Daniel Sada - Almost Never

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.

Nobody 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.