Almost Never: A Novel (25 page)

In the afternoon, after bathing neither in the cedar tub nor by the bucketful, though impeccably dressed, he gracefully betook himself to the trysting bench. He wanted to ask Renata for forgiveness, see if maybe. Doña Zulema, immediately and with investigative élan, followed him, closing the store behind her. She maintained a constant distance from each of the big guy’s quick steps: praying to God, all the time, that he wouldn’t turn around, wishing perhaps to gain clarity from the prayers she was sending up, not yet. And now the scene itself. Demetrio asked a child who was playing in the plaza to go tell Renata what you, Doña Zulema, and I can already guess. The child went and returned quickly and:

“Renata says she can’t come out and to please not come again.”

The ultimate definition. As Demetrio carried out his contrite retreat his aunt hid behind a tree and from there saw her nephew returning with his head hung low and his fists clenched. She, prodded on, hastened her step so she could open her shop as quickly as possible: of course!: she would stand behind the counter knowing herself to be, let us call it, an actress: her chin leaning crassly on her theatrical hand and her bare elbow resting upon the aforementioned surface: distinguished stillness in waiting: a wait that didn’t last long, given that soon Demetrio’s figure formed a faded outline: at the door: sadness and rage. Now he really did want to spill his guts:

“It makes no sense for Renata to tell me to go to hell only because I kissed her hand … I don’t think I disrespected her. I don’t feel guilty in the least, my kiss was affectionate, completely affectionate! I could never behave in bad faith with a woman I want to marry. And you know, Auntie, as I told you two days ago, we’ve already spoken about getting married, you were even willing to live with her mother … Anyway! Now everything’s ruined. Now Renata doesn’t want to see me—and why?! why?! I don’t understand … Anyway, she was the first one to bring up getting married, I planned to propose to her much later …”

The big guy’s enraged huffing and puffing put an end to his harangue, and from one of his eyes there sprang an unborn tear, which he didn’t wipe away, despite how macho he was, but his bitter feelings finally betrayed him, the tear rolled, trembling, down his left cheek: no way!, because—really—how shameful! Then Doña Zulema spoke:

“Demetrio, I think you made a mistake …”

“A mistake?! What mistake?! I treated Renata just fine and that’s why I don’t want to stay here one minute longer. This puritanical town horrifies me. I’m leaving!”

Or rather, as it was late evening the aggrieved man would go sleep on the top of the hill. His aunt was unable to stop him. Instead she watched, moments later, as he stuffed his dirty clothes into his suitcase, and after a spirited shutting he grabbed the handle and took off down the street. Why watch as he walked away?

M
ore and more cars and trucks. A teeming trough. A miracle of motorized and motile phantoms. To tell the truth, and looking at the phenomenon from a different angle, the production of intractable tractors grew in dribs and drabs; whereas bicycle production—a minor news item—appeared to be, by all accounts, incalculable, even though burros were still exceedingly useful. Just think of carrying cargo, which bicycles obviously couldn’t do. Given the foregoing, we really must assert that in 1947 the Mexican automotive industry was at its apogee. Cars, trucks, and tractors were being assembled as quickly as toys, and the demand was growing constantly, in no small part due to the excellent conditions the automotive companies were offering for the purchase of said conveyances.

Not counting the use of tractors (not yet), let’s take Sacramento as an example (and place ourselves smack in the middle of 1947): one could count six cars and eight pickups, whereas at the end of 1946 there had been only two pickups. Let’s also take Parras (much more populous than all the other towns in Coahuila), where there were twenty vehicles at the beginning of the year in question and thirty by the middle of the same year; a tripling, then, because in December 1946 there had been only twelve. We needn’t do a breakdown of cars versus trucks, for all we have to know is that there were three tractors. All this said, let us betake ourselves to Parras, that universal cultural center superior to, let us say, Tegucigalpa, or—what was the previous comparison? anyway, that’s where we are in virtue of the fact that Demetrio was living at his mother’s house; he, whom ill fortune had dogged throughout the central region of Coahuila, arrived and told Doña Telma that life had dealt him a few bad hands, though as yet no blows that had felled him fully … That ranch job had turned out to be a fiasco … He didn’t tell his mother anything, at first, about what had happened with Renata, he simply said that in order for him to live for any length of time in Parras he would need to buy a pickup truck. The mother was happy to help in any way she could, though her son’s savings sufficed (ha!): he bought one in a jiffy (a bit used and without a stake bed) in Torreón, he wouldn’t go to Saltillo even if his life depended on it, and now, indeed: Demetrio’s truck could be counted among the vehicles in Parras. He still had enough money for some boring investment or other. In the meantime let’s imagine him as unemployed by choice. Indecisive and smug or, if you prefer, a perpetual seeker in pursuit of not employment but rather new horizons; the search for plots in outlying areas where he might plant an orchard, that is, when the blessed new beginning … Months passed and there came no decisive move toward either investment or employment.

