Almost Never: A Novel Read online

  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 ahems. 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.”

  3

  He’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.

  Mireya may have ended up crying even more that same night, for at the last minute Demetrio again decided not to visit her. Emotional punishment, or indolence, or fortitude, or an attempt to stem the lavish outflow of cash: which turned out to be simple. It seems the boss had been expecting his request. Be that as it may, we must add that during the meeting neither devoted a single sentence to the daily doings of the orchard. The owner was well aware of his employee’s efficacy. Therefore the finale, both discreetly bowing, neither daring to offer a parting handshake, then the return and spiritual excitement of he who found news awaiting him at the lodging house: a letter. Rolanda handed it to him almost as if it were a red-hot ember; from whom? his
faraway mother, she’d gleaned from reading the back of the envelope. Bad or wonderful news? The surprise revealed in total reclusion. Fanciful speculations with each tearing (few) of paper. Then ensued the clumsy unfolding: three per sheet, but even so it is worth noting the scrupulousness of the maneuver. Then he read:

  Dear Son,

  I know you are coming to spend Christmas with me. But I’d like you to come sooner and accompany me to a wedding in my hometown. As you know, because of my age and infirmities, I couldn’t possibly attend such an event alone …

  To explain, his mother lived in the large house she’d inherited along with an ample amount of cash. Accompanying her were servants—a poorly paid woman and man—who did all the usual chores. She’d been a merry widow for five years. Mother of three: Demetrio, the eldest; and Filpa and Griselda, both married to gringos; one from Seattle, a city that is superior, as a world cultural center, to, let us say, Naples; and the other from Reno, a city that is superior, as a world cultural center, to, let us say, Badajoz; that is, they were out in the world, prisoners of marriages or perhaps already adapted and trained to live out their monotonous and well-ordered lives. Of course, they pretended to be strong, especially as they rarely came to Parras, the nicest town in the state of Coahuila, a world cultural center superior to, let us say, Brussels. And, so, things being what they were, Demetrio was the one left to accompany his mother. The wedding would be held in Sacramento, Coahuila, a world cultural center superior to, let us say, Luxembourg. We must consider, by the way, the long stretch of desert between Parras and Sacramento. A vast expanse without highways, unthinkable for a bus to risk riding on those rugged roads, potholed paths poorly or not at all paved, not even so much as graveled. The marriage would take place on the eighteenth of December; we are now the tenth, so, easy to do the math. The letter continued, though not profusely, not more than a spare sheaf of sententious sentences that softened the initial request: emphasis on the date, the understanding that the mother took for granted her son’s yes, this being the norm, she would say “come” and he would: he let himself be led around like a dog by his master, especially because his mother’s orders were infrequent, thus all the more compelling, as was this one, for it indicated a change of tack. Demetrio noted the careful calligraphy and even imagined his progenitor by candlelight: a bold image, somewhat diluted, but nonetheless … It was inferred that no telegram would follow. Nothing like, “I’ll be there, you can count on me. I’ll go with you.” To leave, yes, and with no thought to the mayhem this might unleash … Departure tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest, just before dawn; indeed, he had no choice … and feeling his way … No, he wouldn’t say good-bye to Mireya, but he would inform his boss … a brief telephone call: family affairs, circumstances beyond my control, and bye-bye. Christmas vacation would begin, Demetrio knew, on the eighteenth, so, to repeat: it is the tenth, therefore …

  Oh, yes, of course, the bonus: handy, well-earned, right? This shouldn’t cause a problem, so he took care of it himself the following day. He wrote himself a check, for his was an authorized signature. In passing let us make note of the agronomist’s absolute integrity: not one peso more nor one penny less, from which we can infer that he already knew the amount he was due, and, alas! The bad part—each time he rang his boss’s house to discuss the untimely trip, the wife answered—was turning over to an assistant the task of paying accounts due. This the easiest solution, considering his haste, but the responsibility, the possible blame, all yet to be seen … uncertainty: What a concession! How equivocal! But only till his return: in theory: at the beginning of the New Year: oh no! Would everything be okay, God willing!?

  After perusing the letter the docile son packed his suitcase. Hastily. He packed carelessly and slept briefly. He counted sheep. He didn’t put on his pajamas.

  And …

  It took two days (almost three) to get to Parras. The coming rub. Nasty calculus, and, well, what’s done is done, as they say, the agronomist spent the night in his Oaxacan room per usual and left at daybreak for the outskirts of the aforementioned cultural city, where there was a runway for small airplanes.

  Now, to regress for a moment, it’s worth mentioning one of Doña Rolanda’s habits: she loved to read the local newspaper. The irregularity of these rustic publications made reading about mundane maladies and natural disasters that much more exciting. One issue a week was the norm, but more normal was for it to fail to appear, though news of great consequence warranted a limited-edition gazette, printed and sold out in a trice: an infrequent occurrence, only in cases of extraordinary events—bad? good? thus it was with the bomb: that perverse achievement that culminated in an explosion and mushroom cloud: though … on the other end of the earth: over there in Japan, thousands dead … That horror, with a host of details, was mentioned one Thursday by the landlady to her fellow diners, who, wholly unconcerned, continued to scoop up her beans. Then came her final flourish:

  “Any moment now another bomb will explode and the world will come to an end.”

  Guffaws in response, not a single indication of alarm. The news, it seems, had been attended to as if a leaf had fallen from a tree. Full focus on the scrumptious. Beans for dinner … this the only dish, though plentiful, accompanied by plump rolls … It’s also worth mentioning, by the way, that beans made with lard are much tastier, as these were on this occasion.

