Almost Never: A Novel (3 page)

Mireya may have ended up crying even more that same night, for at the last minute Demetrio again decided not to visit her. Emotional punishment, or indolence, or fortitude, or an attempt to stem the lavish outflow of cash: which turned out to be simple. It seems the boss had been expecting his request. Be that as it may, we must add that during the meeting neither devoted a single sentence to the daily doings of the orchard. The owner was well aware of his employee’s efficacy. Therefore the finale, both discreetly bowing, neither daring to offer a parting handshake, then the return and spiritual excitement of he who found news awaiting him at the lodging house: a letter. Rolanda handed it to him almost as if it were a red-hot ember; from whom? his faraway mother, she’d gleaned from reading the back of the envelope. Bad or wonderful news? The surprise revealed in total reclusion. Fanciful speculations with each tearing (few) of paper. Then ensued the clumsy unfolding: three per sheet, but even so it is worth noting the scrupulousness of the maneuver. Then he read:

To explain, his mother lived in the large house she’d inherited along with an ample amount of cash. Accompanying her were servants—a poorly paid woman and man—who did all the usual chores. She’d been a merry widow for five years. Mother of three: Demetrio, the eldest; and Filpa and Griselda, both married to gringos; one from Seattle, a city that is superior, as a world cultural center, to, let us say, Naples; and the other from Reno, a city that is superior, as a world cultural center, to, let us say, Badajoz; that is, they were out in the world, prisoners of marriages or perhaps already adapted and trained to live out their monotonous and well-ordered lives. Of course, they pretended to be strong, especially as they rarely came to Parras, the nicest town in the state of Coahuila, a world cultural center superior to, let us say, Brussels. And, so, things being what they were, Demetrio was the one left to accompany his mother. The wedding would be held in Sacramento, Coahuila, a world cultural center superior to, let us say, Luxembourg. We must consider, by the way, the long stretch of desert between Parras and Sacramento. A vast expanse without highways, unthinkable for a bus to risk riding on those rugged roads, potholed paths poorly or not at all paved, not even so much as graveled. The marriage would take place on the eighteenth of December; we are now the tenth, so, easy to do the math. The letter continued, though not profusely, not more than a spare sheaf of sententious sentences that softened the initial request: emphasis on the date, the understanding that the mother took for granted her son’s yes, this being the norm, she would say “come” and he would: he let himself be led around like a dog by his master, especially because his mother’s orders were infrequent, thus all the more compelling, as was this one, for it indicated a change of tack. Demetrio noted the careful calligraphy and even imagined his progenitor by candlelight: a bold image, somewhat diluted, but nonetheless … It was inferred that no telegram would follow. Nothing like, “I’ll be there, you can count on me. I’ll go with you.” To leave, yes, and with no thought to the mayhem this might unleash … Departure tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest, just before dawn; indeed, he had no choice … and feeling his way … No, he wouldn’t say good-bye to Mireya, but he would inform his boss … a brief telephone call: family affairs, circumstances beyond my control, and bye-bye. Christmas vacation would begin, Demetrio knew, on the eighteenth, so, to repeat: it is the tenth, therefore …

Oh, yes, of course, the bonus: handy, well-earned, right? This shouldn’t cause a problem, so he took care of it himself the following day. He wrote himself a check, for his was an authorized signature. In passing let us make note of the agronomist’s absolute integrity: not one peso more nor one penny less, from which we can infer that he already knew the amount he was due, and, alas! The bad part—each time he rang his boss’s house to discuss the untimely trip, the wife answered—was turning over to an assistant the task of paying accounts due. This the easiest solution, considering his haste, but the responsibility, the possible blame, all yet to be seen … uncertainty: What a concession! How equivocal! But only till his return: in theory: at the beginning of the New Year: oh no! Would everything be okay, God willing!?

After perusing the letter the docile son packed his suitcase. Hastily. He packed carelessly and slept briefly. He counted sheep. He didn’t put on his pajamas.

And …

It took two days (almost three) to get to Parras. The coming rub. Nasty calculus, and, well, what’s done is done, as they say, the agronomist spent the night in his Oaxacan room per usual and left at daybreak for the outskirts of the aforementioned cultural city, where there was a runway for small airplanes.