Be that as it may, Demetrio was up late every night, for a very ad hoc club had opened in that huge town, a place for diversion—a miniature hell whose name lent itself to a thousand interpretations: Centro Social Parrense—but that in essence served as a cantina and a place to play dominoes and billiards into the early hours of the morn. Above all else, decency, for neither women nor children were allowed in, soldiers likewise, though anyway there never were any in the vicinity. Playing relieved tension. The joint, very roomy though quite dark, opened at five in the afternoon and closed at one in the morning; and—careful now!—only four alcoholic drinks per person were allowed. Whether a defense of decency or merely a sham, you still couldn’t get drunk: hence the club’s success, for it had public, as well as municipal, approval, such as it was. In this respect it must be said that the mayor of Parras occasionally went there to spend a few congenial hours shooting pool and dealing dominoes. Also, by the way, it is fitting here to add that the Centro Social Parrense was for members only. That is, one had to pay a rather hefty fee to join, as well as modest monthly dues. By the middle of 1947 it had forty members. Although the monthly dues drove some away, others were always on hand to replace them. Hence a steady number: a few more, a few less: ergo: may more players come, and we’ll see if they last … We mention endurance because soon the under-the-table bets began. Demetrio fell headlong into this so-called trap and began to realize fabulous winnings. He rarely lost. Once, he won two thousand pesos in a week: that was a huge sum in 1947, and with minimal effort. We emphasize the obvious: gaming, especially playing dominoes, was turning into an insurmountable source of income and he, therefore, into a fearsome player, who, undefeated, challenged many: which many took him up on—good thing! let’s play!—whether as trembling contenders or devoted clientele, they never came out ahead. The result: a rather sordid fortune. And now, returning to the quotidian, let’s take a look at his cohabitation with his mother, who never tired of asking him about Renata, to which he responded:
My love life is fine.
Or:
We’re taking a break to think things over. Her mother doesn’t want us to get married. She’s afraid of being left alone.
Or:
The mother is the obstacle.
Or:
I promised to go see her in September. By then I’ll know what she’s decided.
Or:
I’ve written her three letters and she hasn’t answered any of them.
Or:
It will all be resolved by September, but I think our love is on the right path.
Or:
Believe me, please. I never give up.
Credible pretexts piling up or applied like a poultice that would soon become excessively soggy, for Demetrio showed neither signs of affliction nor the least urgency to travel thither, despite his pickup truck. The truth, awkward because so inexplicable, or rather the mistake of that accursed kiss on the back of her hand, would not be recounted until his mother, with her dose of adult and feminine intuition, would apply sweetly insistent pressure, which she was on the verge of doing, but …

His mother was endeavoring to not upset him. She dared not tell him that it was about time he invested his money if he had no intention of getting a job. Nor did she suggest even subtly that he was depleting his savings. Instead, she indulged his every whim, her only goal to make his stay in Parras pleasant and thereby obviate any absurd notion of him abandoning her anytime soon. A mother’s love—with a dose of humility? Let us admire her fortitude in the face of his lassitude, for once he told her:
You know? I am making a lot of money at the club. In just a short while I’ve become the best dominoes player in Parras …
To which she only penciled in:
Do as you wish, but be careful.
And, in fact, he did exactly as he wished. Every week he went to Torreón, to the cathouses: there were four classy ones, the place was teeming with beautiful whores. So, go for more than one!, though—he knew all too well—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall in love with any of them. Moreover, the distance, understood as infinitely reckless, even though by 1947 there was an excellent dirt road from Parras to the junction of Paila and from there a flourishing highway to Torreón, but no; there and back week after week … with nauseating faith, certainly derived from confusion … Hmm, may the past rot: a thick stew whose defiled dregs will molder: a lingering scruple with an unbearable stench … Nonetheless, Renata: that breath of a future life … Sure, it was on the verge of collapse, but …

Traces of regret …

At one point his mother told him that if he did decide to invest in something, she would like to participate, for she still had a lot of money …
You still have a lot? I can’t believe it …
In response came a spontaneous and affectionate, because snug, hug, and that was all.