  “The bomb was dropped from an airplane.”

  Silence or the continued shoveling of food. Words, which ones? Only hers … tossed into the air.

  “What? Aren’t you worried?! The world is about to come to an end!”

  Demetrio shook his head, just as smug as can be, made a move to stand up to assert his authority, and did so, but first he wiped his tangled lips and spoke.

  “Look, señora, if the world is going to end, let it end already.”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, let it end; after all …”

  The others chimed in: “Let it end, let it end.” Derision for the defeated one; though: how callous this mediocre—somewhat shameful?—merrymaking, enough to make Doña Rolanda feel crushed by the indiscretion (that almost infantile chorus of “Let it end!” continued), my, my! the lady felt intimidated but not before she’d done further damage by uttering one last sentence: It’s just that, can you imagine how many Japanese have died! In response: not a sigh, not even for the sake of politeness: nope! why second the motion? May she and her facts fade straightaway. Hence, already shrunken and small, she uttered one last word: “Hi-ro-shi-ma,” a vague subconscious input Demetrio unwittingly recorded, so effectively that when he was sitting on a bench in a rectangular room, that is, a waiting room, he muttered the word as if trying to spit it out. The small plane that would carry him to Nochistlán had limited capacity: eight passengers. The agronomist was quite familiar with this grasshopper-like flight. And all the while: “Hi-ro-shi-ma, Hi-ro-shi-ma.” And, by way of counterpoint, a view of the concrete: the awaiting plane. And then the imagined: the bomb: from what height was it dropped? His guts churned at the mere thought that he would board a plane that might be carrying—a bomb! Terrifying associations growing grimmer and grimmer … Moments later the announcement of the plane’s departure. There weren’t eight passengers, only five, and still his fears: that the contraption would fall or that the bomb would explode in midair. Nevertheless, the boarding and the takeoff and finally the airborne motion: thick clouds angrily shook the plane, enough to make one think the worst. Bah! We needn’t dwell on this because nothing terrible happened. Landing put an end to the paranoia after a miserable hour that, by the way, had the landlady not mentioned the bomb or the airplane and even less the thousands of dead Japanese—careful now!—would have been COMPLETELY NORMAL, for this was not the first time Demetrio had taken this flight.

  Inevitable regression once his feet touched the ground. Memories of Mireya, a fleeting but always sensual silhouette: “For sure she’ll get it on with others and at some point while she’
s doing it she’ll shout out my name.” Such miserable thoughts made the agronomist ill, but, what could he do to rid himself of something that had already become abhorrently persistent?: “She’ll miss me. My naked body will appear in her dreams.” And as he turned away from the Nochistlán airfield, he redoubled his efforts to stroll along the pavement with a graceful air, and we say “air” because the local breeze caressed him: swirled around him, perhaps, to purify the traveler’s incantation: “No-chis-tlán,” “Hir-ro-shi-ma,” “Mi-re-ya,” “Pa-rras,” verbal scraps, parsimonious swaying that finally touched down on an unreal, deep, shifting surface, whereby the agronomist would soon forget Oaxaca completely. Nor did he wish to cram himself into that future frame called Parras, on which his mother appeared embossed (unblemished), or better said: where decency sparkled in colorful abstraction … From Nochistlán, which was not by any measure a world cultural center, he would take the bus to Cuautla, which wasn’t either (unless someone would like to claim otherwise). From there he would board a train to Mexico City, which was, of course: that urban area had to be the most important cultural center in the world, wouldn’t you say? And now, getting back on track, so to speak, we are now approaching the drudgery of the culminating leg of the journey. Demetrio knew what it meant to spend thirty hours on a train. Standing up, sitting down, eating poorly, getting depressed as he sank into silence, and it was even worse if someone tried to engage him in conversation. He rudely cut short anybody who dared, even raising a fist as if to fight if a stranger insisted. Once he had done just that: mercilessly slapping a quite shameless man who had provoked him: You think you’re man enough to get into a fistfight with me? He never should have said that, the agronomist’s violent outburst had been most improbable, such a quiet, well-behaved gentleman, so much for that! He had been so fierce that the train conductors forced him off at the next station without refunding even one cent of his fare. The conductors’ last argument (while shoving him) just as the train pulled away was regarding the expense of healing the wounded man, parting palaver that settled accounts between them … On the ground, prone, his suitcase tossed and broken, Demetrio had sworn at the capped men, who could no longer hear the inventiveness of his invectives. The consequences were awful. Sparing many details, suffice it to say that on that occasion the agronomist spent forty-eight hours in that accursed backwater. The tedium of hour upon cheerless hour made him yell at nobody in particular. A madness the locals duly respected. His own private problems had no ramifications, so, why censure him? better he wear himself out shouting his head off, and that’s just what he did, trembling, as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water down his back. How fortunate the muffling gloam hid, for better or for worse, his reddened face! Then the good services of the people at the station, where he slept on a pile of empty, scratchy gunnysacks. But first they gave him two soups: one greenish and the other gray. He slept poorly, in large part because his bedding smelled of burro piss. Horrible! Violence turns into disaster and recovery takes time. Demetrio recalled all this when the interruption came this time around, and the rudeness of his retort consisted of: I’m so sorry, but I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’ve got too many problems. That’s it! and he raised no fist. Precaution. Regret. Good manners.