Daniel Sada - Almost Never

At church. On Sunday. Perhaps by happenstance. And if not? That’s when another lightbulb went on: take advantage of her trip to the post office — it was a lot of work to fit her bulky amorous discourse into the envelope — and stop by Zulema’s house. Her calculation: two hours was plenty of time, and this was her opportunity:

“Mama, I’m going to the post office to mail my letter.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t you want to let me read it before you put it in the envelope?”

“Mama, it’s none of your business …”

A crumb of rebellion and — three cheers for her! Which didn’t mean she was in any way loosening her fetters, although Renata was now convinced that continuing to live in Sacramento was like being hurled into a pit of despair, a living death. In the meantime, the letter, the anticipated reply: days, weeks: the slowness, the timeless nature of her solitary chores; in addition, and in passing, she considered herself a pure soul trapped in a huge house and the world beyond it, where she had no chance at all of remaining anonymous. People thereabouts would somehow discover that on a particular date the beautiful (and diminutive) maiden had made her way to the post office to mail a letter to her towering beau and that, in consequence, problems had arisen between her and her mother due to the simple fact that she was in love with a man who still hadn’t shown the stuff he was made of; that the stationery store was a total failure and that at any moment the money from their inheritance would run out; as well as other, more insignificant deductions, at which point, after mailing her letter, Renata betook herself to Doña Zulema’s. She was seen, and hence the psst-pssters — what else! — with lots of loose tongues. Two faces, a single surprise (raised eyebrows and gaping mouths): in the aunt’s grocery store — also customerless—: Aha! The visitor asked three questions, and the sole response worth mentioning is: Don’t worry, Renata. All I need tell you is that my nephew Demetrio was quite eager when he left. You are now, to him, a temptress, and a great ideal. Now, now, just give me a hug, oh, please! A frontal, affectionate, and fulminating embrace, all viewed from afar! Yes, indeed! Ooh! Such a muddle of tenderness … In the end, Zulema was the one who disengaged in the nick of time: well, well, off you go, and may you go in peace. The shorter woman’s puffed-up return. Ambler. Beauty. Dignity on the march: recycling (good judgment worked in her favor) a sentence that had to have been a boon: I am a temptress for him and a great ideal. Half true, half false, but who cares? The essence would keep churning away, way down deep, and the only bad part, of course, would be a long lapse before Demetrio’s response …

In 1946, Sacramento had no telegraph service. How long would it take for this miracle to occur?

Avery elaborate kiss midst formless gray clouds. The small plane tossed about as the pilot, feeling responsible, steered in vain. Its rising and falling was astounding, as was the tongue and lip action of the fleeing lovebirds, who kept up their mutual exploration rather than disengaging out of fear: for a mere moment, but no, not even that, the opposite: Demetrio began caressing Mireya’s legs and breasts, to which she responded by zeroing in on the site of his member and inundating that area with a flood of caresses: such alacrity!: in full view of the astonished adjacent passengers, who were — how can we put this? — betwixt and between nervous and unnerved. So, no, disengaging was not forthcoming, despite it all, but rather an increase of mischievous manipulation, the search in tandem above and beyond with tongues and lips and, moreover, pure passion. Then came a chorus of throat clearings accompanied by recriminating stares. If the small plane crashed, that mortal kiss would become an eternal seal, or so it seemed to any passengers who might have had such thoughts. Therein the mouth-gaping shrieks commenced — of the dying, or whom? Fortunately, the plane’s convulsions ceased just moments later, finally there was calm, finally there rose timid applause, now clearly called for. Yes, now, along with a normal flight pattern, there was a disengagement: finally, some decency, some prudence. The lovebirds smiled, then blushed: everything in order, until Mireya in a low voice dropped the following bomb:

“I’m pregnant with your child.”

“What?”

“Uh-huh, I thought it better to wait to tell you once we were already on our way.”

“Really! A baby … What a surprise! My love … Hmm … What do you know … Well, we must certainly give him the best education.”

“Oh, dearest, I worship you.”

