Almost Never: A Novel (7 page)

“Get me out of this hellhole. I’m sick of being a slave to pleasure. I want to give myself to you, be faithful to you, have a family. I really will be a good wife and mother. I’ve never fallen in love before, Demetrio, but I have now, deeply. I love you. I love you madly!”

“Me too. Nobody has ever given me what you … Hmm … I promise to take you with me once I put the money down on the house. It won’t be long, I promise.”

“Really, promise?”

“I swear, and … hmm … I have to go now, but I’ll come tomorrow so we can keep doing what we always do.”

“Come back, my love, because it gets better every time.”

To top it off, a long expressive kiss, that is: lots of tongue and lip action. Oh, let’s just say that it became an enveloping spiral that aroused them anew and: a quick screw? Go for it! and, of course! an avid fellatio and other unusual positions in a mad and agitated dash, and let’s take this opportunity to mention one detail: these girls were rented by the hour, hence the countdown. Mireya and Demetrio had already been together for three. Already the largest outlay ever. The second hour was double; the third, triple. The madam had already informed the agronomist of these fees, and only once before had they breached the two-hour zone. Only once! and you can infer the intense calculations, as well as their effect on habitual action. Finally, painless payments, rather, the resulting coldheartedness. Confusing—also—for Demetrio, who began to glimpse an obstacle, an enormous and very black one, expanding like a doubt that was taking its sweet time to edge its way over the cliff; like a long tape that would never break no matter how far it was stretched. Thinking hard in the taxi … The trip and its sparks … he would need to spell out so many and such complicated explanations and plan everything once and for all, yes, but—where would it lead? For instance: the house. It was yet to be seen if the agronomist wanted to buy it in Oaxaca, or where the hell else …

Not in Parras.

Not in Sacramento.

Better to wait, though the storm would continue to gather if he kept seeing Mireya … Fed up with explaining. Solemnity makes a mess of things. It never weaves in well. Better to peek into the most elemental things: become a wisecracker, whatever it takes, because after days of conjecturing, humor prevents the other from ever really penetrating one’s own psyche. Humor is—would be?—a pleasant-enough defense, just misleading enough, in that it implies proximity while establishing distance. Life is—would be?—hilarious … This paradox must somehow be irrefutable … Intermittent and ambiguous reflections from one who didn’t, as a rule, flesh out ideas as they occurred to him, hence the most precarious one could be the most efficient. And now to the praxis: daily experimentation with Mireya. At first he called her Bambi, as if to say “beloved whore.” Demarcations: intentional banter, useful when she’d make her familiar demands:
Hey, don’t call me Bambi,
whereby he could respond:
You should know that I’m a playful guy. I like to tease you, to make you feel how much I really love you.
Then, if she asked him:
How are things going with the house?
he could take a different tack by saying:
I’m thinking about buying a palace. You deserve nothing less—surely you must know that you have become a queen in my eyes?
Harmless snares. Strategies buried under obtuse explanations of cause and effect. Nothing explicit, thus harmony by employing the same measures love does to protect itself against the tedium of certainty.

Let us leave the anomalous lovebirds to their romps and pass in haste to Sacramento. Demetrio’s first letter was in Renata’s hands. A messenger boy, a mere child, brought it to her at noon, he being one of six local lads (about ten or eleven years old) in the employ of the post office. Doña Luisa Tirado watched the delivery of the missive from the kitchen. Theoretically, she kept cooking. She didn’t want to appear nosy. She wasn’t one to interrogate from afar. She didn’t move, but her nerves … Howsoever that may be, let us try to imagine the daughter’s mad dash: to find a place to hide; surely this the result of reflexive modesty, the desire to read unhindered. In her excitement she found a spot near the chicken coop, where she planned to bury the letter. First, the gradations of emotion provoked by perusing praise heaped on praise. Moreover, she appreciated the penmanship.

She savored it slowly.

