Daniel Sada - Almost Never

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go back to Parras or Oaxaca. I want to find work around here, but I don’t know where to look.”

“You really want to stay here?”

“Yes, because I want to be near Renata.”

“Listen, there’s a very rich gentleman in Monclova who owns, among other things, many ranches. Once in a while he comes here because he has a property near Sacramento that he’s neglected, according to what I’ve heard.”

“And you, how do you know him?”

“I’ve known him since we were children. He was a classmate of mine at school and he always stops by to visit me. He comes to my store for a refreshment, and we talk.”

“Was there ever anything between you?”

“I never wanted him. When we were young he tried, but he finally realized that we were better off as friends and, well, I agreed with him there. He married very well, he has eight children and a ton of grandchildren.”

“Sounds good! How can I get in touch with him?”

“I have his address in Monclova. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to pay him a visit. His name is Delfín Guajardo.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. That way I can also deposit most of my money in a bank there.”

“Money? What money?”

“The money in my suitcase. It’s part of my earnings and my savings.”

The mystery now solved. No further comment. No backhanded reproach about the risk of … never! In response, finally, Demetrio’s impulse: to check his suitcase: to go, to know. He knew. And, as his gratitude remained unmitigated, he took the initiative to embrace his aunt. She was happy. A magnificent hostess, and something else besides: the taking-shape of enduring respect, as opposed to Doña Telma, oh, that meddlesome mother, so insolent. On the contrary … he just wanted to check if the fifteen fat bundles of banknotes inside the suitcase remained intact … Ugh! a crude memory of his accounting: and: the aunt could have taken two while Demetrio was bathing. Careless of him, in fact, at a glance, to have left it: yesterday: oh. Though, all told, he would have forgiven his hostess for swiping five bills or so, why even check? Better to plant a kiss on her cheek, a slightly salivary smack. Which he did: muuuuaaagh! And her delight redoubled; she: squeezed: then surrendered, a cuddled make-believe mother; she: her feelings and her charm abloom.

One less problem …

Around 1946 a wide road began to appear between Ocampo and Monclova. We are talking about a sixty-mile stretch, more or less, through the principal population centers of Coahuila’s central region. For some time there had been occasional stretches with gravel that filled those who drove on them with hope for the future, but mostly rough ground prevailed, a series of disorienting winding roads that few knew well and that others, without even a basic layout, wouldn’t risk. In any case, the direction you chose was determined by finding raised vistas, rather than the (always imprecise) points of the compass: to wit: what was in back of, or ahead of, or adjacent to, on the right or the left, and otherwise one’s bearings, the difficult verticality, finding one’s way by day, of course, for the threat of a fiasco if night fell smack in the middle of the trip, all that adversity and all that viability, but more adversity: those roads lacked uniformity, they got wider, then narrower, potholes abounded; so we can picture carriages, carts — and very infrequently funny-looking buses and cars, not to mention serious trucks and pickups — a to-ing and a fro-ing, which indicated that few dared make long trips. From Ocampo to Monclova: a challenge — who would do it?! Even from Sacramento to Ocampo, because if you take into account the innumerable and capricious twists and turns … well, let’s start with the idea that a straight line from Sacramento to Monclova was approximately twenty miles and from Sacramento to Ocampo about forty-five, but with so many curves, most of them unnecessary, and moreover poorly built, let’s see — how many miles does that add? Clearly, as far as the dirt road was concerned, one must consider verticalities. Clearly, the sixty-five-mile-long ribbon of a road had to wind through three or four canyons and squeeze through a mountain gorge, and there indeed, the curves — hopeless! but the remaining stretch: the desert plain … True, the engineers had to use their best judgment to save miles, and, back to the main point, let’s just say that the shorter the road the better — right? The practical must triumph, per usual. And the practical in this case was to get people off the train. Or, to allow people to travel farther and with less chagrin. So they could come and go in a day from one place to another without any problems, regardless of the distances specified above. That said, the pith of the previous digression was that when Demetrio traveled by train to Monclova he saw through the window some impressive motor graders in full operation working on the road, right in the Cañón del Carmen, between La Polka and Celemania. His traveling companion, a man of about fifty, told him that the road would be finished by the beginning of 1947, according to the state government. A huge step toward modernity. In the same breath he mentioned that after its inauguration a bus company would immediately place in circulation a large number of very well-equipped vehicles, and perhaps a short while later it would become a flourishing highway. Another significant advance. Finally. What follows now is Demetrio’s resulting commentary:

“I’m glad the government is concerning itself with the difficulties some experience when traveling. As for me, it would be very useful if I could come and go in one day from Monclova to Sacramento. That would make me happy!”

She here and he there, as if ordained, perhaps because fate did not favor a mother-son encounter in Sacramento. At around three in the afternoon Doña Telma appeared at the very spot from which Demetrio, early in the morning and quite eager, had vanished. Perhaps at that particular hour of the day he and Don Delfín were reaching an agreement on the former’s terms of employment, but no news of it here till tomorrow — hopefully! — and, finally, rather than elucidate what is most meaningful, let’s instead focus on the unexpected encounter between the two señoras, as well as in the euphoria of their surprise. You? Here? What for? Doña Zulema was not — we must reiterate — a good hostess. She did not close the store, much less offer her dear relative so much as a cup of coffee: not so much as the courtesy of a sip at the counter of this commercial enterprise, so let’s exalt her sloth above all. Hence, the woman who’d just arrived requested: A sip of water, please, don’t be so cruel. It was pathetic, and the one thus implored produced two glasses of water, then proceeded to voice her thoughts on the subject of Demetrio; that his romance was moving right along; that he was looking for a job in the area, this the reason he had gone to Monclova. A deluge of facts of greater or lesser importance, which saddened Doña Telma: her oblique complaint — her foremost concern — her son’s fury, how he left Parras without even planting a kiss where it should have gone: neither on her cheek (for example), nor on her forehead, nor on her hand. Doña Telma, however, did not want to reveal the reason for his rage. The point of gravity — full speed till there — under no circumstance; preferable to avoid what was shameful: the indiscretion of peeking into the loaded suitcase while her son slept; then when she woke him up to … Oh, forget it! may all that heaviness float; therewith the phoniness of the adjective “inexplicable” that was and continued to be a terrible mess from which it was quite difficult to extricate oneself, hence the melodramatic conclusion: I think my son doesn’t love me anymore. I am more alone than ever, because my daughters aren’t with me, either. The truth is, I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came to Sacramento. More and more miserable dribbles of sentimentalism, aimless, even groundless (Doña Zulema listening — perchance derisively?), or perhaps she was on the verge of acting forcefully, such as falling to her knees to beg for forgiveness the moment Demetrio appeared: would it be worth it? We’ll leave that pantomime for the morrow, though: I won’t allow you to degrade yourself in front of him. For now, how to move that big guy to pity? What madcap act would do the trick? Once and for all let’s watch the scene that’s worthy of a separate strophe unto itself.