Almost Never A Novel

9


August. Holidays. One week of resounding hustle and bustle: the agronomist must steel himself for the vexatious voyage that would, undoubtedly, wreak havoc because, doing the math, his stay in Sacramento would last less than twenty-four hours. Figure three days to get there, and, come to think of it, to make matters worse, a further abbreviation of the tryst: one hour for sure, two at most, three—impossible! then when considering that vibrant stock of minutes, he had to infer that the this and the that would be discussed, beginning with the most basic: Will you be my sweetheart? scorchingly brusque, and in the wake of some such response he would know what to say and how to behave. Always chivalrous, needless to say, though if his feelings were reciprocated, which he already took for granted, what emotional trifles would work to bind Renata to him very, very tightly. More of that later. For now Demetrio was compelled to calibrate the speed of the stopovers; such sketchy ideas formed in what he could see through the window of the small plane to Nochistlán: striations of clouds in the distance, and a splendorous bank of horrendous, gloomy clouds rushing by farther away. Thus he associated the tenuous white streaks with quick stopovers, whereas the woolly wads could represent the exasperation of an uncertain wait. But even if everything went smoothly, we’re talking about a voyage of more than forty-eight hours. Thus his eagerness for the end. The fifteenth. The promise. What would happen when they were face-to-face … It didn’t help Demetrio to anticipate. Anticipation always labors under mistaken superstitions. Reality veers off, and surprises either fade or become monstrosities. So he tried to think about Mireya, her backside. Endless compendiums in her favor, to wit: discipline, the consequences of unhappy restraint, of seeing her only twice a week, explained away by being overburdened by work. He imposed upon himself such abstinence because the wench never stopped talking about how lonely she was, how they’d killed her parents when she was fifteen, how she had nobody in the world to protect her besides the madam and her bodyguards, how love was her only possible salvation. In short: frenetic protestations along with sex; recycled torments, way too much bother for the salacious agronomist, who, although he knew the whole thing reeked of smut, couldn’t help but feel compassion. And love—misbegotten? To give it, to give of oneself with blind sentimentality. Sensuality tempted him; he believed through induction that the wench was sincere, and while both were shedding tears, he came to the verge of the conviction that Mireya would be a magnificent wife and an exemplary mother; but the pressure, the problem that swelled up alongside that faint hope: Wait till I have the down payment on the house. I swear I’ll take you with me when I do. That, memorized word-for-word, had to be repeated more than twenty times to his lover. For his part, he preferred never to utter those words again, for fear of lapsing into irritation. Because the two sentences were constantly making their appearance in his dreams. They seemed to be etched into a rock or howling like an echo in mocking repetition from a distant dismal cave until he’d awake. A nightmare, followed by insomnia’s hangover. Hence the change of strategy: tactful infrequency. A huge relief and the desire to become as well as to be: Mireya, I really love you. Please understand that. I’m just asking you to be patient; or even better: I need only four thousand more pesos for the down payment. I’ll have it in four months; or the ultimate revelation: I know exactly where we’ll build our little love nest. Falsehoods or clever ruses? She couldn’t care less. Or so it seemed because one of the last times he was in her clutches, Mireya put him in check: I want you to take me away from here once and for all. I’ll go anywhere with you. I really love you, Demetrio, and from him: And what about the madam and her bodyguards? Problem. Suspense. Retreat. You’re right, it’s not easy to go up against those people. The breadth of the suspense made any mention of their flight during the final f*cks, thanks to the unforgettable fellatios, absent. Demetrio’s triumph coincided with his landing in Nochistlán. The backside sliding out of sight just in time. The same went for one of Doña Rolanda’s evening monologues regarding news of the founding of the Social Services Institute of Mexico. To provide the working class with free medical care. A benevolent government. The basic needs of the poor were beginning to matter, and—how great! She also said that they might soon build a hospital affiliated with this institute in Oaxaca. She read about it in the local newspaper and offered it up excitedly during dinner. As for the news itself—pay heed? believe? For Demetrio there was no news aside from what affected him directly. The world, or to be more precise, the country, or in any case, the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of an abstract Other mattered nothing to him, so he withdrew at that moment to his room—he remembered now with derision—; it was rude impudence. Better to be alone than listen to such idiotic speculations. Because any hint of abstract nonsense appalled him, even if it was of the pleasant kind. In that particular instance he caught only Doña Rolanda’s vehement rebuttal: That man is acting very strangely. A trivial incident easily shirked. What else need he shirk? Good tidings. For on the eve of his departure he’d resolved things related to his job, all fine and good; to the satisfaction of his boss and his humble peasants. Already quite shrunken creatures and duly complacent, wandering around as if in a maquette placed on some tile floor. A gale wind could flatten it: better it should! And now the bus to Cuautla. The en suite. The inconvenience of traveling. Sleeping without resting. Lapses of reverie. Hopefully!

Nevertheless, he never managed to empty his mind.

Shreds of memories never quite settling.

Brief dream interludes that failed to break through the nagging worry …

The indestructible: his money.

They’d doubled his salary. We have to add to this the 15 percent raise he’d received just before Christmas.

