Daniel Sada - Almost Never

Solitude might be a threat of everlasting terror. It might advance then run out of steam. It might swell so much it frightens itself away. Be what it may, it is not desirable. A great effort is required to feel it as anything but a burden, so, what good is it? When she was young, Doña Zulema opened her heart to love, and she was struck by lightning. A cousin once removed was the indirect cause. This cousin bore gifts; he was kind. He: fire that mends by sharpening countless emotions; he was generous; he was complacent, he forever spoiled his cousins with wrapped and ribboned gifts. Pleasure. Selflessness, though to be precise, his favorite was Zulema, who didn’t know how to respond as the gifts piled up. Without meaning to (what can one do?) she fell in love, a fall indeed, especially because this impulse had to be immediately checked, the brakes put on decisively, but no, because it was impossible to calculate such a natural and benign affection. Be that as it may, she took the prudent path: the obvious one, sans the audacity of flustered excitement; she chose to conceal from her cousin even the subtlest hint of romantic interest. Restraint upon restraint whenever she was with him: never look him straight in the eye. A radical reversal, an intentional detour: such was her choice; her goal, to banish any hint of coquetry. True, one time she dared look at him and even puckered her lips (somehow or other) to see if her cousin would catch a whiff of love, a discreet insinuation, but — nothing! Their kinship was a ceiling whose luminosity could barely be discerned, an inflexible notion of arid affection, as constrained as grace itself.

And so time passed and so Zulema’s fruitless passion grew. Her cousin, named Abelardo, who never realized what he had awakened in the lass, went to study medicine at a faraway university, without a thought of returning even for a visit to that remote rural outpost. In fact, his parents and siblings emigrated to other parts of the country as well. He became a doctor; then, still unsatisfied with this accomplishment, he took the liberty of specializing in an extremely difficult field that made him into an outstanding cardiologist, so outstanding that the practice of his profession rained riches upon him in torrents and allowed him to marry an admirable woman, ergo: from high society and the whole nine yards, one who deserves a house with a swimming pool, whence we can see that wealth dazzled him so much it debilitated him: buying in quantity, stuffed to the very brim. And with this admirable wife, named Esperanza, he sired ten children, who in turn produced approximately forty grandchildren. Clearly a prosperous tribe, if you consider that this entire jovial world strolled down the path of good (moneyed, in this case) fortune; sons and grandsons, corrupt and exploitative, but God fearing, as they should be. No doldrums for Abelardo, not for many years, not until he was widowed. Which made him sharply aware of old age and its ravages. An entire life of wealth that now, like a gigantic poultice, came crashing down upon him. What we’re trying to get at is that he felt lonely and bereft, even if full of artifice, and there was no longer anything that brought him satisfaction. Let us say that death, an option always within reach and pictured as eternal whiteness, had become a constant threat. Suicide as a plaything, just like cowardice. Yes. No. Perhaps. What? Anyway, considering his high level of perpetual indecision, we’ll opt to leave Abelardo in that trance and turn to what had happened to Zulema many years before. Ever since she was twenty she knew that the sacrosanct love she modestly poured into her cousin was utterly futile. By the same token she knew that she had committed an unforgivable mistake by not showing that love, to wit: by not letting him clearly understand that he was and would be the chosen one, hmm, an old-fashioned woman, because she had counted a couple dozen suitors (this sum included twenty years of prospects) and she had rejected them all. From that we must subtract one dozen, the youngest suitors, for the simple reason that they were not prosperous; however, as far as the other dozen go, we include all those who offered her a serious relationship with the diaphanous prospect of being led to the altar, after which they would provide her with a life fit for a queen; well, no, not that either; which can be explained thus: the old tune became a drone after so many imprudent men posed the compromising question: Why don’t you ever say yes to anyone? and she would respond: When I was young I opened my heart to love and after that I closed it. I could not have Abelardo, so I won’t marry anybody else. We must stress the importance of this statement: Zulema was and always would be an old-fashioned woman. When she closed her heart forever it turned to stone, and — obviously! there but for the grace of God went she.

Now let’s turn our attention back to Abelardo: the widower, the saddened señor who, with nothing better to do, held steadfast to the idea of taking his own life. There he was, up a stump with his folly, when one day an old relative came at his house and brought him news that though shocking contained a glint of hope.

“Hey, Abelardo, do you remember our cousin Zulemita?”

“Yes, sort of, but we’re talking about a little more than half a century ago … Yes, of course! She’s my cousin from Sacramento … Hmm, I remember I was in love with her, but she was my cousin and that was that …”

“Well, I must tell you, Zulemita remained very attached to you, so much so that she never wanted to marry anybody else. She had many suitors, but she often said that if not you, she’d never marry anyone. So she stayed single. When she was very young she opened a grocery store and that’s what she lives on to this day.”

“I suppose she knows I got married.”

“Yes, but once she confessed that she had hopes you would be widowed and return to Sacramento to marry her.”

“Ah, now I understand, she sent you to tell me all this.”

“So it is.”

“Well, if I had realized this before …”

“Abelardo, go to Sacramento! You would make that poor woman very happy. But don’t tell her you’re coming, okay? Just imagine what a surprise it will be.”

A tricky hope, tempting from afar … Adventure, an injection of life. Spirit, exertion. Toward a stump that could not sprout, and now — new growth? Therefore, an obsolete trip: trains, boats, horse-drawn carriages, sweating, vexation, fatigue, and a sprinkling of folly to bring him back to life. Constructive caresses. Aged kisses like watery broths …

The dismal truth was that Abelardo’s children visited him only when they needed money. Whenever he called to invite any of them over they, without exception, offered up excuses: that they were swamped; that they’d come later, which was synonymous with “we’ll see when,” and that “when” was never defined … Old age pays a high price, and there’s dross as well, and will continue to be, we could say, excremental, and how to make oneself loved or what spontaneity was needed for him to obtain filial love …

Nothing, no irksome insistence …

And when he thought about it with a clear head, Abelardo decided that this Zulemita would look after him wonderfully well for a couple of weeks.

She would be generous if only because of that unrequited affection from so many years before …

His Eminence figured he should go to Sacramento without telling anybody …

A tenebrous disappearance … deliberate.

We could say that the urge itself to travel in the face of so many crazy obstacles would be a path to rejuvenation.

Base, struggling spirit.

I will come back, I will, but, what if I like how Zulemita treats me?