected complications might arise from a given treatment. Sometimes allopathy completely cures a disease, ends minor complaints or prevents them; competent pharmacists, both dear and cheap, abound, and one must, indeed, take into account the patient’s overall physical condition, none of which was done in the case of Don Pascual Melgarejo, an octogenarian unable to allay his ills: at issue was a vegetarian diet complemented by insipid dishes, some truly repulsive, others almost tasty, none that made him actually vomit. In any case he preferred the counsel of a local herbalist to the trips to and from Cuatro Ciénegas, a pedantic town, according to him, and this included the old folks and even the school-age children, so imagine what could be said about that town’s portly doctor, quite expensive and, therefore, hyperbolic in his manners and his way of talking. All this to establish the seriously screwed-up situation of Don Pascual Melgarejo, who made an enormous effort to avoid the aforementioned expeditions, to wit: he overdosed on herbs, and nothing good was coming from it; he perspired, as we said, to excess, but he had no intention of surrendering, believing that if he did so, death—a rank and corrupt woman—would come for him at any minute, a notion he soon explained to his wife and daughter: You can’t trust the comfort of a bed. Thus came the horrendous consequences, the diminished capacities, the failings that took a greater and greater toll, for example: his mood was down in the dumps, and his laments were nearly in the same lowly place: moreover, the need to learn, for real now, what urgency meant. As we’ve seen, he traveled twice to Cuatro Ciénegas on his own and carried out the doctor’s instructions to the letter: the schedule for ingesting dose after dose of medicine; the correct nutrients, all in the proper proportions; everything except the repose. Never that: If I lie down I’ll die in the blink of an eye, a verdict spoken in cavernous tones, unbelievable to Doña Luisa and Renata, who shook their heads in response. But his fierce obstinacy served him ill. One day among many he suffered a mortal collapse on the street, about two blocks from his house. Yes, alas! He was very dead—poor thing—nothing but a pile of rubble. A heart attack, as was later ascertained. Some local folks carried away that familiar corpse, which was, needless to say, deeply mourned by his wife and daughter. By others in Sacramento as well: professionally lamented and wailed with appetizing dread. Four days of mourning. Mourning in shifts. There were six of them—did he deserve fewer? Uninterrupted and melodramatic to the max, truth be told. As if these people were being paid for their painful performance, but no, not a dime, rather the result of pure ghoulish faith (if one may speak in such terms); rosaries that weary, wearied, would weary; by day, by evening, by night; a moaning mill that—oof! better not get too close. Zulema dropped by to offer her condolences and lasted all of fifteen minutes, then—the escape! astute; we have to assume the stench drove her away. So, to reiterate: a four-day wake, such foolish obstinacy because both Doña Luisa and Renata had to inform the four who were married. Telegrams. They had to come. The death of their father. And yes: they all arrived contrite, in addition to the woe of the rough road, accompanied by their husbands, also worn to the bone. Everything done properly, or at least in good order, the next step being to organize the open-casket funeral. Well, let’s imagine the fond farewell wholly dominated by a stench akin to a dozen rotten eggs.

We won’t talk much about the burial. This synopsis should suffice: there was a chorus of cries, over-the-top good-bye clamors. We’d rather mention certain events that occurred during the short respites from the wake. Sentences: written down one at a time by Renata, who left, then came, then left again, fidgeting in the room farthest away: her letter to Demetrio would not be long, half a page at most. But one sentence … and hours later, another, because she couldn’t be away for, say, twenty minutes straight. Because her mother would reproach her if … Or rather: she left and came, and each time it took her a while to return to her task. Two and a half days to complete the concise composition, which will be summarized briefly as follows: Demetrio would be informed of Don Pascual’s sidewalk demise; likewise, the period of mourning: three months of forced circumspection, with some easing by August. Renata used other words that surely pointed in the same direction. At the end were three semiromantic sentences: It would be wonderful for me if you came to Sacramento. I need you now more than ever. But I have no choice. All I can do is wait till August. And the radiant name—Renata Melgarejo—at the bottom of the page. The first letter she’d ever written was ready. But would Demetrio be able to read her handwriting? and if he couldn’t? and if he could only sort of? She was not deft at the calligraphic arts—would practice help? We’d do better to highlight her emotional reserve. She wrote as if still listening to her mother’s advice.