L
et’s pause for a moment. We have reached a point we deem fitting for the elucidation of an assortment of worn-out ideas, to wit: the five basic allocutions Doña Luisa imposed on her daughters to ensure they’d behave properly with their suitors. The first had to do with not looking their beaus directly in the eyes, for that would be a sign of flirtatious impertinence. The second concerned the filthy nature of all things carnal, meaning that the beau should never dare kiss any part of the beloved’s body, for kisses in general led to the worst of perversities. The third was more radical: it involved failing every once in a while to keep a promise: if, say, they agreed to meet on a certain day at a certain time, the girl should not show up. The beau’s misgivings would establish a pattern for judging just how interested he was. Any forthcoming reproaches, especially angry ones, would prove the aforementioned’s lack of self-control and mean that a breakup was advisable. The fourth regarded the timing of trysts, which should be strictly limited and held within sight of the mother. Like, for example, on a bench in the main plaza, directly in front of the house. To run off elsewhere, to hide, well, that would be a dangerous decision and, needless to say, injurious. The fifth, and final, and most thoroughly outlandish one was the most difficult to follow, because, in order to prove the extent of the subject’s love, it would help at one point or other, to say, for example: “What you did is not okay, so I don’t want to see you again,” or even: “You are a scoundrel,” or “You are a pervert,” or “I thought you were a gentleman,” or something similar that would be insulting and, as a result, bring about a definitive break. Nor should the beau’s immediate apology suffice. He must be required to apologize over and over again (first and foremost, over an extended period of time); his failure to do so showing clearly that his love was in no wise true. There were other maternal pronouncements but the essence of the advice was constant, so any different interpretation … No other! … That is, about fifteen years before Doña Luisa had written this short but substantial list on a piece of sky-blue cardboard. The handwriting was, let us say, quasiperfect, in part because she used an indelible India ink, a special one that in spite of the passage of time continued to shine … who knows if the daughters, having memorized this advice, became faithful adherents. The mother informed each one in turn that this was how she had conducted herself with their father before she had gotten married. Courtship with a host of restrictions, but a happy and joyous marriage, where never—and she crossed her fingers to swear to it—did anyone shout, much less show any sign of disrespect: naturally, she never tired of repeating this refrain:
You have witnessed our union for many years. I want something similar for you, because if marriage is suffering, it’s not worth getting married.
Then she would assert that the bond between her parents had been similarly wonderful, without any signs of emotional to-dos, adding moreover that her mother had given her similar advice when she had reached a marriageable age: she had not drawn up a list, but she did abound in similar verbal inculcations, because likewise she had an exemplary relationship and because, turning to the grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, and beyond, she knew they had all been entirely happy: this her duty, to be thus perennially, or even better, emotional security without any ups and downs. All of Sacramento was like that—unscathed?: almost-almost: unique customs, as discreet as they were grandiose. And now to the particulars: the first daughter, Mercedes, followed the script to the letter and triumphed, though—was she still triumphant out there in La Terquedad, that hamlet in Coahuila where she lived?; the second daughter, Ernestina, the same; the third daughter, Glendelia, the same; but the fourth, Torcuata, well, she had been a bit of a rebel: once she went with her sweetheart to the hills; some children, accompanied by an adult, saw her kissing her mustachioed beau on the edge of a cornfield: they exchanged incredibly tongue-y kisses and some quite passionate fondling in diverse places, though never beneath their clothing. In any case the witnesses spread the word, and it was the father who decided that Torcuata would not marry that mustachioed man, but he, who really did love her, persisted for almost four years until he managed to lead her to the altar. What we’re getting at here is that ever since, they’d lived in Morelia and were very happy, though, looking at it with a more dispassionate eye—how certain can we be?, and moreover—how certain can one be of the everlasting good fortune of all four? The fact was that the four sisters didn’t come to Sacramento on a yearly basis, nor did they write their mother a continuous stream of letters, or rather—what about it? invisible happinesses; scant information; no complaints but to tell the honest truth—where? in what intimate terrain? Perhaps they’d rather take pleasure in or suffer their relationships than remain near the harsh nucleus here: right in the marrow of such corrosive decency: ergo: where the fifth daughter, Renata, was stuck, confused, crying her eyes out every night: how much? just a little or how much, really: with her guilt in gradations of regret that by now, the what if, the what if instead, the what if she had strayed from the script … let’s see … and instead of saying to Demetrio what she had said, she had thanked him for the kiss on the back of her hand and his salacious licking, but—honest?! affectionate?! No limits, no disengagement. Until she herself came to the conclusion:
