Almost Never: A Novel (24 page)

“Renata, my love, in addition to the pleasure seeing you gives me, because I truly love you, one of the reasons for this visit is to tell you that I have saved a large amount of money and I’m thinking of investing in a business here in Sacramento.”

“You want to come live here?”

“Yes, because I want to see you every day … That way it will be easier for me to lead you to the altar.”

For the first time Renata lifted her face and looked straight into her lover’s eyes: blessed splendor: and: a dubious pleasure that began to gain boldness and confidence. To look at each other, to know each other: enormous green eyes: feminine magnetism mingling with tiny brown eyes, very virile, and thereby the subtle amalgam of visual ecstasy and the fluttering of lids that accentuated the connection and the tightening of the sensual knot and all the time Demetrio, underhandedly, caressing (clawing) that divine hand: the steely left, for the pulsations were so strong they could be felt even in that hasty caress (bad, good; bad, good), which was soon joined to the verbal, when her jumbled words emerged:

“Demetrio, I don’t want you to live here.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get away from my mother, just like my sisters did when they got married.”

“What will your mother do on her own?”

“God only knows.”

“I’d venture to guess that she won’t let you marry me.”

“Here in town we have many relatives once or twice removed. There are others throughout the region … Somebody will look after her.”

“You think she’ll want to live with relatives?”

“We’ve already talked about it, but she still hasn’t agreed.”

“I guess she won’t let you get married as long as she’s alive.”

“So it seems. She doesn’t like you because she knows the day will come when you will ask me to marry you.”

“And what do you say?”

“I love her and I love you … To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to do.”

“I think it’s better to have a plan that would make her happy … You’ll see, we’ll find a perfect solution.”

“You think so?”

“You’ll see, I promise you … By tomorrow, when we meet, I will have thought of two or three options.”

“I hope none of them means you want my mother to live with us.”

“No … Not that.”

Cut!: the impertinent messenger boy. Interruption at the acme, just when they were getting to the really good part: and:
Your mother says …
et cetera. The celebratory moment would come in twenty-four hours: condense all the proposals and the finding of a solution into the space of an hour: worthwhile moments weighted down so they can then be lightened: it wouldn’t be easy, but … You can already imagine Renata’s parting shot:
Let’s meet here tomorrow at the same time.
And a sharp edge appeared, one that prodded Demetrio and pushed him, one (rather blunt one) that from that moment on would lead him to the sublime muddle of matrimony toward which, as if accidentally on purpose, he was slipping, slipping as he sank, but which made him feel neither hot nor cold. He struggled with handicaps; initial stupor because as the gallant and Don Juan he knew himself to be, he had always assumed it was his duty to take the initiative, as in:
Do you want to be my sweetheart,
and then the magnificent one:
Do you want to marry me.
But Renata’s indirect step forward: what role did that leave for him? considering that not even a tentative “yes” had been forthcoming from either, nor a date for the wedding, nor, well, only the nebulous—vaguely strategic?—groping. Perhaps Renata stepped into that amorous purview because of her sweetheart’s long absence after that other absence: not even one letter, however brief, and now some assurance: obliquely … Or it was her subconscious on every level … Or it was an accidental detour … Demetrio, in any case, had to confide in his second mother; the opinion of a veteran would reestablish the guidelines of that surprise; love was rising from a depth that, because transparent, was partially contaminated.

Problems, itsy-bitsy problems, great big problems: substance that arises and clarifies little.