Here commences the give-and-take of a fraught conversation. A full-fledged family reunion. The first one to be held in the calm following the theatrics enacted at the graveside. Some spark would light up as they poured forth their ideas; the dining room had enough chairs for everybody: daughters, husbands, and Doña Luisa, who tried to talk about her future, in little bursts and a barely audible voice, poorly projected, which was understandable, considering her grief. The grief of a worldly woman who no longer had the energy of her better days, so that now—could she hope for a new life … with her daughter Renata as her sole domestic ally? At first she made mention of the eternal gratitude she owed her husband for the huge house she would count on forever: a prodigious appendage she could one day sell, though such extreme measures were not yet necessary, thanks to the large safe: this the bequest closest at hand. The difficulty: access, the combination to the lock unknown … no, never! it would be a waste of time … A secret Don Pascual carried with him to the grave. Such a pity! Alas! Though to view the predicament from a happier vantage, there was really no cause for lament. One of the sons-in-law, the brightest of the bunch, suggested they carry the safe to the roof and hurl it down onto the small patch of concrete in the courtyard, and then repeat as many times as necessary. The latch would have to give—it simply had to! A feat for the following day. There were more than enough hands, that is to say there were eight brawny men, all smashing … So—let’s at it! right? Sons-in-law in action—all together now!—that’s when they discovered a cement staircase; yes, with laudable foresight Don Pascual had had it built just six months before; it was narrow and had no banisters, for easy access: only sixteen stairs from the ground to the roof. Therefore the act of carrying the load up the stairs (beginning early in the day), then hurling it, and nothing, and again, and … Of course! Just imagine the sweating, the grunts and groans, the effort, each more lackluster than the last. On the ninth try—finally! The latch—yay! and out spilled the bills—yay! Everybody started counting. The evidence indicated that there was not enough for mother and daughter to live ad infinitum with a modicum of ease, or that there was just enough to invest in a modest enterprise: a restaurant: no! a grocery store, hmm, tick this off as one option; an inn, but for whom, the town had no tourism? Let’s attend another family gathering held late in the afternoon, with chorizo and egg tacos topped with lettuce and tomatoes, indeed, and crowned (each to one’s own liking) with a guajillo-citrus salsa. In the dining room, ensconced in a comforting cloud of oily odors, they continued to flirt with their fates. They had to come up with a business that would require neither too much toil nor lasting tedium. And they would all have to agree. Perhaps a full stomach would help: how about a stationery store? Not bad, though the understanding was that Renata would be the one to travel to Monclova for the merchandise, exclusively and comprehensively for the primary school, for Sacramento still didn’t have a secondary school: maybe soon … who knows? A question of government policy, but did it really matter that much? So the discussion focused on Renata’s duties, the troublesome train trips twice monthly to that nearby city, alone and obliged, moreover, to lodge at some run-down hotel because there was only one train a day. Then the hardship of carrying all those purchases in the boat and the horse-drawn carriage. But she declared that she was ready to make such a sacrifice in order to help her mother. What an idiotic or understanding daughter! Anyway, they would ponder the consequences all in good time. For now, the future for her and that worldly woman was a diaphanous glimmer.

The harsh clarity of the possible.

Under so-called control.

Though …

“Where did you hide the letter?”

“I will never tell you, and please forgive me.”

This introductory dialogue was the first held between Doña Luisa and Renata when they finally found themselves alone. The rest of the gimmes and gotchas were some sort of increasingly heated verbal blather that didn’t particularly distress either of them. Rather, both remained perfectly composed after an exchange of quips that translated into a hearty embrace; an exchange of vows to share a none-too-easy life. Gratitude and support: their forces united, as if by merging two mournings you could create one amalgamated spirit. From the mother, stalwartness for the remainder of her days, a determination to rise above her affliction, though it wasn’t yet quite clear how; and, from the daughter, contingent mourning and its attendant longings. Demetrio’s visit would be a detonation, but there were months yet to go. Moreover, that visit, which embodied so much hope, still lacked solidity when viewed objectively; it was, as it were, a mere hint of courtship: cloudy, uncertain, and in this sense, maybe Demetrio would disappoint her. On the other hand, if said creature turned out to be the true angel of salvation, and (God first and foremost) brought about the longed-for wedding and all the rest of it, there was also the possibility that the mother would go to live with them. In any case, all in good time, and in the meantime, a modicum of relaxation; only a modicum because for several days nobody lifted a finger to set the stationery store in motion. A merited enjoyment of the meager funds to be had. Sad enjoyment and almost silent. Convenient silence. Renata’s scintillating strategy, for at a given moment she thought: If my mother insists on asking me about Demetrio, I will offer her the reassurance that she will never remain alone. And quite a lark to think of the three of them living in the same house, an idyllic and agreeable threesome anywhere in the world. Lest we forget: the wedding must come first. Future hyperboles that … who knows. A waxing and waning of efforts, stratagems, flutterings, resolve, all was yet to be seen … Et cetera. And an astute subtlety: Renata had rather poorly buried Demetrio’s two letters near the henhouse, tossing fistfuls of dirt on top, a merely superficial layer, hastily accomplished. That’s where she would bury everything that hailed from Oaxaca, or, more auspicious though also more complicated: at different spots around the vast domestic sphere. So here’s a better plan: the excavations must go deep. Her own labor, or hire someone … No! she: in charge; she: without hesitation and with a pick and a shovel; she and only she and nobody but she.