Almost Never: A Novel (17 page)

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go back to Parras or Oaxaca. I want to find work around here, but I don’t know where to look.”

“You really want to stay here?”

“Yes, because I want to be near Renata.”

“Listen, there’s a very rich gentleman in Monclova who owns, among other things, many ranches. Once in a while he comes here because he has a property near Sacramento that he’s neglected, according to what I’ve heard.”

“And you, how do you know him?”

“I’ve known him since we were children. He was a classmate of mine at school and he always stops by to visit me. He comes to my store for a refreshment, and we talk.”

“Was there ever anything between you?”

“I never wanted him. When we were young he tried, but he finally realized that we were better off as friends and, well, I agreed with him there. He married very well, he has eight children and a ton of grandchildren.”

“Sounds good! How can I get in touch with him?”

“I have his address in Monclova. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to pay him a visit. His name is Delfín Guajardo.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. That way I can also deposit most of my money in a bank there.”

“Money? What money?”

“The money in my suitcase. It’s part of my earnings and my savings.”

The mystery now solved. No further comment. No backhanded reproach about the risk of … never! In response, finally, Demetrio’s impulse: to check his suitcase: to go, to know. He knew. And, as his gratitude remained unmitigated, he took the initiative to embrace his aunt. She was happy. A magnificent hostess, and something else besides: the taking-shape of enduring respect, as opposed to Doña Telma, oh, that meddlesome mother, so insolent. On the contrary … he just wanted to check if the fifteen fat bundles of banknotes inside the suitcase remained intact … Ugh! a crude memory of his accounting: and: the aunt could have taken two while Demetrio was bathing. Careless of him, in fact, at a glance, to have left it: yesterday: oh. Though, all told, he would have forgiven his hostess for swiping five bills or so, why even check? Better to plant a kiss on her cheek, a slightly salivary smack. Which he did: muuuuaaagh! And her delight redoubled; she: squeezed: then surrendered, a cuddled make-believe mother; she: her feelings and her charm abloom.

O
ne less problem …

Around 1946 a wide road began to appear between Ocampo and Monclova. We are talking about a sixty-mile stretch, more or less, through the principal population centers of Coahuila’s central region. For some time there had been occasional stretches with gravel that filled those who drove on them with hope for the future, but mostly rough ground prevailed, a series of disorienting winding roads that few knew well and that others, without even a basic layout, wouldn’t risk. In any case, the direction you chose was determined by finding raised vistas, rather than the (always imprecise) points of the compass: to wit: what was in back of, or ahead of, or adjacent to, on the right or the left, and otherwise one’s bearings, the difficult verticality, finding one’s way by day, of course, for the threat of a fiasco if night fell smack in the middle of the trip, all that adversity and all that viability, but more adversity: those roads lacked uniformity, they got wider, then narrower, potholes abounded; so we can picture carriages, carts—and very infrequently funny-looking buses and cars, not to mention serious trucks and pickups—a to-ing and a fro-ing, which indicated that few dared make long trips. From Ocampo to Monclova: a challenge—who would do it?! Even from Sacramento to Ocampo, because if you take into account the innumerable and capricious twists and turns … well, let’s start with the idea that a straight line from Sacramento to Monclova was approximately twenty miles and from Sacramento to Ocampo about forty-five, but with so many curves, most of them unnecessary, and moreover poorly built, let’s see—how many miles does that add? Clearly, as far as the dirt road was concerned, one must consider verticalities. Clearly, the sixty-five-mile-long ribbon of a road had to wind through three or four canyons and squeeze through a mountain gorge, and there indeed, the curves—hopeless! but the remaining stretch: the desert plain … True, the engineers had to use their best judgment to save miles, and, back to the main point, let’s just say that the shorter the road the better—right? The practical must triumph, per usual. And the practical in this case was to get people off the train. Or, to allow people to travel farther and with less chagrin. So they could come and go in a day from one place to another without any problems, regardless of the distances specified above. That said, the pith of the previous digression was that when Demetrio traveled by train to Monclova he saw through the window some impressive motor graders in full operation working on the road, right in the Cañón del Carmen, between La Polka and Celemania. His traveling companion, a man of about fifty, told him that the road would be finished by the beginning of 1947, according to the state government. A huge step toward modernity. In the same breath he mentioned that after its inauguration a bus company would immediately place in circulation a large number of very well-equipped vehicles, and perhaps a short while later it would become a flourishing highway. Another significant advance. Finally. What follows now is Demetrio’s resulting commentary:

“I’m glad the government is concerning itself with the difficulties some experience when traveling. As for me, it would be very useful if I could come and go in one day from Monclova to Sacramento. That would make me happy!”