Now let’s see: his aunt was already scheming—ultraobvious in her wowed face—when she saw Demetrio enter her house; he was scratching his head (odd): an unusual beginning. They spoke, he unloaded, as if he’d been carrying three sacks of beans on his back: reality with detours and provisions, the “pros”, let’s say, of endlessly serpentine love, and the “cons”, let’s say, snipped to bits. This time there wasn’t any
café con leche
or bread. Only cold water, soothing at least, because Demetrio was determined to be as sincere as possible, a confession without prevarications was painful, like exposing one’s guts, all red and inflamed. On the one hand, the antecedents to marriage: on track, whiteness, sentimental bluntness; on the other, the impossibility of living in Sacramento (bye-bye to the buoyant investment: the one he suggested from the tub), Renata’s reasons for which, put forth as obstacles, had to be pecked at, a large spread-out shroud whose edges extended (not far off) to her mother; both their aspirations ended (or should have ended) in her: such expansiveness was definitively circumscribed by her refusal to remain alone; maybe her relatives could take care of her: bugger!; the worst getting worse, and in the meantime the bewildered beau presented one gigantic serious circumstance after another—all his own speculations—thus prolonging what should be a happy conclusion of everything under consideration, while Doña Zulema began to cleverly shape a somewhat objective solution, not a solution of every problem from
a
to
z;
should she say it, interrupt, let tedium overwhelm her apocryphal son, one minute, three, four, and at an opportune moment, she burst out with it:

“Look, son, if you end up marrying Renata and you decide to live elsewhere, I’m willing to speak with Doña Luisa. I can propose that we live together, either she can come live in my house or I can go live in hers; and instead of having two stores we’ll make one: school supplies and groceries—what do you think? both of them would grow.”

Spectacular idea, even more so because his aunt kept adding details, or plasters, if you wish, so that good fortune would stop and shine down upon their union, ah. Finally something solid—appealing?!, instead of a solution that—would it still take long to come? Let’s see, the mere fact that she suggested something that sounded practical meant that decisive explanations would be forthcoming. That’s when Demetrio, in a semijocular tone, said:

“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea for me to go to Parras and try to persuade my mother to come live in Sacramento …”

Let’s examine this idea so we can elucidate with fair or foul efficiency what the betrothed was betting on, which he didn’t state at that moment but would if the conversation continued the following day, in the store—right? anyway … The sale of the house in Parras: a fortune—yes siree! Then the three ladies living here together: blessed progress: a whole network of aspirations that helped him espy an always straight path. Doña Luisa’s house was the largest, so the noble triad could be there: a convenient packing in—though for how many years? The last to die would be the winner: aha! All of this laid out with great tact. The store resounded with all that novelty. Further enhanced with elaborate decor (the three old ladies encouraging each other, day after day, and all the other fortuitous adventures): one sensible idea after another: either from the second mother or the apocryphal son: and: the real premise: the three old women strengthening their (gooey) family bonds, to allow for the other: love, no longer a battlefield! … by remote control! yes, yes! yeeeesss! of course! the only thing left was Renata’s opinion and then immediately to carry the idea to the next stage: the mother, that one, that Doña Luisa … with her whims and her wonts …

Let’s go without further delay to the bench, where, after having bathed like never before in the cedar tub, Demetrio now flaunted a satin shirt with tiny polka dots and brown canvas pants. Renata appeared in a diaphanous dress, orange to a fault and with yellowish-gray edges, the fabric—serge or silk?, the thing was she looked so hot she seemed to be on fire. In a trice the handhold, decent as ever; and Demetrio and his full disclosure: his extraordinary proposition, elaborated; then the climax: that Doña Luisa and Doña Zulema would live together, Doña Telma as well, she in Parras—what do you think? because with the assets of all three … It was even possible that none of them would have to work: such lavish wealth—don’t you think? and forward-looking twists and turns, laborious and, of course, quite favorable for a fanciful and always reassuring (triple) flight, as he constantly added elements, until Renata, with a gasp, proclaimed:

“It’s not a bad idea, but it all depends on what my mother decides.”

“If she makes the right decision, we’ll be able to get married soon, I know.”

“I hope so.”

Upon hearing this last sentence, the suitor, already feeling like a husband-to-be, fell into a rapturous state: he lowered his head with sublime ecstasy, and, true to his nature as a bold transgressor, he also—just because—pressed his lips together to form a kissing horn, a bit like a mushroom in full bloom, and—bam! smack onto the back of Renata’s right hand: that most supreme kiss: supermeaty—wow! but in the absence of any saliva to seal the deal he stuck out the tip of his tongue and began to lick with supreme tenderness: the exploit of a pro who was putting his all on the line with this tenacious salivation. Renata watched this enraptured act in shock; she allowed it to continue, hoping that the caracoling tongue action would eventually peter out as it wound round and round; until she yanked her hand away and cried out in horror:

“I thought you were a gentleman … I never want to see you again.”

