Almost Never: A Novel (15 page)

“But you don’t have a job. If you don’t start working, that money will pour through your hands like water.”

“That’s my business. I don’t want you to ever scold me again.”

Separation. Choice. The rest of the day mother and son exchanged nary a word. Demetrio took a stroll around Parras. He needed to feel alone in order to think things backward and forward. The bad part of that tree-lined town was the paucity of restaurants and cafés, and not a single spot that was even remotely depraved; rather, the tacit aspect of the tranquility: more sacred relief than you could shake a stick at: three small plazas with cute benches and well-scrubbed kiosks. Streets made for the most primary of pleasures. Sights and sounds like extra decorations that made (and make) the seeing and the feeling seem haggard. Nevertheless, to stroll without faith, take a seat in some spot, and slowly slowly convince himself that this was not for him, that such a small-minded world would ultimately fill him with supreme disgust; it would be like consciously shrinking himself in order to quickly attain the philosophical outlook of an old geezer; it was to remain uncontaminated, at least not infected, by the unknown, or to cling to a few fixed ideas that had to be neutralized with neutral ingredients, never anything perturbing; it was the nonemancipation and the nonaudacity and, most of all, the senility of it all, of his soul, for example. Perhaps a fettered spirit. A young spirit whose flight had reached no higher than a hummingbird’s: to wit: to peck only at the known, at what was most obvious, and from there thoughts that zigzag toward the margins, to find therein more excitement: a desire that must not be, how could it be, and till when. Demetrio experienced more excitement on his train ride to Sacramento. He couldn’t, however, escape the rigid circle he had drawn for himself, unintentionally, in which, somehow or other, he now found himself trapped.

Trapped. Never!

Why?

Nevertheless, as he approached that other negligible place, swathed in the grandiose image of his saintly sweetheart, he thought about countless entrances and exits. Once Renata was his wife, she would be his unconditionally and would accompany him wherever he wanted and whenever he wanted … et cetera. The promise of a slave brimming with affection, flowing with honey, drowning in honey … Well, well! Let us watch Demetrio with suitcase in hand: a bigger one, which his mother lent him. Inside, of course his compressed banknotes; on top of them, two changes of clothes; two pairs of pants, one belonging to his father, which his mother had hemmed for him; she stayed up late at the task. Let us also watch Doña Telma’s alacrity, her handiwork, punctuated by bouts of tears; she dared not say a word about her son’s pending and inopportune departure. Cut, now, to the following morning. A chilly farewell, no kiss, and complete relief for him (here an ellipsis) on the boat crossing the river. An exceptional reception. There in her grocery store, like a perennial thinker, elbows resting on countertop and palm propping up her chin, Doña Zulema watched the rectangular vista that was her perpetual panorama: a frame that contained two walnut trees swaying slightly: this the background; closer up: a crumbling adobe wall; even closer: the dirt road along which people who almost never greeted her walked. Then her nephew appeared in the rectangular door frame. The aperture: a miracle—finally! Doña Zulema—credulous? Yes, she roused herself and stepped outside. The shadow of an embrace: almost.
What’s going on? I never expected to see you at this time of year.
And he:
Well, here I am.
Next scene: close up the shop and converse all evening and into the night. No, that last part, no, because the nephew was anxious to see Renata before nightfall. Doña Zulema—for a change—told him she would make him something to eat. Oh how splendid! Sudden hospitality after so much prior neglect. What a lark! And in the meantime he would wash by the bucketful, without caring if the water was cold, hot, or warm. Two events, if looked at carefully, that could be seen as joyous raptures: two promising predicaments, but as we can’t see, we can only read—what elucidation remains! Happy tension—in black and white? Heavens! So let’s place them side by side at the table. We’ll stand ten feet away: just for fun? That would be fantastic …

A plate with four flour tortillas filled with refried beans, a mortar full of green salsa, and placed a bit farther away (strategically?), a steaming cup of
café con leche.
Grandstanding? Well, the hospitality was quite ostentatious, considering that before … remember? Very nearly bashful, stuttering summaries of the reasons for his presence. New and rather ghastly lies, and when cracks began to show, which they did, Doña Zulema had some elbow room to pose a hefty number of questions … Which meant there would be no time to be exacting, perhaps later, maybe tomorrow, but the most essential things, in plain view, could not linger on the tip of the tongue.

