Almost Never: A Novel (10 page)

Twists and turns that set things straight. Theories that slowly run their course. Edifices left half finished. Margins of error when making a decision. What’s incomplete versus what’s finished, when finishing is a cruel detour. What conscience dictates: certitude or a ruse …

Demetrio fell asleep perplexed, he woke up perplexed, and Zulema knew it. In fact, she had the tact not to push harder on the subject at hand. She knew that her opinion had sounded a bit too decisive, more like a verdict. It was he who subconsciously repeated, after waking up, the words that for better or for worse had bored into his spirit:
You could be a drunk, a murderer, a thief, and even a deadbeat and a grouch, she’ll stay with you no matter what.
To memorize this concept of salvation: a yearlong task; a reductive duty, with thousands of reverberations. At that moment he had said:
Thank you, Auntie, for your advice.
Next: each to his or her own: she to the store of her devotion and he to embark on the dreary trip back. Here we must mention that Zulema did not offer him breakfast (insensitive hostess), though she did place her aged hand near his mouth:

“Kiss it!”

“Why?”

“Do it! It’ll make you feel good.”

“I don’t see the point …”

“Come on! Don’t be a fool. I know Renata didn’t let you hold her hand.”

“But you are not Renata.”

“Pretend I am. Take my hand and kiss it.”

Without knowing what he would get in return, Demetrio obeyed. He became a bemused kisser of wrinkled skin. Wrinkles that inspire tenderness. A warm sensation so similar to … and after continuing to kiss it slowly the depraved suitor stuck out his tongue and licked it lustily. It seemed like an obscenity, but then—ah yes! to lick and lick and lick the pith, so much saddened saliva, and in such high concentrations. The kiss lasted a whole minute. It could have been longer, but Zulema pulled her hand away and said:

“Now you can leave at your ease.”

And Demetrio left with a bit of a cramp.

N
ow to Doña Rolanda: the befuddled welcomer. Let us imagine the arrival of a man who is falling apart: Demetrio and his flaccid height (collapsing): hoping to sleep for twenty-four hours, but …
A woman came by for you.
It was Sunday. Work tomorrow. His need to recuperate made him averse to hearing any nonsense. Please! The surprise came in stages, until it bored into his very core: certainly it was Mireya, though … ugh … Mi-re-ya?! the lady pronounced the name … How might his magnificent lover have discovered his domicile? In the meantime, to avoid second- and third-hand information, unlikely guesses, twists and turns—so many!: the lady attempted to accompany him (wordily) to his room, but halfway there Demetrio stopped her:
Listen! I am exhausted. Maybe we can talk in a couple of days.
Doña Rolanda was offended by her lodger’s scorn. Did that matter?: perhaps in the end it would. However, just as he was about to fall into bed like a rotten tree trunk, Demetrio muttered one final sentence:
This has gone too far.
The following day he did not go to that dive, nor did he eat breakfast at the lodging house. Work. Pending issues. Gnashing his teeth against whatever he happened to eat. He ate green tamales in the market of Oaxaca. Two breakfasts—do you hear?! Avoid Doña Rolanda—disgusting! a torrential problem, and—enough already! Not till Tuesday afternoon, relaxed and ready, go to face her he must … Mireya, of course!, though … first, enjoy her …

After making love with fury and imagination, it would be unsuitable for Demetrio to unleash a barrage of questions, especially considering that Mireya hadn’t uttered a word about her visit to his rooming house. Spent after achieving an extraordinary orgasm, she began to effusively caress her man. Her caresses felt more like clumsy tickles: giggles or pure joyous nervousness that, oh!
Wait a minute!
A form of distraction—triumphant? What was coming could be brutal … and in fact it was …

“You came by my place. How did you find me?”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you see, the last time you left here I asked a friend to follow you. The next morning I went there, and the landlady told me you weren’t in Oaxaca.”

“What gave you the idea to do that?”

“Because I want to live with you. I’ve made up my mind.”

“But I don’t … not now anyway.”

Such things catch fire, then flicker. To each of Demetrio’s negatives there rose from Mireya a new and affable perspective. She exhibited a red-hot wit, despite her troubles and her panic; wit spiced up with nicknames such as:
my peach, my melon, my plum,
instead of
my love
or
my
life;
fruits, it would seem, that do not ridicule. And though Demetrio tried to slither troutlike out of her grip, something, some sticky residue, remained on the thin skin of those palms, as it were, but so it was.