The ample light falling on the sheets for an almost chromatic celebration. The ink as illuminating as the words. But the enchantment was broken when Renata saw her mother approaching with remarkably long strides. Busybody. Confrontation. Abusive … clearly no way to avoid the looming avalanche, because when she was still several paces away the doña brazenly asked:
What does he say? When is he coming? We must read the letter together.
That was the moment her daughter turned her back. She blushed, and, of course, the glimmer of a tear appeared in the corner of her left eye, a residue, to tell the truth. More questions ensued now from closer up, much more euphonic; utter nonsense. Moreover, let us note the dear lady’s trembling fingers upon one of the bare shoulders of she who expressed what was all too well justified:
What you’re doing is totally unfair, Mama! It’s mine, and mine alone. I’m going to tell Papa!
Her mother removed her hand. The nerves of our impetuous fox showed signs of deterioration, nerves that clenched for a few seconds of silence only to reveal, finally, the all-powerful defense:
Your father supports me in everything. You have no choice. You must let me read the letter!
Resistance and cries: two weapons she used to hold the sheets, with brazen pressure, against her breast: Renata withdrew; if only we could hear without prejudice her whimpering and her
no! no! no!
Needless to say there was dismay on the part of her mother, who finally said she only wanted to know the date the nonpareil suitor would come.

She still had a lot to read. So … we can infer … perhaps in the last paragraph … let’s see …

May the information soon arrive!

The response:
Please. Let me read it alone, then I’ll tell you.

And the mother’s (now sympathetic) retreat.

The thing was that once she’d finished reading the letter: no, there was no mention of a date. Renata’s laments lasted a good long time, time enough to bury the letter and go moaning to her mother to inform her that no, no date … et cetera … Such a confusing medley of emotions, of defeat, when all was said and done. Renata’s contrite postscript to Doña Luisa was frugal, of course! and now the counterargument was useful:

“You see!? You never know with these outlanders.”

And other similar ones. More warnings mixed with further speculation.

“Don’t you dare complain about me to Pascual! You’ll only complicate things for yourself!”

Don Pascual had recently been quite down in the dumps, ailing. He had twice traveled in his truck to Cuatro Ciénegas to consult with the only doctor there, for in Sacramento there was none. Alas, what a nuisance! Twenty-six miles between the two towns. What’s important to mention here is that the doctor prescribed an array of medicines, all quite strong, to be bought at the local pharmacy, owned by said doctor. But since Don Pascual refused to repose for even one hour during the day, despite his copious sweats and swoons, by two weeks later his condition had worsened. In the face of such fatigue he had almost asked for, he should clearly be spared the importunity of all that impending romantic nonsense, a profuse letter, delirium, longing …

Nonsense?

Or not?

Fortunately Demetrio’s second letter arrived ten bitter days later. A rigorous half page, though one that brought joy and a date:
I will visit you on August 15.
Damn it, the hottest time of year. The trek through March, April, May, June, July, and then two weeks more still to come. Then another sentence, the necessary subordinate: the fumbling excuse:
My annual vacation begins on August 12 and I have only one week.

Renata’s quick glimpse: three days to get here, three to return, one day in Sacramento. Demetrio would stay at Doña Zulema’s house. Summing it all up was easy:
If he’s interested in me he’ll make the sacrifice.
Nonetheless, a doubt, or rather, the future pirouettes of a doubt: will he really come? The situation presupposed an infinity of pirouettes, and to calm herself down, Renata, without giving it a second thought, informed Doña Luisa of the date, that the wait had indeed been worth it, or in any case—what to do? what to think? Now the old fox had her chance to play the part of the composed counselor:

“Write to him immediately. Tell him you will expect him, but don’t be effusive with your emotions. Be friendly but cool. Don’t reassure him. He’ll like that. You’ll see, it will make him more interested.”

Talk about busybodies … In Oaxaca the training proceeded apace: in, out; in, out; in, out. And what about Mireya’s fellatios: go for it! give it to me! on a daily basis, except Mondays, as we already know. The mechanics of peaking in pursuit of new peaks.

What was new was that Demetrio, caught in the undertow, had learned to lick her clitoris. Oh, such ideal reciprocity! His record was fifteen minutes, doing only that. What’s
more:
he was constantly checking his watch while he licked away.