“Forgive me for saying something that you may find disagreeable: that shirt you’re wearing is way too big on the sides and in back, and those pants are too short; your socks show too much. The fact is, you look awful.”

That is, the father was fatter than but not as tall as Demetrio. And his mother’s needlework was poor.

“I don’t care. I’ll explain everything later.”

“But you’re going to see your sweetheart.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t care. I must see her, period.”

Wow! So he came from Parras dressed like that. Datum now added.

Come on! Flood pants and a shirt that was making waves.

T
he intention: to break the monotony, which is what one might fancy doing when uncertainty, mixed with sorrow, is magnified. Doña Telma alone, going from here to there and back to here in her back garden, was being watched by her two servants, who awaited orders. The heat was gnarly that morning. It seemed like the sun wanted to accentuate its sheen so as to augment the despondency of a few rather than inject joy into what’s done. In that sense, and quite suddenly, the señora was afflicted by pangs of distress. Meanwhile, observed as she was by those meatheads, she managed to say:
Off to the kitchen with you! I don’t want you watching me.
Then, more fired up, but with her head hung even lower, she continued her pacing. Analytical pacing, supremely painstaking, which soon turned into a process of degradation, until she finally convinced herself that her life was nothing but an assemblage of scraps, or a lack of fortuitous events. True, she was a widow with means and a house, but (completely) alone, as if she were a piece of poisonous offal. Could be because she was an incorrigible nag or because her destiny was a path that grew grimmer as it stretched further out …

Grimness now: entrenched. Thundering doom, a juncture that could lead only to a long monologue: days, weeks, months, years, of talking only to herself—mummification! The complaint and the cure being kneaded together forever, for years now, ever since her husband’s death—a bit less than a decade ago—and even before that, when her daughters, one after the other, married those damn gringos, and she’d been all but forgotten, they didn’t write or visit, only once in a great while, they never completely abandoned her, squeezing her in, but really, ugh! Demetrio: the only one, every Christmas, though … we already know the brouhaha: now that he had returned he had fled
ipso
, under the pretext of needing to see his sweetheart: what a cock-and-bull story! a bunch of baloney! In a typical Mexican story, she would shrink into a tearful creature and go chasing after him; hence, the very next morning she took off to Sacramento. That’s right: to break the monotony so as not to sink even deeper into that tangle of guilt she had knotted for herself. Kneading the cure sans the complaints. A brave decision.

To go alone, but not downcast, as if at that very moment an archangel had placed her in a harness and pulled her on to pursue her only closest blood-bond of deep affection, though with the humble desire to be forgiven; he—why not?—would demand from her a thousand apologies—great! fair enough! and finally, Doña Telma was willing to kneel before him, if necessary …

She announced her plans to her servants. She would be away from Parras for a few weeks. Vacation with a plot (not to be revealed). As for instructions: nothing unusual, the daily chores, for which—listen up!—she’d pay double. Better yet: triple: if they both remained in the house at all times. An interval propitious for runaway love and with the boon of an abundance of room. For they were so young … The possibility … yes or no? Whatever happened would be history’s redoubt that Doña Telma would hold, even so, in light regard … to desire their understanding now and in the thereafter …
Don’t worry. You can stay away for as long as you like,
the man said, who, needless to say, rubbed his hands with glee. If his sweetheart followed his lead, God willing!, and so on.

A
s soon as Demetrio walked away, a bouquet of lilies—given to him at the last minute by Doña Zulema—in one hand and his money-filled suitcase in the other, he felt awful. Glances and giggles surrounded him. It was his implausible height, like a walking beanpole, as well as his seditious shirt and those schoolboy trousers … It was his ridiculous composure … It was—how could it be?, and the more the town’s malice grew, the shorter the big guy made his stride. His arrival at the trysting bench and from there his shout for Renata to come out and meet him would be a genuine spectacle for the critical gawkers. Increased surveillance and a crescendo of laughter would subsequently affect his sweetheart much more than him; such was his supposition, so he made a full stop, sat down on the first bench he came to in the main plaza (the central and grandiose plaza, and the only one); disheartened, wishing to hide, he decided not to find out what was going on just a little ways away; yes, as bad as it seemed, he considered giving up, postponing the visit till the following day and going first to Monclova to buy some clothes that fit, something more presentable, because in Sacramento you could probably find nothing but cowboy pants. Hence a whole day wasted going there and back. His course of action was clear. He had only to take a quick look at himself … How embarrassing … Especially because he had noticed nothing upon leaving Parras. Nobody had poked fun at him during the trip … Nonetheless—here it was! a gathering scandal that he alone could stanch … The problems were the trousers, the bright glimpses of sock, less noticeable was the shirt’s roominess. In any case, he turned upon himself the most severe self-criticism and—what could he do! He’d have to return to Doña Zulema’s house. An unpleasant retreat: ceaseless ugly jeers—was he required to ask for forgiveness? From anyone in particular? Sorry, sir, sorry, ma’am—nobody? That is, nobody confronted him up close, just as nobody approached him as he left for Monclova early the next morning … Jeers from afar, but a nuisance nonetheless … True, he was no longer carrying the bouquet of lilies, only the vexing valise. Perhaps the fault-finding multitudes believed that he wouldn’t show his face there again, but …