Which means he should have laid out the down payment for the house. Something rather nice about this modicum of wealth. But the piles of money coming his way were almost all going into the bank. So it was.

And now for the most irksome part: the trip to Mexico City and then to Saltillo. Two more stopovers: in Monclova and in La Polka. Much hardship averted—it must be admitted—for they were all tranquil events, yes, indeed, almost magical, due to the alacrity with which they occurred. God was tending to him tenderly. The many hours spent in the train were, in the end, an invigorating interlude, a spiraling flow of repose. Even the boat trip across the reckless river appeared imbued with the fantastical. The sun was an emblem, almost soothing. Amazing! Not even the desert heat put him out of sorts. Out, out, notorious monsters! Welcome, ye angelical omens—were they pursuing him? Ah …

He carried four changes of clothes in his suitcase: one of medium size, not too heavy. So the trip in horse-drawn carriage—the glorious finale—was pleasant, despite the dust that accompanied his arrival at Aunt Zulema’s house. Sacramento—at last! after the respite of two and a half days during which he could continually reinvent himself.

Aunt Zulema’s store: open and obdurate, it looked like a forgery, an empty stage set, a desolate grayness from which the subject emerged ten minutes later, like a ghost, walking very slowly toward her nephew. Let’s imagine the angle she espied him from. She was not a nearsighted lady, or rather … And he: a stunned contemplator, suitcase in hand, a statue, in principle, enjoyed by birds and insects because there were no passersby who stared and meddled. On the other hand (let us imagine her), decrepit solitude at three o’clock in the afternoon, until the embrace in the street took place. Then their conversation, interrupted to close up the shop—a cup of coffee! No! first the bathroom, as requested—oh, go on, then! And then again, a fresh exploration of the eagerness so akin to love that brought him here, and the news swarming with details about how Renata and her family were doing. His aunt was prodigious. Ah, her father had died a mere … Yes, yes! I know, Renata told me in a letter. Seems there’d been many letters over the past few months. Not many, only the necessary. The truth is, the conversation with his aunt was irritating him; she, so profuse and pigheaded, nerve-rackingly scratching away at the obvious. Despair in retreat, underpinned by an elemental defect in her hospitality: Zulema never offered him anything to eat, not a slice of bread, not even a cracker. Nor would she, and for him to ask … Demetrio chose to rise abruptly from where he was sitting in the dining room chair. Cut off. Get out. Clear his head. Sorry.

A parsimonious stroll that included the search for a tavern (how about some carne asada tacos?) and locating Renata’s house: he would never ask his aunt, rather … it was more evocative to find it on his own. So he left. Be back soon. The town smelled of sweet marjoram. Odd. The evening heat was so extreme, it felt inhibiting; imagine, therefore, the savage sweating. Another wash, later, upon his return. Fat chance! There remained the fetters of haste. Everything the outlander would have to compress into distasteful actions: eating quickly and while sweating, everything seemed to be sweating: the walls, the trees, the tables, the food, the earth itself, and Renata’s house seen from a distance, a rectangular delusion set against the barren doodles of the sky: a—humid?—counterpoint slowly growing dark. The house was located on the corner of the plaza; it was white. Not quite at ease, Demetrio wanted to sit down on one of the benches in the plaza. His proximity excited him, and more sweating ensued. Nonetheless, there was Renata lit by a naked bulb. A door was open. The respectable diva was a small thing in motion, her long curly hair was visible but not her waist and legs. Oh, such a paragon so eager to be a mother, hmm … tomorrow he’d be able to appreciate her fully. The store. His aunt had briefed him on the stationery store, and now that we’ve mentioned that good woman, let’s assign to her, as the agronomist did, the task of informing Renata that the singular suitor from Oaxaca had arrived in Sacramento and what time would their date be, eh? Quite a favor. A matutinal task. In the afternoon, around five. Fast forward to the delight of she who would bathe and perfume herself like never before. Heavens! both must be presentable. But first aunt and nephew had to deal with how they would sleep. Not together. Why not? Well, just because! Yes, in separate cots in the open air, because of the heat; because Zulema had no fans … It would have been lovely to curl up with each other without sheets—dear me!—exposed to the fate of the regional breeze and the old woman’s tremulous caresses: a fleeting fancy (not warranting a response) that wouldn’t happen now—just because! Maybe later would come that irksome and dull indulgence. Zulema must have understood this, for she knew that with the morrow would come the declaration, the illusion … An illusion stitched with boredom: precisely what happened after a sordid morning during which Demetrio couldn’t figure out what to do with himself. Then came the good part: depart well-groomed, counting almost every step. There was a script: he would sit on the bench in front of the door to Renata’s house. The procedure described by his aunt, in turn described to her by … Renata would make him wait about twenty minutes: Doña Luisa’s advice. You’ve got to ride the high horse. A means of increasing desire or, rather, artifice. That’s why Demetrio didn’t know about it, of course.

And, finally, the wait.

Zulema gave her nephew a bouquet of white calla lilies: the only thing she found in her neglected garden. The importance of an offering. But Demetrio got rid of the bouquet, tossing it into the bushes in the plaza. A mere ostentation prone to complications and what for. Words are better, however they come out …

But the wait …

Half an hour!

Damn!