Daniel Sada - Almost Never

Subsequently, her neighbors were polite when … Herewith an et cetera that compressed the action: two-pronged assistance: prepare a wake; bring votives, candles, flowers (the most fragrant), from early till late in the day. The greatest difficulty lay in constructing a wood coffin and finding a spot in the graveyard to dig a grave. A collective, sweaty chore — indeed! so much so that the wake took place without a coffin. An old stranger covered with a sheet. An excess of prayers. Weeping? Only one, she, who didn’t want to hire mourners according to the custom. Zulema was quite afflicted. Her cries were genuine: arising from deep down inside — how could they not be! for her laments stirred up a thousand things. Just imagine her incisive question: what does God have against me? Fated to wait an entire lifetime for her one and only beloved and when finally he arrives at her house brimming with affection — plop!: death: the paradox. Still pending was for someone to inform Abelardo’s children and grandchildren of his demise, but the informing relative was not in Sacramento, and telephones and addresses — if he even knew them — never! So how? A quandary deferred … A quandary to address in stages, this dissemination of information, all in good time, for his children and grandchildren had ventured into far-flung corners of the Mexican territory, not all, just to be clear, but anyway; their desire was none other than to visit the grave of the eminent doctor. One of the sons ordered the construction of a pompous tomb. This was a matter of dignity, for it was not fair for a gentleman of his stature to be buried like a dog. And now as an aside, let us add that Doña Zulema was, as far as can be expected, a model hostess, so much so that she tired of being so, after welcoming (nonstop) his relatives over a five-year period. By the way: strangers kept arriving, and each one gave her money. A business, inadvertent, or divine compensation, still insufficient, considering that the tawdry tale did not even give her the gift of a child. Abelardo left her nothing but three days of lapsed love and — sorrow! for she found few people who were willing to hear in full detail about her one and only real and lasting misfortune. Demetrio, yes, that night, on the eve of his trip to Monclova and then on his way to Sabinas: he heard, and heard, and heard, without asking any questions: exemplary attitude translated into Zulema formulating an ulterior proposition:

“Demetrio, allow me to take on the role of your second mother … As you can see, it is what I need most of all at this point in my life.”

“Okay, I understand what you are proposing … It’s just that for me it’s important to know what being my second mother means to you.”

“Only that you may live in this house whenever you want; only that when I die you will own it.”

“Great, that suits me just fine.”

“If you end up not liking your work on Don Delfín’s ranches, you can return here. You will be near Renata, and you can invest your money and work in Sacramento.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and from now on you should know that my store is yours.”

“But my mother, Telma … hmm … I can’t just forsake her.”

“She’s as forsaken as I am … But do as you like. You could, for example, bring her to live here, she could sell her house and …”

“Look, Aunt, I have to think carefully about everything you are suggesting … But from this point on I accept you as my second mother — by all means!”

It’s hard to know whether the earth, midst its thousands of millions of rotative and orbital movements, had tilted a bit or veered slightly off course. Such speculation is germane considering that the weather in October 1946, at least in the central region of Coahuila, was hotter than hell. The population’s consternation was so pronounced that nobody expected the weather to change till November or December, many even fantasizing that Christmas celebrations would be accompanied by fans and perspiration. Which had never happened, but now — phew!: climactic displacement was a reality and perhaps not till January, or even February, would it begin to grow cold, not so cold as to need a heavy coat, but still. Some even thought that the real cold season (the normal one) would not begin till March or April of the following year, and a few, carrying things to an extreme, thought it would never again be cold on the face of the earth, and there would never be rain (not even in jest), and blahblahblah: and as no one knew the exact cause of the phenomenon, almost everyone attributed it to divine retribution. Perhaps human beings had been behaving so badly that they deserved the worst: a perpetual and bruising heat, brutal — right? Hopefully not, others thought: God might apply pressure but is incapable of destroying what he himself had created.