Let’s offer some prime examples so that we can penetrate the very heart of this knot: what if she went to live with him at the rooming house …
No, that’s impossible, Doña Rolanda rents rooms only to single people;
so he could rent a small apartment …
No, because I’m about to put the down payment on the house;
so in the meantime they could go live in a hotel, even a run-down one …
No, because it would be a foolish expense;
so he would tell Doña Rolanda (it was to Mireya’s benefit that this name had been revealed) that it was a matter of extraordinary circumstances …
No, because she has very strong opinions, she is way too obsessed with the rules she has made;
so he could slip her some money that would change her attitude …
No, but … maybe … I don’t know … it’s a matter of finding out how much she would want, though I’m sure she would agree for you to stay with me for a few days, two, three … I really don’t know;
so she would go in person and ask her …
No, not that, definitely not.
The escalating propositions had surely reached their peak, whether out of exhaustion or the curtness of the agronomist’s replies, but what Mireya did manage to descry was the image of a narrow path and the course she had to take. Possibilities would pop up along the way … The remarkable part of this whole hullabaloo was that she hadn’t had to mention to her lover that … well, let’s see … The following is what was tacit: she wasn’t pregnant but she could drop that categorical fallacy on Demetrio and, depending on his reaction, set things straight and—set him straight! which would be … well, let’s see … set it straight? The pending invention, as a last resort. An entire artful tale that she wove when she was alone, and here we have it (let’s see): it starts from the (truthful) idea that at that dive, Presunción, prostitutes were not allowed to get pregnant; if they did, they got thrown out; if ever there arose the bizarre circumstance of somebody getting married, Madam and her bodyguards, even the entire brothel, would attend the wedding (a flowery falsehood), so such a celebration—civil, of course! for obvious reasons—no, no wedding in Oaxaca, though perhaps a neighboring village … thus concludes the improbable; Mireya, however, still counted on a barbaric fallback (a falsehood that bears fruit): if Mireya got pregnant and the stud effected a foolish escape, the bodyguards would pursue him and give him a thrashing, but not before soliciting assistance from the police: sooner or later, but effective nonetheless; that is: Demetrio beaten up, and even—why not?—castrated: indeed! poor thing! not that; tell him—what for? keep it in case there was some fervent refusal, or if Demetrio stopped coming to the brothel, then—indeed!—the search would be extensive, as she said. Anyway, this murky fantasy was confessed in detail to Luz Irene, who knew for certain what she had already intuited: Mireya was no fool, nor was she a pushover. Never! And the brunette’s consummate charm was revealed without restraint. If only we could see the way she swayed as she walked … Two such delectable days in the brothel and outside her room. She wanted to be seen by one and all. As if that was what she needed! Two days, and then on the third …

Mireya arrived at the rooming house at nine at night. Demetrio was there.

First the confrontation with Doña Rolanda.

No, she couldn’t come in, because she was a stranger, but:
I’ll tell Mr. Demetrio that you want to see him. Wait here outside.

Demetrio arrived frightened, confused, and for good reason. They held a long conversation outside.

Problems. Rejection. More problems.

Mireya had no choice other than to tell him about Madam and her bodyguards (those we’ve met), the beating (to be avoided, by any means necessary), and even the Oaxacan police force. Could it be that bad?

In the face of such a staggering description Demetrio had no choice but to speak to Doña Rolanda. He was bursting with fear. The situation was (to tell the truth) one of force majeure.
Wait for me out here. I won’t be long.

A discussion with the lady of the rigid notions … useless to try to persuade her. But when he showed her the fluttering bill: a bauble in a light, uplifted hand …

Aah!

And only for a few days …

Ooh!