Now, to regress for a moment, it’s worth mentioning one of Doña Rolanda’s habits: she loved to read the local newspaper. The irregularity of these rustic publications made reading about mundane maladies and natural disasters that much more exciting. One issue a week was the norm, but more normal was for it to fail to appear, though news of great consequence warranted a limited-edition gazette, printed and sold out in a trice: an infrequent occurrence, only in cases of extraordinary events—bad? good? thus it was with the bomb: that perverse achievement that culminated in an explosion and mushroom cloud: though … on the other end of the earth: over there in Japan, thousands dead … That horror, with a host of details, was mentioned one Thursday by the landlady to her fellow diners, who, wholly unconcerned, continued to scoop up her beans. Then came her final flourish:

“Any moment now another bomb will explode and the world will come to an end.”

Guffaws in response, not a single indication of alarm. The news, it seems, had been attended to as if a leaf had fallen from a tree. Full focus on the scrumptious. Beans for dinner … this the only dish, though plentiful, accompanied by plump rolls … It’s also worth mentioning, by the way, that beans made with lard are much tastier, as these were on this occasion.

“The bomb was dropped from an airplane.”

Silence or the continued shoveling of food. Words, which ones? Only hers … tossed into the air.

“What? Aren’t you worried?! The world is about to come to an end!”

Demetrio shook his head, just as smug as can be, made a move to stand up to assert his authority, and did so, but first he wiped his tangled lips and spoke.

“Look, señora, if the world is going to end, let it end already.”

“What?!”

“Yes, let it end; after all …”

The others chimed in: “Let it end, let it end.” Derision for the defeated one; though: how callous this mediocre—somewhat shameful?—merrymaking, enough to make Doña Rolanda feel crushed by the indiscretion (that almost infantile chorus of “Let it end!” continued), my, my! the lady felt intimidated but not before she’d done further damage by uttering one last sentence:
It’s just that, can you imagine how many Japanese have died!
In response: not a sigh, not even for the sake of politeness: nope! why second the motion? May she and her facts fade straightaway. Hence, already shrunken and small, she uttered one last word: “Hi-ro-shi-ma,” a vague subconscious input Demetrio unwittingly recorded, so effectively that when he was sitting on a bench in a rectangular room, that is, a waiting room, he muttered the word as if trying to spit it out. The small plane that would carry him to Nochistlán had limited capacity: eight passengers. The agronomist was quite familiar with this grasshopper-like flight. And all the while: “Hi-ro-shi-ma, Hi-ro-shi-ma.” And, by way of counterpoint, a view of the concrete: the awaiting plane. And then the imagined: the bomb: from what height was it dropped? His guts churned at the mere thought that he would board a plane that might be carrying—a bomb! Terrifying associations growing grimmer and grimmer … Moments later the announcement of the plane’s departure. There weren’t eight passengers, only five, and still his fears: that the contraption would fall or that the bomb would explode in midair. Nevertheless, the boarding and the takeoff and finally the airborne motion: thick clouds angrily shook the plane, enough to make one think the worst. Bah! We needn’t dwell on this because nothing terrible happened. Landing put an end to the paranoia after a miserable hour that, by the way, had the landlady not mentioned the bomb or the airplane and even less the thousands of dead Japanese—careful now!—would have been COMPLETELY NORMAL, for this was not the first time Demetrio had taken this flight.