N
obody can predict when one illness might lead to another, nor when unexpected complications might arise from a given treatment. Sometimes allopathy completely cures a disease, ends minor complaints or prevents them; competent pharmacists, both dear and cheap, abound, and one must, indeed, take into account the patient’s overall physical condition, none of which was done in the case of Don Pascual Melgarejo, an octogenarian unable to allay his ills: at issue was a vegetarian diet complemented by insipid dishes, some truly repulsive, others almost tasty, none that made him actually vomit. In any case he preferred the counsel of a local herbalist to the trips to and from Cuatro Ciénegas, a pedantic town, according to him, and this included the old folks and even the school-age children, so imagine what could be said about that town’s portly doctor, quite expensive and, therefore, hyperbolic in his manners and his way of talking. All this to establish the seriously screwed-up situation of Don Pascual Melgarejo, who made an enormous effort to avoid the aforementioned expeditions, to wit: he overdosed on herbs, and nothing good was coming from it; he perspired, as we said, to excess, but he had no intention of surrendering, believing that if he did so, death—a rank and corrupt woman—would come for him at any minute, a notion he soon explained to his wife and daughter:
You can’t trust the comfort of a bed.
Thus came the horrendous consequences, the diminished capacities, the failings that took a greater and greater toll, for example: his mood was down in the dumps, and his laments were nearly in the same lowly place: moreover, the need to learn, for real now, what urgency meant. As we’ve seen, he traveled twice to Cuatro Ciénegas on his own and carried out the doctor’s instructions to the letter: the schedule for ingesting dose after dose of medicine; the correct nutrients, all in the proper proportions; everything except the repose. Never that:
If I lie down I’ll die in the blink of an eye,
a verdict spoken in cavernous tones, unbelievable to Doña Luisa and Renata, who shook their heads in response. But his fierce obstinacy served him ill. One day among many he suffered a mortal collapse on the street, about two blocks from his house. Yes, alas! He was very dead—poor thing—nothing but a pile of rubble. A heart attack, as was later ascertained. Some local folks carried away that familiar corpse, which was, needless to say, deeply mourned by his wife and daughter. By others in Sacramento as well: professionally lamented and wailed with appetizing dread. Four days of mourning. Mourning in shifts. There were six of them—did he deserve fewer? Uninterrupted and melodramatic to the max, truth be told. As if these people were being paid for their painful performance, but no, not a dime, rather the result of pure ghoulish faith (if one may speak in such terms); rosaries that weary, wearied, would weary; by day, by evening, by night; a moaning mill that—oof! better not get too close. Zulema dropped by to offer her condolences and lasted all of fifteen minutes, then—the escape! astute; we have to assume the stench drove her away. So, to reiterate: a four-day wake, such foolish obstinacy because both Doña Luisa and Renata had to inform the four who were married. Telegrams. They had to come. The death of their father. And yes: they all arrived contrite, in addition to the woe of the rough road, accompanied by their husbands, also worn to the bone. Everything done properly, or at least in good order, the next step being to organize the open-casket funeral. Well, let’s imagine the fond farewell wholly dominated by a stench akin to a dozen rotten eggs.

We won’t talk much about the burial. This synopsis should suffice: there was a chorus of cries, over-the-top good-bye clamors. We’d rather mention certain events that occurred during the short respites from the wake. Sentences: written down one at a time by Renata, who left, then came, then left again, fidgeting in the room farthest away: her letter to Demetrio would not be long, half a page at most. But one sentence … and hours later, another, because she couldn’t be away for, say, twenty minutes straight. Because her mother would reproach her if … Or rather: she left and came, and each time it took her a while to return to her task. Two and a half days to complete the concise composition, which will be summarized briefly as follows: Demetrio would be informed of Don Pascual’s sidewalk demise; likewise, the period of mourning: three months of forced circumspection, with some easing by August. Renata used other words that surely pointed in the same direction. At the end were three semiromantic sentences:
It would be wonderful for me if you came to Sacramento. I need you now more than ever. But I have no choice. All I can do is wait till August.
And the radiant name—
Renata Melgarejo
—at the bottom of the page. The first letter she’d ever written was ready. But would Demetrio be able to read her handwriting? and if he couldn’t? and if he could only sort of? She was not deft at the calligraphic arts—would practice help? We’d do better to highlight her emotional reserve. She wrote as if still listening to her mother’s advice.