And off she ran to the stationery store. She was indignant, copiously tearful, like a little girl who’d seen a bogeyman, or somebody even worse. Fear: shooting rays, and her refuge: the arms of her angry and quaking mother. She had come out to meet her daughter as soon as she’d heard the piercing shriek. A sidewalk embrace. Many witnesses: all children. Now we turn to Demetrio, who was still sitting on the (trysting) bench, not understanding a darn thing, as he watched right in front of his eyes, almost like a thawing, the tawny embrace—for it was evening—of mother and daughter: indeed: a minute-long cry in arms; the orange-wrapped sobbing beauty, and then Doña Luisa, turning around, gave the big guy a furious look and spit this out:

“Go away, you scoundrel! You disrespected my daughter! Go away and never come back!”

But of course! and without understanding the extent of the damage done, Demetrio, with dignity, changed his physical position and walked out of the plaza. He was watched critically, as well as with alarm: many saw; many whispered: now children and adults: more and more, while in the stationery store:

“Calm down, dear, calm yourself.”

“Yes, Mama, I will.”

“Now, please, tell me what he did to you.”

“He kissed me and then he licked the back of my right hand.”

“Scoouundrellll!”

Demetrio was able to walk with excessive slowness: his head down—darn right! repentant—no way! But it didn’t even occur to him for—what had he done wrong? Though through his confusion he had to admit: increasing black bile. And:
What if I’d stolen a kiss from her lips?
he thought. A naked kiss, a quickie …

The ignominious slap …

Spit?

What else?

No, don’t look back, just define it … An impassioned summation … A magicked end … A searing sentence, against him, to bury the death of love …

He came late. First off to rake over his complaints with his aunt, who, upon seeing him arrive such a wreck, offered him water, a jug; water she’d taken out of the well just a half hour before. She had no rolls, neither
conchas
nor
plomos
nor
pelonas,
just sliced bread: she took a loaf from her grocery store and—would you like a slice with some butter and jam? Such imprudence … No! No! Only water: ergo: Doña Zulema was all ears, though: you can well imagine the big guy’s verbal stammers … It was impossible for him to articulate anything coherent. Moreover: maybe she should have reduced him to tears, it would be good for him, but he was so macho … He preferred to keep stuttering as his red face got splotchy and his shaking continued unabated … Under the circumstances Doña Zulema waited for him to settle into the calm, but that: uh-oh …

Is it over? What did you do to her? What did she tell you? Were you disrespectful? Such likely questions would be the immobilized aunt’s foremost observations. Perhaps he was crying inside, for he silently shook his head and at one point brought his fist down upon the counter. Later, he uttered an explanatory sentence, as if with supreme effort:
Renata got angry because I kissed the back of her hand!
A moment later he added:
She said she never wanted to see me again.
Most dramatic of all was that Demetrio didn’t wait for Doña Zulema’s reproach but rather, feeling already very much like a scolded child, chose to shut himself into his room and lock the door, and there he remained until the following day. Based on what she could hear, he indulged in mad mutterings: perhaps a corrective soliloquy, incomprehensible to his aunt, who pressed her ear against the door more or less every half hour, and even then. Nor did she dare suggest he come eat supper. Respect overrode fear and, above all, ostentatious suffering. His aunt went to sleep perplexed because she’d heard only the bare bones. In fact, she would have liked to hear the unhappy conclusion: if there’d been a slap or whatnot … No spitting, because Renata was decent … Or—was there only verbal aggression? Venial, though categorical, words … Let’s proceed, then, to the following day: Demetrio left his room in a swoon—was he hungry? A guessing game: silence accompanying his aunt’s robotlike preparation of coffee and the frying of a couple of eggs. A depressing effort: he nibbled slowly. His head forcefully bowed, hence we can presume no glances passed between them, it would be futile to look at each other, better just to say, for example:
May I have more
café con leche, or to straightaway refer on the spot to … Not a word—understood?—: and after wiping his damned smooching mouth with the napkin, he rushed back to his room. Seclusion. Mumblings. Ideas that didn’t set things straight, though they did take root.