Almost Never: A Novel (2 page)

T
he rigid hours for breakfast, lunch, and dinner were also loathsome. Key interludes, for in the dining room all sorts of subjects were raised, mostly by Rolanda, a woman who distilled bitterness. Unmarried, virgin, old, on top of a host of other afflictions. We can venture to guess what sorts of ideas made her shudder. Dark and decadent ones. Everything was fair game—the world and its inhabitants—except her far-distant God, the one to which she prayed. Imagine, then, the extent of her solitude, so evident. Abject boredom, even when praying, even when cooking … Though she never stopped talking while carrying steaming dishes to the table or fulfilling her lodgers’ petty requests. Her monologues brooked no interruptions … Breakfast was served almost at dawn, as previously stated. Within the half hour eggs appeared, but sometimes only pastries. Never after that half hour, for the lodgers, four in all, had to leave for work. Moreover, let’s figure that three left on the weekends. They returned to their villages in order to—or so they averred a hundred-odd times—enjoy the company of their wives and progeny. Not the agronomist, the obstinate bachelor, not till now. Though it seemed that his nearest of kin resided in the devil’s lodgings. And evasive: Monday-through-Friday dinners, that is, conversation, a gathering of working people who often wound up extolling the virtues of their own jobs, Demetrio being the one with the highest salary, perhaps because he was the only semiprofessional among them: oh, the grand implicit advantage. If any of the others had been in business—alas!—they would have walked right out of that house in search of a better life, but they weren’t, they were lowly wage earners, all somewhat younger than the agronomist; he, a roaring success! who earned two thousand pesos a month, so for him the pleasure of sex could be a fortuitous indulgence, but something was ruffling him: the aftertaste—how long could it go on? This notion brings us conveniently back to his bookkeeping, carried out during his Sunday-morning seclusion: Demetrio had to include the money he was saving monthly to buy a small house. A measly sum. After so many years of penny-pinching … Penny-pinching, indeed, but the investment was growing in the bank: at what percentage? He had it in a fixed-term account, so he saw his totals only once a year. A significant sum. The first time—amazing! when he saw the number, and the second—wow! It really did make sense to save in one of those munificent institutions. He got the information twice. Twice, because Demetrio had spent two years and three months working as the administrator and principal agricultural expert for a ten-thousand-hectare orchard. “Private ranch” would be the more accurate appellation, but the owner refused to call it a ranch, that little word just didn’t seem appropriate, for there were no cows, nor chickens nor goats, none of those animals that produce wealth (not even pigs). So, no. Instead: pears, apples, or whatever other ideas for planting and harvesting he had: a clownish contumacy: the agricultural, indeed! In any case, before continuing in this vein, it would do to insert this note: nowadays the subject of ranches is of only peripheral interest, because ranches have no truck with the urban or the violent (our landowner would never have dreamed of planting marijuana or poppies), so we offer this information very much as an aside, only to turn our full attention back to the sexual, for that’s what really matters. Let’s, however, quickly assert that Demetrio Sordo had nothing to do with marketing the harvest: where it should go: near or far—no, never that! nor the renting of trailers, none of that tedious stuff. On the other hand, he was responsible for the drainage ditches; yes, and for all things related to the purchase of fertilizers and amendments, as well as the best insecticides to prevent plagues and other evils; and the manual work: the making of furrows, ridges, ditches, rows, and even terraces; as well as the rest: breaking clods, hoeing, plowing, grading, mowing, sifting, and threshing, in concert, needless to say, with the peasantry. All of which he carried off with great aplomb, which led the landowner to give Demetrio full jurisdiction over the orchard. Trust. Respect. He visited twice a week. He wanted results and that’s what he got. At a serene pace that others might find torturous. But let’s leave this for now and turn to the recently sexual. Before, as we said, the agronomist would make his way directly to the lodging house after the day’s work; he would arrive beat, to bathe, to rest: seclusion, a clean break, the radio, waiting for dinnertime. Monotony. But ever since he’d met Mireya he made his way straight to the brothel: by taxi: a dirty and desperate dash, only the second time, for by the third, alas, a bath in the orchard, or rather: washing by bucketfuls. As far as that went, we must consider the time it took to heat the water to an optimal temperature. On a stove in a kitchen—of which there were both—though the distance between the bath and the kitchen exceeded 150 feet and counting. Further delays, but that’s what Demetrio did the third time and thereafter: quite a chore this coming and going with buckets: four in all: slow considering what preceded and followed: stealing an hour from the workday—indeed! because if the agronomist didn’t make it to the brothel on time, Mireya might be occupied with another client, a circumstance he wished to avoid by all means. Those first few days he was, mercifully, spared. Another option was to go to that aforementioned hell and wash there: in her room, before the screw. He asked, fearful of eliciting a negative response … No, on the contrary, Mireya said that as long as he did it quickly … Well, to clean off the dust of the fields was not a matter of a simple dousing, you had to stand under the water for a long time and thoroughly soap yourself, a privilege for which, Demetrio told her, he would be willing to pay an additional fee. Money for Mireya, secretly—really? and she agreed with a smile.