However, not so much as a single kiss of gratitude. The other passengers were trying to find out if another long kiss would ensue, but no, not now, or they wondered why the man seemed so tense, for he suddenly decided to look out the window at who knows what loomings. The severity of an angry face — perhaps? Anyway … Landing anon. Imminent measures of some gravity (this said with a double meaning). And now we must skip ahead to catch up with them on the bus to Cuautla. More gravity: predominating: a sham. Mireya had lied. Surely it was nothing but a hackneyed trick, this pregnancy thing, a claim that provoked an onslaught of pertinent questions: a game of darts for a man in a tight spot, and getting tighter as he mentioned some iffy notions that anyway reassured the dark-haired wench. In this sense it’s worth emphasizing the vague indifference of he who stared resolutely out the bus window (what might the scatterings in the fields evoke), then turned, like a ghoulish cat, to look at the belly of the pregnant woman … And after that — alas! where precisely should he turn: to the north, the east, the west, straight down the middle, or where … The border, the state of Tamaulipas — yes? If Demetrio could find a job there … No, but the trick would be to get her a passport (first hers), perhaps a residency permit, something of the sort, then go to the agronomist’s mother, to that place near Laredo, Texas. He must already have a passport, and he should show it to her … Which obliged him to lie, right there, on the fly, saying that this and other personal papers were stashed in the suitcase with the money and, needless to say, it would be pretty daft to open it then and there, and what, anyway, was the rush. Next scene: the tender attack, whether or not he was happy about the baby … Yes, yes, of course. A bitter and oblique response. And obliquely, in the heat of the moment, he formulated two questions: Why didn’t you tell me you were going to get pregnant? , and then: How much longer before our child is born? He hoped Mireya’s answers would be quick and succinct, which they were, as follows: I wasn’t careful. My doctor gave me the news. And the second: A little less than eight months to go till the birth. More insistent: would they reside with his mother … Of course, for this was the very best solution in such a predicament: I want you to know something very important: my mother is a very generous woman. She will help you throughout your pregnancy and later with the baby while I look for a good job. And the money in the suitcase — eh? Almost all of it was earmarked for the down payment on the house … how obvious.

The onslaught of questions slowly sputtered out, the thoughts and silences turning into undertows and aftershocks: thus their separate obstinacies sharpened, chafing, though all appeared vague and at crosscurrents, until Mireya came upon a clearing in her mind: I don’t want to live with your mother. Kerplunk! We insist that her declaration was as contingent as the journey itself. To wit, let’s frame the scene as if we were viewing it from a certain height and through a lens: dapper Professor Demetrio (under duress) dealing with a pupil who needed repeated explanations as simple as they were definitive; the pressing needs: a house of their own; independence, as well as, and needless to say, distance. Yes, as it were, it would be fine to meet his mother, but Mireya suggested that she would like to live in a city with a dependable hospital, a Mexican city, that is: on this side — never the other! She also asserted that she would need two full-time servants and other minor requisites that may well have felt like prods. And her missteps kept multiplying. Hostility, but … longing for a taste, seeking the mouth that kisses, and as Demetrio didn’t want to look at her, imagine how stubbornly he stared out the window, and all Mireya could do was stroke his neck, from behind — how embarrassing! and so it continued without a hint of even a rude response. On the contrary: a vigorous recoiling, a deeper and deeper retreat: Demetrio elaborating a quite injurious plan: first and foremost, to disentangle himself: oh dear!: gradually deciding how: an uncertainty that would have to last till a none-too-easy determination grew darker and darker. The sun was long in setting. It would have to be carried out shortly after boarding the train to Saltillo. Night was, would be, different. They would both sleep in their seats, first-class seats, to wit: cushioned and cozy: sinking softly, and much farther down than on the bus. It would come and … The agronomist, in the meantime, established a rule that he would no longer kiss her on the mouth, no more frolicking tongues or lips, nothing, not even a puckered peck. Well, maybe an inadvertent one, okay, but no holding of waists, nor clutching of hands, for any length of time. A victory over discomfort. Chilly exchanges, few words. We find ourselves now on the train platform in Mexico City, where Demetrio finally spoke lightheartedly: We are going on a very long trip. We might be on that train for thirty hours, even more. Tomorrow we’ll be in Saltillo, and I’m thinking maybe we can live there. Saltillo has everything: servants, first-rate hospitals, jobs. Things will go swimmingly for us there. My idea is to stay in a decent hotel, and from there we’ll see. This wasn’t what he meant but rather something much subtler: the pretense of very certain courage.