Almost Never: A Novel (8 page)

Here commences the give-and-take of a fraught conversation. A full-fledged family reunion. The first one to be held in the calm following the theatrics enacted at the graveside. Some spark would light up as they poured forth their ideas; the dining room had enough chairs for everybody: daughters, husbands, and Doña Luisa, who tried to talk about her future, in little bursts and a barely audible voice, poorly projected, which was understandable, considering her grief. The grief of a worldly woman who no longer had the energy of her better days, so that now—could she hope for a new life … with her daughter Renata as her sole domestic ally? At first she made mention of the eternal gratitude she owed her husband for the huge house she would count on forever: a prodigious appendage she could one day sell, though such extreme measures were not yet necessary, thanks to the large safe: this the bequest closest at hand. The difficulty: access, the combination to the lock unknown … no, never! it would be a waste of time … A secret Don Pascual carried with him to the grave. Such a pity! Alas! Though to view the predicament from a happier vantage, there was really no cause for lament. One of the sons-in-law, the brightest of the bunch, suggested they carry the safe to the roof and hurl it down onto the small patch of concrete in the courtyard, and then repeat as many times as necessary. The latch would have to give—it simply had to! A feat for the following day. There were more than enough hands, that is to say there were eight brawny men, all smashing … So—let’s at it! right? Sons-in-law in action—all together now!—that’s when they discovered a cement staircase; yes, with laudable foresight Don Pascual had had it built just six months before; it was narrow and had no banisters, for easy access: only sixteen stairs from the ground to the roof. Therefore the act of carrying the load up the stairs (beginning early in the day), then hurling it, and nothing, and again, and … Of course! Just imagine the sweating, the grunts and groans, the effort, each more lackluster than the last. On the ninth try—finally! The latch—yay! and out spilled the bills—yay! Everybody started counting. The evidence indicated that there was not enough for mother and daughter to live ad infinitum with a modicum of ease, or that there was just enough to invest in a modest enterprise: a restaurant: no! a grocery store, hmm, tick this off as one option; an inn, but for whom, the town had no tourism? Let’s attend another family gathering held late in the afternoon, with chorizo and egg tacos topped with lettuce and tomatoes, indeed, and crowned (each to one’s own liking) with a
guajillo
-citrus salsa. In the dining room, ensconced in a comforting cloud of oily odors, they continued to flirt with their fates. They had to come up with a business that would require neither too much toil nor lasting tedium. And they would all have to agree. Perhaps a full stomach would help: how about a stationery store? Not bad, though the understanding was that Renata would be the one to travel to Monclova for the merchandise, exclusively and comprehensively for the primary school, for Sacramento still didn’t have a secondary school: maybe soon … who knows? A question of government policy, but did it really matter that much? So the discussion focused on Renata’s duties, the troublesome train trips twice monthly to that nearby city, alone and obliged, moreover, to lodge at some run-down hotel because there was only one train a day. Then the hardship of carrying all those purchases in the boat and the horse-drawn carriage. But she declared that she was ready to make such a sacrifice in order to help her mother. What an idiotic or understanding daughter! Anyway, they would ponder the consequences all in good time. For now, the future for her and that worldly woman was a diaphanous glimmer.

The harsh clarity of the possible.

Under so-called control.

Though …

“Where did you hide the letter?”

“I will never tell you, and please forgive me.”

This introductory dialogue was the first held between Doña Luisa and Renata when they finally found themselves alone. The rest of the gimmes and gotchas were some sort of increasingly heated verbal blather that didn’t particularly distress either of them. Rather, both remained perfectly composed after an exchange of quips that translated into a hearty embrace; an exchange of vows to share a none-too-easy life. Gratitude and support: their forces united, as if by merging two mournings you could create one amalgamated spirit. From the mother, stalwartness for the remainder of her days, a determination to rise above her affliction, though it wasn’t yet quite clear how; and, from the daughter, contingent mourning and its attendant longings. Demetrio’s visit would be a detonation, but there were months yet to go. Moreover, that visit, which embodied so much hope, still lacked solidity when viewed objectively; it was, as it were, a mere hint of courtship: cloudy, uncertain, and in this sense, maybe Demetrio would disappoint her. On the other hand, if said creature turned out to be the true angel of salvation, and (God first and foremost) brought about the longed-for wedding and all the rest of it, there was also the possibility that the mother would go to live with them. In any case, all in good time, and in the meantime, a modicum of relaxation; only a modicum because for several days nobody lifted a finger to set the stationery store in motion. A merited enjoyment of the meager funds to be had. Sad enjoyment and almost silent. Convenient silence. Renata’s scintillating strategy, for at a given moment she thought:
If my mother insists on asking me about Demetrio, I will offer her the reassurance that she will never remain alone.
And quite a lark to think of the three of them living in the same house, an idyllic and agreeable threesome anywhere in the world. Lest we forget: the wedding must come first. Future hyperboles that … who knows. A waxing and waning of efforts, stratagems, flutterings, resolve, all was yet to be seen … Et cetera. And an astute subtlety: Renata had rather poorly buried Demetrio’s two letters near the henhouse, tossing fistfuls of dirt on top, a merely superficial layer, hastily accomplished. That’s where she would bury everything that hailed from Oaxaca, or, more auspicious though also more complicated: at different spots around the vast domestic sphere. So here’s a better plan: the excavations must go deep. Her own labor, or hire someone … No! she: in charge; she: without hesitation and with a pick and a shovel; she and only she and nobody but she.

A
ugust. 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 fucks, 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.