Anyway, the heat hovers over everything else in the sense that the thousands of stories unfolding herein will be subject to a perpetual drip. Hopefully not, we think, but only because it is convenient to think in these terms.

So, let’s skip ahead once and for all past the wondrously imaginative predictions of the locals to reveal — perhaps therein damaging the logical unfolding of a plot — that in December 1946 the weather turned around abruptly from one day to the next. First came a deluge (with murderous hail) throughout much of the region, which in turn almost immediately ushered in very cold winds, mostly from the north and the west; that’s how it was, and we shall deal with what follows all in due time … In the meantime, we might fancy a fan.

To learn to drive. Demetrio nearly started panting when he heard these words from Don Delfín’s lips as the principal requirement for the optimal administration and supervision of the three ranches. Daily trips in the pickup first thing in the morning except Sundays, supposedly his day off. We should say that he was supposed to finish his rounds shortly after midday. In Monclova there had been mention of these duties, and the exciting news began to sparkle the moment Demetrio heard he would have use of a pickup sui generis, brown, quite used, that was waiting for him at La Mena Ranch, though here’s the obviously surly part: the roads in that region were not uniform: they tilted, they narrowed, sometimes they seemed to vanish only to pick up again who knows where. All this seen on the way, for Don Delfín was taking the new employee north, where: first La Mena, and then whatever comes next … Rough riding, in the meantime, in a pickup, jet black, latest model … In 1946, on the stretch between Monclova and Sabinas, there were only twenty miles of pavement on what would later be called the Carretera Central. The rest, sixty miles perhaps, was gravel, a wide grade but uneven and, therefore, dangerous. Especially dangerous was a detour right next to a gigantic huisache tree, like an expressive and watchful ornament, from which hung abandoned blackbird nests. An unmistakable point of reference, as was the fifteen-foot drop the boss-driver accomplished with true dexterity, which led onto a dirt road straight to La Mena; still to go was a long stretch, many curves, and much fatigue.

The field for driving practice, a perfectly unproblematic plain to swerve about on: first, second, third, reverse, almost never fourth: the roads didn’t allow for such speeds. Don Delfín told Demetrio that there were three barrels of gasoline at the first ranch; one more at El Origen and another, if needed, at La Igualdad. And here, all aquiver, is another bit of information: at every ranch Demetrio would find peons dexterous in the automotive arts. Practical wise men, with basic knowledge of whatever they needed to know. Because breakdowns … no precautions taken ever end up being a good bet. One lovely obstacle after another, spread about this territory beyond the reach of Mexico’s industrialization. Abiding life, almost like in the Stone Age: a matter of adjusting to the purely primitive with the single solid idea of somehow enjoying it, well, now to return … Among the many responsibilities assigned to the agronomist — once and for all let’s set some clear boundaries: we call him “agronomist” to stress that these were livestock ranches and that they wouldn’t plant a fig, not a seed or a tree to save their lives; hence all Demetrio’s agronomic baggage was utterly useless — and now, yes, to return to the evolving story, we wish to point out that his primary responsibility was to transport supplies, the most urgent ones, as requested by the peons on both ranches: El Origen was to the northeast of La Mena, whereas La Igualdad was to the southeast: at a slightly veiled diagonal. And the daily dust storms kicked up by the pickup: a romantic image for those (very few) who took the trouble to watch the arrivals and departures. By the same token we must say that Don Delfín had a hard time holding on to driver-managers, but we’ll get to the deeper reason for that later. In the meantime, one of the many chores involved the transport of goats and lambs, and once in a while a cow or a bull; breeding animals who were treated like kings, or slabs of meat to be sold in Sabinas and Nueva Rosita; there were other job-related oddities there’s no point in enumerating. We simply want to mention that the peons managed the full range of information. Though really: imagine once and for all the endless hustle and bustle, and — on the other hand, what an avalanche of difficulties awaited Demetrio! The fact is, the more his boss talked during the trip, the more paralyzed he became. So many particulars, so many unknowns, yes, of course! because of x or z .