S
he here and he there, as if ordained, perhaps because fate did not favor a mother-son encounter in Sacramento. At around three in the afternoon Doña Telma appeared at the very spot from which Demetrio, early in the morning and quite eager, had vanished. Perhaps at that particular hour of the day he and Don Delfín were reaching an agreement on the former’s terms of employment, but no news of it here till tomorrow—hopefully!—and, finally, rather than elucidate what is most meaningful, let’s instead focus on the unexpected encounter between the two señoras, as well as in the euphoria of their surprise.
You? Here? What for?
Doña Zulema was not—we must reiterate—a good hostess. She did not close the store, much less offer her dear relative so much as a cup of coffee: not so much as the courtesy of a sip at the counter of this commercial enterprise, so let’s exalt her sloth above all. Hence, the woman who’d just arrived requested:
A sip of water, please, don’t be so cruel.
It was pathetic, and the one thus implored produced two glasses of water, then proceeded to voice her thoughts on the subject of Demetrio; that his romance was moving right along; that he was looking for a job in the area, this the reason he had gone to Monclova. A deluge of facts of greater or lesser importance, which saddened Doña Telma: her oblique complaint—her foremost concern—her son’s fury, how he left Parras without even planting a kiss where it should have gone: neither on her cheek (for example), nor on her forehead, nor on her hand. Doña Telma, however, did not want to reveal the reason for his rage. The point of gravity—full speed till there—under no circumstance; preferable to avoid what was shameful: the indiscretion of peeking into the loaded suitcase while her son slept; then when she woke him up to … Oh, forget it! may all that heaviness float; therewith the phoniness of the adjective “inexplicable” that was and continued to be a terrible mess from which it was quite difficult to extricate oneself, hence the melodramatic conclusion:
I think my son doesn’t love me anymore. I am more alone than ever, because my daughters aren’t with me, either. The truth is, I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came to Sacramento.
More and more miserable dribbles of sentimentalism, aimless, even groundless (Doña Zulema listening—perchance derisively?), or perhaps she was on the verge of acting forcefully, such as falling to her knees to beg for forgiveness the moment Demetrio appeared: would it be worth it? We’ll leave that pantomime for the morrow, though:
I won’t allow you to degrade yourself in front of him.
For now, how to move that big guy to pity? What madcap act would do the trick? Once and for all let’s watch the scene that’s worthy of a separate strophe unto itself.

It was a matter of a certain amount of obstinacy to keep one’s eyes peeled westward up the street for more than two hours, even more to hold those particular four eyes thus and through that shop door, an obstinacy finally rewarded by the joyous glimpse of Demetrio’s approaching figure, at which point both cried in unison:
Look! He’s coming,
with Doña Telma kneeling (for a while already) in a ridiculously doddering gesture.
Get up, don’t act the fool!
Nevertheless, the theatricality was enacted—of course! though with a bit less solemnity. So, when Demetrio arrived, the solicitous mother made a move to embrace him. You can probably imagine the droning intonation of her plea for forgiveness: verbal twists like sloppy swaddling, then muteness the moment the big guy shook off the embrace and began to tick off his news like rosary beads, indifferent to his mother’s tearful pantomimes, all of which were undoubtedly observed out of the corner of the eyes of some passersby. For this scene took place on the bench; inside would have been preferable, but such qualms of privacy ran counter to the torrent of topics broached in the heat of the moment, consistent with … well, let’s pick up some of Doña Telma’s vociferations:
Look what I’ve done! I’ve come all this way to ask for your forgiveness … I, who gave you a suitcase to carry your clothes and money … I, who fixed the hem on your pants,
this being the range of vulgarities more or less worth repeating, until Demetrio countered, voicing his delight at being hired by Don Delfín to manage three ranches between there and Sabinas, that he would be generously compensated but that he would have time off only on certain weekends. In fact, his volley had a ways to go but Doña Zulema interrupted him with an order:
Let’s go inside, please! I dislike exhibitionism!
They obeyed the director of the play, as it were, and now the same scene was enacted in the living room: his mother trying to hug him and he pushing her away with a flick or two while the volume of her relentless rant rose. Not on her life! though, fearful that this would continue, Doña Zulema issued another order, this time definitive:

“Demetrio, forgive her already! Pity your poor mother.”

And he, still pompous and peevish, mumbled:

“You know what, Auntie? I’ve been thinking about this for several days. Now I just want to let some time pass before I decide to forgive her.”

Doña Telma, crying out her eyes, took refuge in a bedroom.

Then Demetrio continued his story about how he’d deposited a large portion of his money in a bank in Monclova, in an account where he’d always have access to his—

“That’s enough! Go to your mother and ask her to forgive you. I demand it.”

“Neither you nor the Holy Father can demand anything of me. Right now I’m going to go sleep in the hills.”