Inevitable regression once his feet touched the ground. Memories of Mireya, a fleeting but always sensual silhouette: “For sure she’ll get it on with others and at some point while she’s doing it she’ll shout out my name.” Such miserable thoughts made the agronomist ill, but, what could he do to rid himself of something that had already become abhorrently persistent?: “She’ll miss me. My naked body will appear in her dreams.” And as he turned away from the Nochistlán airfield, he redoubled his efforts to stroll along the pavement with a graceful air, and we say “air” because the local breeze caressed him: swirled around him, perhaps, to purify the traveler’s incantation: “No-chis-tlán,” “Hir-ro-shi-ma,” “Mi-re-ya,” “Pa-rras,” verbal scraps, parsimonious swaying that finally touched down on an unreal, deep, shifting surface, whereby the agronomist would soon forget Oaxaca completely. Nor did he wish to cram himself into that future frame called Parras, on which his mother appeared embossed (unblemished), or better said: where decency sparkled in colorful abstraction … From Nochistlán, which was not by any measure a world cultural center, he would take the bus to Cuautla, which wasn’t either (unless someone would like to claim otherwise). From there he would board a train to Mexico City, which was, of course: that urban area had to be the most important cultural center in the world, wouldn’t you say? And now, getting back on track, so to speak, we are now approaching the drudgery of the culminating leg of the journey. Demetrio knew what it meant to spend thirty hours on a train. Standing up, sitting down, eating poorly, getting depressed as he sank into silence, and it was even worse if someone tried to engage him in conversation. He rudely cut short anybody who dared, even raising a fist as if to fight if a stranger insisted. Once he had done just that: mercilessly slapping a quite shameless man who had provoked him:
You think you’re man enough to get into a fistfight with me?
He never should have said that, the agronomist’s violent outburst had been most improbable, such a quiet, well-behaved gentleman, so much for that! He had been so fierce that the train conductors forced him off at the next station without refunding even one cent of his fare. The conductors’ last argument (while shoving him) just as the train pulled away was regarding the expense of healing the wounded man, parting palaver that settled accounts between them … On the ground, prone, his suitcase tossed and broken, Demetrio had sworn at the capped men, who could no longer hear the inventiveness of his invectives. The consequences were awful. Sparing many details, suffice it to say that on that occasion the agronomist spent forty-eight hours in that accursed backwater. The tedium of hour upon cheerless hour made him yell at nobody in particular. A madness the locals duly respected. His own private problems had no ramifications, so, why censure him? better he wear himself out shouting his head off, and that’s just what he did, trembling, as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water down his back. How fortunate the muffling gloam hid, for better or for worse, his reddened face! Then the good services of the people at the station, where he slept on a pile of empty, scratchy gunnysacks. But first they gave him two soups: one greenish and the other gray. He slept poorly, in large part because his bedding smelled of burro piss. Horrible! Violence turns into disaster and recovery takes time. Demetrio recalled all this when the interruption came this time around, and the rudeness of his retort consisted of:
I’m so sorry, but I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’ve got too many problems.
That’s it! and he raised no fist. Precaution. Regret. Good manners.

In any case, he’d reach Saltillo; hmm, Saltillo, who knows what it was … Here it is important to contemplate how singular and solitary his tribulations were: Demetrio strained to carry his enormous suitcase. The wreck of a man ascending and descending the train’s metal stairs. Still to come was the difficulty of the next embarkation: the noisy train trip to Parras, four additional suffocating hours in pursuit of that pre-Christmas joy, the welcoming embrace between mother and son: this, the annual event … irritability upon arrival, for after each had spoken a few kind words he begged to rest:
Please, I want to sleep.
After those last four hours he just had to! now!

His mother understood. In this deflated state he retired to a room full of altars crowded with saints. A host of sacred eyes spying: upon a sinner seeking refuge. Tomorrow more fuss and bother because they would leave early for Sacramento: trains, stairs, his mother’s excessive chatter: all quite predictable. For now, let us focus on a single fact: Demetrio slept fourteen hours straight, watched over by porcelain saints who would do nothing at all. As fate would have it, he turned his back on them, so to speak: and: Demetrio—was he cold?—also covered his head, but … in sleep’s underworld there appeared words suggesting landscapes of great depths; as for the sleeper, he experienced a succinct sashaying of sensations; barely a murmur … cloying syllables such as: “Hi-ro-shi-ma”: hell? the wedding and God embracing the newlyweds: a photograph with mountains in the background. Another of the devil laughing as enormous tongues of fire licked the newlyweds. Finally: a circuitous flickering: heavy sleep, the road to relief …

S
o much to talk about. A random recounting of minor troubles and modest joys. The breakfast conversation was merely a sketch that mother and son would fill in with details and inventions on the train. It was five in the morning, and due to their nerves, or their haste, they decided to finish chewing their toasted
totopos
and bread on the way to the station in their horse-drawn carriage. Among the most important things the mother—her name was Telma—told her offspring was one as portentous as: