Almost Never: A Novel (6 page)

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!

R
enata Melgarejo, a sizzling instance of decency on a grand scale, was the youngest daughter of Don Pascual Melgarejo and Doña Luisa Tirado. May this fact serve as a random point of entry that plunges us into the pure present, nor would it be too heavy-handed, at this stage, to recapitulate the outstanding episodes of Renata’s childhood, for since birth she had resided in a space that took up a quarter of a city block and included an orchard, a fountain, a waterwheel, an enormous courtyard, and a chicken coop, in addition to an imposing building with six spacious bedrooms, a well-appointed kitchen and dining room, and only one toilet, with a cesspit, as rank as could be, quite as common at those geographic coordinates as was—and still is—the presence of a leafy tree inside the compound that gave it the right to be called home. That said, it is important to place Renata at the heart of an all-too-rigid family hegemony. She was looked after in ways that served her ill but were perennially in the service of spiritual purification that may have been worth tolerating; and, as for her predicament: her parents did not let her go out without their permission: because she was at the optimum nubile age; in order to dissuade the mischief of men; because beautiful women meet deplorable fates if they are given even the tiniest shred of freedom; these three arguments as well as a few more futile ones wrap up Renata’s permanent circumstances. Her house was a lavish prison, ample and verdant, though with too few places to hide. It had also been thus for her sisters, who had had the good sense to marry outlanders: an affable escape to regions far from the family’s rigid core, and—of course! the last remaining maiden should have similar good sense; she, the most beautiful one, for a thousand reasons; the young relic who had more than ten local suitors, all rejected
ipso
for it would tie her down to that suffocating small-town pettiness. For Renata, even the thought of living near her parents—nothing could be more intolerable!—for nothing would ever please those two creatures with their rigid notions. Vigilance, demands, reproaches, even when she was being courted by the best of men. Hence to marry and leave for a faraway place, as her sisters had done, and to their tacit advantage. One lived in Morelia, Michoacán; another in La Terquedad, Coahuila, a nearby hamlet, but nonetheless; the eldest was taken straightaway to Comitán, Chiapas; and another (the ugliest and therefore the kindest) was well-established with her large family in Comonfort, Guanajuato. Renata would be carried off to Oaxaca, still a wait-and-see, but the idea was already taking root, more or less, for Demetrio represented the highest aspiration, also for her parents, who after seeing his imposing and formal appearance, hmm—why think ill of him? They would find out everything, from
a
to
z,
from Zulema—who, really, was this prospect who had asked their relic to dance. Easy, soon, and then … Already her parents had subjected her to a basic interrogation. That Demetrio worked in Oaxaca but was from Parras, Coahuila; son of; relative of; that he was an agronomist; that he was saving up to buy a house there; who knows what the hell Oaxaca was, though the initial bonanza couldn’t be all wrong. The prospect did not wear a hat, like those around here do. A distinction. A poor fit, though favorable, but …

It must be said that many outlanders visited Sacramento. Its fame was rooted in its unusual array of spectacular flowers, even though it was an isolated and somewhat tenuous spot. Where did those who came here come from? Remember Morelia, Comitán, Comonfort, La Terquedad. Remote outposts, and—how did the interested parties find what they found? A mystery … The amazing thing is that such goings-on had been going on ever since the town had been founded, hence Renata could not dismiss the possibility that prospects would hail from the United States and who knows what other foreign and remote countries. As it was, the exhibition of local beauties took place at church, on Sundays—what a nuisance and what a venue! because during the week was impossible … In her case, Renata’s obstinacy coalesced at the wedding dance and from that moment on she dreamed morning, noon, and night about receiving the first letter from the agronomist. The more time that passed the more Renata had to refine her calculations: a month and a half more; three weeks more; four days more, or anybody’s guess. Exhausting delight, which spread to other realms, and in the meantime the maiden carried out her domestic duties: mopping, sweeping, praying from time to time, what food might he like—ask him in a letter? All in good time, and in the meantime, these and other feeble proxies, though, when she thought about the missive, in addition to the expected flattery, some information. Hopefully Demetrio would let her know the date of his visit to Sacramento.

I
n, out; in, out; in, out. Rhythmic movements, slow and increasingly lubricated. Mireya had proposed an innovative position: she’d get on all fours to give Demetrio more wiggle room, that’s right, for more commanding and prolonged wiggles, which also delayed ejaculation, causing pleasure to bubble up inside in a somehow more vehemently circulatory fashion. That was how they screwed and how they prolonged it. The bad part was not being able to kiss in that position, though they did enjoy a deliciously unparalleled slow pace that evoked a duet of moans of combined suffering and joy. The unfurling of the imagination: a creative surge that did not revert to directives. An effervescent scramble: yes and no, and a passing barely. Pleasure at the cost of precarious devastation, until Mireya proposed an even more tremendous game: fellatio,
Do you want?
—would be how it first was mentioned—
Let’s! You can come in my mouth if you want
. Demetrio agreed, believing he would thereby experience the heights of sexual love, to him so modern—may the fun come in any shape or form! as if both were finally on their way to reaching rock bottom. He stood on the bed, swaying unsteadily, while she on her knees began to encircle the agronomist’s gland with her tongue: deliberately suggestive. Then, in, out; in, out. A well-trained mouth. In classic fashion: a lot of saliva. Besmirched—down her front, conceptual? and so far away from any proper notion of decency. Nobody had ever done this to Demetrio, who for better or for worse experienced feelings of guilt. The idea of sin grew prodigious, even more so when Mireya, unexpectedly and with full oral penetration of said member, began to move from side to side as if denying everything, a maneuver that provoked Demetrio’s immediate and prodigious ejaculation. Well, well! Her sublime swallow, which intentionally left some semen adorning the dark circle of her mouth; something like a thick whitish glob rolled down her cheeks, and his exclamation:
You look fine, woman, with that smeared on your skin.
All she could do was smile with pride.
It’s because I love you,
she said. This was their gratification after so many weeks of absence. All good and fine. An outstanding experience! useful for a descent into normality, relaxed and breathy, silent, after such mutual, perhaps equitable, abuse … perhaps … What kind of double volley? Minutes later came their conversation, with an added dash of bashfulness. Sinful conversation, distended. They both seemed like caterpillars on the verge of transformation.

“So, my love, tell me why you haven’t been to see me.”

“I went to visit my mother over the Christmas holidays.”

“Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I didn’t have time. She sent me a telegram telling me she was sick and that I should come immediately. My father died five years ago, and she lives alone, and …”

“You aren’t lying to me, are you?”

“Why should I lie to you? What matters is that I’m here with you now.”

“Where does your mother live?”

“Far, far away.”

“Where?”

“In the south of the United States.”

“Hmm … You know, Demetrio, I’m falling more and more in love with you.”

“Me too.”

“By telling you this, that I’m in love with you, I’m really admitting that I don’t like this life in the brothel anymore. I want you to take me away from here.”

“Where? I’m living in a rooming house. Soon I’ll own my own house, though I haven’t yet saved enough money for the down payment. Right now, I can’t take you anywhere.”