A radical difference.

Extravagance on a Thursday afternoon.

Elegance can be intimidating if viewed in detail. The outfit as well as the overall effect, the heat notwithstanding; hence, quite conspicuous, for nobody in Sacramento ever dressed like that.

Demetrio went irresolutely toward his destination, but weak thoughts arose, one by one. To begin with, he had to make several stops. He placed the bouquet of lilies and the suitcase down in the dust of the street so he could remove a white handkerchief from the outside pocket of his jacket and delicately wipe off trickles of sweat: face, neck, and hands, and this thankless task awakened doubts, one of which was whether or not he should present himself sweaty to Renata—how sweaty were the hairs on his chest … covered though they were? Very, because his personal rivulet was tickling him under there. Even his hair, so well groomed, would soon come undone: irremediably dissolute head, deserving of some distant chortle that he may hear later … nor did he have a comb handy to put the humid chaos to rights … and his elegant appearance (in principle) was getting complicated … But he could not put off meeting his sweetheart another day. We will see, therefore, his stubborn lunacy, his audacity in the face of the worst possible censure. In his defense a great excuse he hoped he would not need to assemble on the spur of the moment. Anyway, he was already fleshing it out. The idea was that elegance was a pretense in a village where it was as uncommon as a swanky new car. And he reached the trysting bench and did not sit down. His (sweaty) elegance precluded him from hurling even one cry into the air, not so much as a whistle, much less shouting out the name of his beloved and telling her, moreover, that he had arrived on a whim. To wait, then, standing up: obstinate, tall, silent, flamboyant (he had to be). It was five in the afternoon and there in the constricted space of the stationery store Demetrio descried Renata’s subtle figure: she was conducting business; likewise, the buxom figure of her mother, who was moving her lips—uncontrollably? Was she speaking … or was it all just futile action? Renata abruptly stepped out into the street. She was not gussied up, and one could surmise her astonishment from her somewhat stalking step. She drew nearer and—the last straw! words scattered on the ground, her words, for after glancing at him fleetingly, she lowered her head and:

“I’m very happy you’ve come, but I can’t see you now. I am not presentable. Come tomorrow at the same time, if you can.”

Once this blarney was over, she turned on her heel and ran away. Her mother was waiting with her hands on her waist as if to say:
Well done!
He was left standing with outstretched arms: the bouquet of lilies: void, useless, tomorrow another one. Bah! the amorous proposal snapped back as if it had been stretched out too far, and now, yes, the discordant giggles from afar embellished the retreat of the gallant, whose dandyism had done him no good. Laughter like barbs. Each step a gasp. Shame flaming from the lilies he still carried. As for the suitcase, what more can be said about it. Of course, the suitor longed to hide the bouquet under his jacket, but that would embarrass him even more. Circular then spiraling resilience. He refused to rid himself of that pleasant prodigy (throwing it—where?) because it would be proof of a frustration that tomorrow, at five in the afternoon, would be turned on its head, and, with a sharp pang, he wondered if the bouquet, especially because his aunt had given it to him, had brought him bad luck. When he arrived, she hugged him. She said nothing. She divined the course of events (rejection resulting from the surprise) and … A cry, meek, from her—of course! while he, with a knot in his throat, let her caress his disheveled head. Interior scene, so warm, in the kitchen rather than the grocery store, where the señora prepared
café con leche;
there was also a basket full of rolls, those familiar
conchas, plomos,
and
pelonas
for him to savor slowly. Bites as pauses. Words, all difficult and somewhat virile, rows of sweet relief. There must have been few: his: so-called sputum; though hers …