This mischief, nonetheless, carried a slight risk. Mireya’s argument for compliance stressed that the arrangement would end when someone of ill will informed Madam of what they’d chanced to see. An improbable peril, for lovers could always choose to screw under the shower. We mustn’t forget that the madam was an odd bird, piling ploy upon ploy: shadows within shadows. True, there’d been no hitches on any of the previous days, no undue attention paid. Though Mireya had a surprise for Demetrio on his tenth visit. She blurted it out with dread, fearing that something so beautiful would end ugly and sad.

One might harbor hopes for good tidings in the wake of that ominous periphrasis “I have something to tell you.” Only trembling and silence, however, followed. Mireya looked down at the ground: the rug crisscrossed with arbitrary lines must have given her an idea: a hint of caution: then—what?—and she muttered an utterance and then one more, and a third that barely made sense at all. In the face of such dread, Demetrio turned to his most vulgar memories from their numerous copulations, including a sequence of voluptuous insults that rose spontaneously from the depth of his soul, verbal sputum such as (we will quote but three):
While I’m pounding you with my cock, I want to stick my left index finger up your ass …; Give it to me, baby!;
or:
I want you to be even more of a whore than you were yesterday; I want you to scratch my balls. But what I really want is for you to understand me.
Sexual depravity could go even further: diabolical sex; sexual impudence, a subsequent outburst, but the nature of these statements already indicated the rarefied terror to come.

Such folly deserves a long hiss from decent folk, theoretically and otherwise, though not from Mireya, for whom a string of such phrases must sound perfectly harmless, poor gentleman, dear me, it wasn’t as if after his outbursts he’d threatened to kill her with a paring knife, not in a million years, just lust, gushing, and nearly idyllic pleasure. In the end, his behavior was quite original and not wholly beyond the pale, so, returning to “I have something to tell you,” let’s get right to the words that ensued: she and her calculations: her somewhat fearful
ahem
s. At issue was a new command from Madam, one that redounded to her benefit: from now on Demetrio would have to pay an additional fee for each lay, for the simple reason that no prostitute could be reserved for anybody’s exclusive use; if he visited the brothel on a daily basis he would be obliged to sleep with others.

Ouch. Capricious, given his steady patronage. Such unhealthy devotion was causing universal unease at the Presunción: this was the first time in its history a client had come to sin as punctually as he went, with intrepid daily devotion, to his job…. His needs, oh yes—but why with Mireya, when there were much hotter ones to be had? He’d fallen in love, by an arrow pierced: a catastrophe. This was a business, not a marriage agency: hence the extra fee: let’s see: five pesos the first day; the second, five additional pesos; the third, five more, and that makes fifteen; by the fourth, it was already twenty; the fifth, twenty-five; the sixth, thirty, and—enough already! because the seventh: remember he took a rest? The thing was, by letting one day pass, just one! he effected a return to the reasonable price of five pesos. Great idea. Ouch. A whim. He had no choice! Precise disclosure of the facts accompanied by a lowered head and a tied tongue. Demetrio considered it unfair, this madcap lack of proportion, and decided he would face down the madam that very day:
I’ll give her a piece of my mind when I go to pay her. I know her bodyguards will be with her, but I don’t care.
Then, footfalls; in anger, one could say. The agronomist did not dress or groom himself carefully; he’d dashed out ungirded. Was he in the right? Then, he entered brusquely and encountered Madam and her bodyguards in slothful indolence, lounging in armchairs with springy backs and plush pillows: and: three (incidental) guffaws: and without further ado:

“Listen, Mireya just told me that you …”

“If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to make an appointment. Today I can’t. Tomorrow either. In a couple of days if you want … Do you? Tell me now, because if not …”

“Okay … The day after tomorrow.”