the kiss yes, the lick no.
A painful assessment, going against the grain, though … The lick, no … Disgusting. Aggressive … In the past few months Doña Luisa and Renata had been harmoniously in contact with their local kin. As word of the amorous split spread like wildfire, there were various conjectures and fabrications, some quite alarming, others inoffensive enough, though most implicated the mother’s unfortunate intervention when with her verbal theatricality she had insulted the outlander, who had done nothing inappropriate: a kiss on the hand, admittedly extended, but to make such a scandal, such an unexpected commotion. Renata, to begin with, was guilty—for making such a nuance manifest? turning it into a capital offense with her violent disengagement and her tears and her flight and the wrath of her mother, who had not had the prudence to manage a situation that in others’ views and judgment meant nothing and, well—why had such an insult risen to her lips? After digging deeply into the matter during those afternoon teas, the arguments always crumbled to the rhythm of the sipping of
café con leche
and the dunking of sweet rolls, and the conclusion finally had to come: she saddled her mother with the blame, at least for her sudden irrational outburst: her response lacking proportion and instead … It is known that the actions of third parties in a conflict are always valuable to the degree that they exercise a calming influence, but … let’s see … Doña Luisa did not acknowledge the accusation: no! what for?! never!; hence the coarse words an uncle spoke, words that came nowise as a surprise:
The problem is that you don’t want Renata to get married. You are afraid of being alone, isn’t that so?
Her mother had to admit that said uncle was correct. He had so much harm stored inside him that were we to follow him we would easily predict him saying something like this: that old age is a symptom of inevitable frustration, however it comes about, and from there even more malice so why even mention it … Solutions, therefore—conscientious ones?: which ones?: one, at least, that would seep in deep. It was a supreme comfort for Doña Luisa to hear that her relatives would not leave her alone. Several of them offered her their homes and a few swore they’d be willing to live with her in her house. Hence her freedom of choice should Renata get married continued to be reaffirmed and spelled out—though would she get married? Let it be known that she remained silent throughout these emotionally strained meetings. If someone inquired about the kiss on her hand (for this was the core of the commotion and the crux of the gossip), she had recourse to her viral reasoning: the kiss yes, but the lick no. Upon hearing for the first time that nasty conclusion, the mother exploded:
He licked your hand, didn’t he? He’s a scoundrel!
Then: a further increase of indignation: from her alone. Inductive tyranny, emanating from disgust, nothing more, as far as Renata was concerned, who, in this particular case, had ceased to let herself be influenced by those maternal allocutions. The tyranny of her rigorous decorum, which, after being made public, became doubly painful. The tyranny of the rupture. The tyranny of disrepute, even though her mother’s insult still hovered, heard by—whom? That “Get out of here, you scoundrel!” sensed in the bewilderment that still echoed throughout the plaza. So, their discussions included the issue of who was more guilty: 40 percent to the daughter and 60 percent to the mother … the arithmetic wasn’t precise, but it didn’t matter, after all … Now, as far as regrets were concerned—who had more? Renata began to consider writing Demetrio a letter: five pages of—fastidious?—exonerations, but her mother stayed her:
Wait, dear, it’s not for you to ask for forgiveness … You can be absolutely certain of that.
It was that salacious smacker who should be struggling. For if not, what was the point of trying to change the course of an affection. Be that as it may, Renata began to write in secret. Her theme: her helplessness, in the wake of that stupid interpretation of a kiss that was perhaps legitimate, but—why the lick? What was the goal? Oppressive slowness, so slow due to the lack of even one convincing, or at least persuasive, notion. In fact, all words seemed hostile: and: the writing was awful because she didn’t know what was underneath, how deep it went, how, that’s it: how to justify such a violent rejection, which her mother, in turn, had amplified. The amorous collapse was insurmountable—or was it? and how to help it arise from … Hence her attempts to write, and the immediate and complete erasures. Days and nights of darkness and again playing with words and again nothing, only disconnecting and coarse calamities continuing to accumulate, whereby one wrong word distorted all the others, whereby: better wait for later: when feelings and intuitions grew clearer: Renata, the more she faced this ambiguity, the more paralyzed she became. Patience, therefore, and natural vision and yearning: hopefully soon!