The lovers lounged in the room whose foremost novelty was the improved odor. It just might have been the first time any two beings had practiced the act of screwing there: within the confines of rented respectability, where there was an abundance of saintly idols made of clay and porcelain, and a picture of
The Last Supper.
One must, in this respect, mention guilt. For as soon as the two locked themselves in the room, Doña Rolanda knocked on the door. She was carrying a large bag. In it she would place all those figurines who were, to her mind, somehow alive, though she left said picture. It seems that Jesus Christ and his apostles were so thoroughly engaged in their repast and the company they kept that they wouldn’t have time to watch the disgusting things Demetrio and his lover might do. Doña Rolanda’s act was quick and silent. She did ask permission to carry out what she considered “a liturgical and appropriate act,” in her words, and: “Excuse me,” and: “I won’t disturb you again.” The saints: displaced, as to
The Last Supper
—what can we say?: an act of carelessness and, indeed, partial guilt. Increasing guilt, because at night she heard the lovers’ savage grunts—sex maniacs! Her curiosity to hear somehow connected with her compulsion to count three times a day the incredible sum Demetrio had paid her. Guilt-ridden sex … within … hmm, only in part, for Mireya had turned
The Last Supper
to face the wall. She had done so as soon as she stripped. Demetrio, for his part, after observing the maneuver, smiled but also crossed himself. And now, finally, without further ado, they went at it; during those days of plenty they enjoyed each other only at night. Let’s imagine the agronomist at his job, from seven in the morning till five in the afternoon, and she locked in the room, getting all tangled up in ideas about how to finagle an almost fantastical felicity. She didn’t want to be seen, either by Doña Rolanda or the other lodgers; and as far as being observed by passersby on the street: well, as few as possible. Even when she went out to get provisions she tried to scurry back, racing at great speed. No breakfasts or dinners in the dining room: well done! They clearly came to a mutually convenient agreement. They clearly shared the dregs of guilt.

We could say that Mireya and Demetrio’s fears were growing by slathers. He knew that he couldn’t keep working in the orchard, that his Oaxacan chapter had come to an end, that he was on the verge of fleeing with his lover to an unknown locale. Life as a couple—guilt ridden! and, bountiful! and, sinuous! and all the rest. This was the mischief happenstance makes, the unexpected arrangement destiny had handed him out of the blue: to live perennial sex to the hilt: screwing in the morning, perhaps at noon, in the evening, and in the middle of the night, and the ever-turning wheel of continual consent: oh, undulating tenderness! the never-washed-nor-aired-out filth, and of course the most plausible theory always obviated: that this was perchance the devil at work, but God in turn was elbowing his way through. He mentioned all these avatars every day to Mireya, who, for her part, declared her mettle three times:
I’ll go wherever you take me,
and also more than three times added that if they stayed in Oaxaca things would go very badly. Just knowing that they would be looking for her because she’d left her job. Madam knew where her room was and, what was worse, her friend Luz Irene, though Mireya was sure she wouldn’t reveal a speck of information. Hence the most dreadful conjectures: the bodyguards, the police, the supposed furious efforts of the ongoing pursuit. And at any moment—poof! Demetrio told her he would go to the bank to withdraw his money so that they could run away. If only they could leave tomorrow! Money in hand for the down payment on their love nest. A nest far away, of course. They would be left in peace if they lived in some border town, but the crowning effort would be to cross over to the other side, by any means necessary and as soon as possible, and there find a new reality.
Why don’t we go to your mother’s? You told me she lives in the south of the United States. You ought to introduce me to her.
Demetrio had made a mistake by mentioning that migration, he hadn’t remembered that … When he told her … Who can know!? … And in that (induced) effort to dig up a name of the town where she lived—did you gather as much?—what would he invent to answer Mireya’s insistence? That it was near Laredo, Texas: with a difficult name to pronounce in English: a salad of letters all crammed together like sardines, that starts with an
f,
and at the end there’s a
t
and an
h:
a teensy place located … let’s see … about fifty miles from Laredo, you can get there in the blink of an eye. Demetrio in checkmate or around the bend. Nonetheless, the two of them would go there: the only place possible?! But before that he, right now, to the bank. Not to work. Now to disengage. Now to take the step, now to quit his job, as she had done … The agronomist went out first thing in the morning to buy a suitcase he already knew must be neither too big nor too small but soft, yes, to carry—always risky—the banknotes. Mireya had wanted to go with him, but:
You stay here. It’s better that way. I won’t be long.
A logical fear arose: she expressed it, keeping to herself the core doubt that had been growing for the last two days: what if Demetrio took off with the money and left her in that genteel environment, like an idiot?