“Come see me at five in the afternoon.”

“At five?”

“Yes. That’s the only time I have free. I’ll see you here.”

“Good. We’ll be alone?”

“Alone. I promise.”

H
e’d made a strategic gain, small but accompanied by the happy thought that an appointment is an appointment. Even so, Demetrio still had to invent a decent pretext for departing from the orchard long before five in the afternoon. Later, when he took stock of the strength of his position, and considered that he had never left work early before, he concluded that any excuse whatsoever would suffice. All he had to do was throw out an “I have to leave,” and, how could his subordinates, those lowly hicks, possibly reproach him? Power gave him elbow room: ah! self-sufficiency, daring, a dose of disdain, and other attributes that help us understand that his personality consisted of not offering explanations. The hour had come. Face-to-face, Madam and the agronomist. Tentative preambles. Alone in the aforementioned room. And he, finally, straight to the point:

“With all due respect, I’d like to say that your decision to steadily increase my fee doesn’t seem fair.”

Faced with such boldness Madam’s anger (and amusement) were sure to ensue, and without pausing she fired back:

“Look, all my girls are hot, though I admit, some more so than others. If you want only Mireya, you know how things stand, and if you don’t like it, go somewhere else! Otherwise, you won’t get Mireya …”

“What?”

“You heard right. I won’t rent you Mireya. And now I’m going to call my bodyguards.”

“No, wait! You win. I agree. I’ll pay.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“I’ll come every day except Mondays, which is when she rests …”

“Let’s leave it at that. Now, go.”

Then and there the idea of requesting a raise popped into the agronomist’s mind. A boon in any case. An appointment with the owner of the orchard as soon as possible (God willing, tomorrow!), for only two weeks remained till the Christmas holidays. As he made his way toward the only taxi stand in the vicinity, there on the city outskirts, his mind was abuzz with practical thoughts, in spite of the ruckus around him: treacherous red-light district … full of futile screws? And so in counterpoint, to balance things out, came the spark of the healthy idea that he should branch out, for there were as many loveworthy women as fish in the sea. Respectable love, sacred love, love that would last to an advanced age and have endless sexual summits. Or, as the priests put it: “Until death do us part.” How easy it was for him to absorb such never-abeyant monumental truths! Yes, but what about Mireya: within reach: amorous, forthputting. The memory of her with legs widespread brought back to his ears those loving words uttered two afternoons ago:
I like you more and more each time. I hope you keep coming.
Phrases spelled carefully out, phrases that might just bore into the agronomist’s dreams: his future dreams. In the meantime, today’s, perhaps; though he might also dream about the owner of the orchard; that gentleman with a sun-beaten face, tinged with a yellowish hue: so judicious and affable. The salary: an abstraction, gray or brownish in color … Let us note that Demetrio didn’t go to bed with Mireya that day—her upset, would she cry for love? mentally shaken by the what-ifs—for he’d already gone to the brothel to find a solution for what had none: the only good that came out of his appointment with the madam was that the next day the fee would return to normal: five pesos. Now to make another appointment as soon as he reached his lodgings, where there was a telephone. One of the few in Oaxaca.

The temporal stride taken here obeys a desire to avoid obvious foreshadowing, such as the call soon made, the appointment, the agreement on a time and place: all in good course, as it were: without obstacles. Instead, let us make note of the smiles of the grand employee and the grand boss, face-to-face, while—let us say—they both drank punch: nibbled on snacks: mouths chewing as if mumbling. Then Demetrio’s preamble: he stammered; he simply couldn’t find the words for his request, considering his dedication to his work, only to drift, let us say
gently,
to the great responsibilities the management of … No, not that, no! More stammering. Better to endow his request with valor: straight to the issue of a raise, in a whisper, direct, and then:
Yes, that’s fine. I’ll give you a small raise: fifteen percent—how does that sound? Starting in January.
In the meantime, a Christmas bonus: tomorrow: which would have been his due anyway and which Demetrio had failed to take into account, so, while licking his lips, he scratched his head three times. Not until January, uh-oh, though he didn’t say it, he thought it. Nevertheless, there was the other: the Christmas bonus … more than enough to pay the madam for the services of she who had surely cried—though not excessively—the previous night.