“The hills!? Really, Demetrio, don’t be so ungrateful. Your mother is an elderly woman, you must take pity on her. You are making a big mistake.”

Opportune words—were they arm-twisting? Two individuals on the verge of tears. Both flushed, by the way. And the emotional surprise—at last! The big guy went to his little mother.

There the lachrymose huddle.

Here, in the living room, the hostess atremble, proud to have played the part of the sensible despot.

Let it be known, then, that mother and son remained in that saint-filled room all night long. Also, that they prayed together and slept together. It was good they didn’t dine. It would have done them harm. Also good that they emerged from the room the next morning holding hands. Both poised and apparently without any trace of ugliness still soiling their souls. To sleep together but without touching. As for the rest, the three at the table and eating a breakfast of fried eggs, bread, and
café con leche.
The conversation was decidedly pleasant.

Plans and more plans.

No restraint from anybody to anybody.

Flowing, fortuitous?

Doña Telma was resigned to returning to Parras alone. She dared not try to persuade her son to tell such an unfortunate ranch job to go to hell … And, to repeat: there was no occasion for either lady to express even the most oblique reproach. The reins, so it seems, were being loosened,
ex professo.
The two señoras, therefore, exhibiting some backward intelligence, allowing an ignominy to pass. Their combined synthesis of an unfortunate syllogism was this: that Demetrio would field the blows as they came. Neither Parras nor Sacramento nor Monclova but rather grim isolation—out there! where—who knows! in the so-called outskirts of Sabinas, Coahuila. All that was thought but not by those two gray-haired dames.

Good-bye hugs, finally, at early morn. Let’s agree that the three of them slept outside, each on his or her own cot, and definitely without covers … For the heat at that time of year …

Ah, Doña Telma departing, carrying a light suitcase. She walked (let’s mention the swish of her skirt keeping time with the shrugging of her shoulders) as if she wanted to shrink, let us say, under the authority of the sun. It would seem that her disappearance was going to be real, in spite of her having been forgiven and even though her son had curled up like a baby in their shared bed. As the brightness effaced her, there rose in the aunt and the nephew some kind of hypothesis that the señora had taken on a true maternal stance, that is, she was able to place herself in limbo awaiting circumstances that would bring her news of his good or ill fortune without her trying to affect the course of events. Perhaps she would never see her son again, perhaps she would see him soon, who knew, but in the meantime, while she was boarding the horse-drawn carriage that would take her to La Polka, and then to the boat and then to the train, she understood that her exhausting trek had had the desired effect, for she had planted in Demetrio a sentimental uncertainty, such as the possibility of returning, or half of a fiction that might never be completed. From then on resignation would work its magic and hence the amazed onlookers (Doña Zelma and Demetrio), for this was how they understood things.
I don’t think we should keep watching her or we’ll get sad,
the aunt said as she reached out her hand and gently pulled her nephew into the shop. Inside, the repackaging of ideas, though first a request:
Give me a hug, Demetrio. I want to feel that you love me as much as you love your mother and Renata.
The big guy resisted. At that moment, a hug would mean he’d shudder, so no, too cloyingly sweet, this setting things right—what for?, or due to something much simpler: he couldn’t make light of his regrets, he had no reason to make a fuss about what still hurt, and so he plainly said:
Not now, Aunt. Maybe I’ll give you a hug tomorrow.
Thus he spared himself the explanations and created distance and reserve and threw a little salt upon that sweetness that threatened to drive him mad. In a redundant show of respect, Doña Zulema took (three) steps back, for she also couldn’t tolerate such a rejection; which led, in fact, to a side effect:
I ask you please not to go sleep in the hills while you’re staying with me.
How to respond to that? with a bemused smile? Not even! Rather—as it happened—with a glance at the reed-covered roof, where—with squinting glances—Demetrio discovered three swallows’ nests: already abandoned and on the verge of a collapse whereby clods would fall, perhaps—one day yes and one day no? To feel—what?—a slow disconnect. Anyway! What Demetrio did as he made his way slowly to his refuge was to keep watching the scattered treasures on the roof. Absentminded madman, though purposeful! To cap it off: seclusion. A masturbation was on its way … Cursed suspicions … Solitary sanctity, on the other hand, though his regrets didn’t lend themselves to pleasure brought about by mechanical means, mere animal rewards, and even worse: no subconscious dejection. But Doña Zulema’s intuitions were sharpening and—what good would it do? More merry harm, of course—or was that incorrigible amusement? What she did was knock on the door, trying to be quite gentle (pleasant knocks, pleasant voice):
Demetrio, I’d like you to share my bed with me tonight. I won’t touch you. I just want to feel that I can replace your mother.
From inside came a “we’ll see” and let’s say that here concludes an episode of confusing endearments.