Daniel Sada - Almost Never

The first time Demetrio went to Sabinas he asked Benigno to accompany him. He wanted to be sure not to lose his way along the supposed fifteen miles from one point to the other, for the moment he started the truck the peon warned him about the large number of forks off the main road, hence: Come with me. You can help me find the butchers. Unfortunately, Benigno didn’t remember the precise location of those establishments. It’s just that, trying to find your way in that urban muddle … In fact, the peon had been only four times to Sabinas and only once to Nueva Rosita … In 1946 Sabinas had a population of approximately thirty thousand inhabitants, whereas Nueva Rosita was a town of fifteen thousand, or perhaps fewer. But both places had spectacular commercial activity.

This work trip turned out to be a kind of holiday for both. So: Come. Do as I say. Let’s go. And yes, agreed. Yes, flat-out compliance, by virtue of the fact that both would benefit from a temporary disconnect — from what? — the monotony of the ranch, less longed for by Benigno, but the manager: how about it? A different environment; the world, culture — bah! his presumptions had to be exaggerated …

Of course, before unpacking the knicking and knacking of selling and buying the meat, it’s worth sorting through the core of the sparse exchanges along the way: You might not want to learn anything about numbers, but you should realize that money gives you freedom of movement. Freedom of movement? More dependency, more anxiety, because numbers are limiting. A different kind of servitude, perhaps an even darker one, because of not knowing the true value of things. A reality calibrated to the quantity of coins and bills. Another corral or a different prison, but a much less happy one — or not? and since there was no escape, better to have someone higher up who resolved all the problems: a god, a boss, and therefore further submission to a perfect fit, to stay out of trouble — and uncertainties? In case we have interpreted the peon’s words otherwise: that is to say: harum-scarum, it is worth recording here his conclusion: No matter what, we are slaves to somebody or something, and I prefer to know who it is and what the one who gives me my living is like; as long as he treats me well, right? why dig any deeper? Then, the counterattack: But wouldn’t you like to be like your boss? He is rich and powerful. In the face of such a bold truth there arose a tiny truth: You do realize, sir, that I don’t know how to read or write. A sharp deficiency, the final blow, and a return to silence, not without Demetrio blurting out a crushing commonplace: There’s no doubt about it, we are who we are, would you listen to that! What? Demetrio saying such things. Or rather, once and for all he had to attain a mental toughness that could dispel all sorts of humble arguments. Or rather, his own — how prodigious were they? or rather — what did they settle? So, no further attempts at conceptual largesse, better not to get angry for no reason, but rather to clearly recognize his role: he was nothing more nor less than a masterful manager; he was, therefore, a person who should know about numbers and an infinity of other organizational procedures (what words!) that would put this lackluster ranching business on a firmer footing. Know thyself, in order to fit oneself in and — hey! know that this peon, like those from El Origen and La Igualdad, didn’t count. It’s a matter of language, that’s all, and — what is to be done? None could be his assistant, because none was a problem solver, besides about trifling issues related to provisions. O crass circumstance … so reductive! which also made him feel (now, really) alone — alone! a lonely madman? Unless he had a woman by his side … Renata (fixation), still unattainable … Longing in the ether, damn … Because he was neither a missionary nor an apostle … And the course of that vital truth — put to the test? In fact … it was important for him to know that not even at moments of direst despair should he expose his most mundane thoughts, considering it much more appropriate to emulate the behavior of the peons: their terseness, their lack of expressiveness, their perhaps saintly subjugation.

Blood on his hands: on Benigno’s. Come on. I’m sure there are sinks in Sabinas that have some good soap. And just like that the peon — what a bother! — made the trip. A brute question of haste … Moreover: dawn had barely broken when Benigno began killing animals. In less than two hours he had slaughtered a lamb and three she-goats. Such murderous dexterity put Demetrio on tenterhooks, for he made the following calculations on the side: this ranch hand could kill thirty-two animals in eight hours, as well as slit their bellies, cut them up, and skin them; and if he added up the number the ranch hands at El Origen and La Igualdad could slaughter in the same amount of time … A contest between them, someday, with a prize for the winner, not money but food: an abundant ration of canned goods wouldn’t be so bad; the notion of a feast in the middle of such scarcity; but based on what Don Delfín had said when they were there in Monclova, the sale of meat was by special order, so this time the meat would be sold to the butcher who offered the most; imagine that for a whole month — nothing to sell! ever since the last manager escaped on foot and at night through the desert. Even if there had been orders, there would have been no way to fill them — how? Clearly selling live animals would be more convenient, but the butchers in Sabinas and Nueva Rositas were too lazy to do the slaughtering. So, to return, here we have the meat on this reckless trip, in the sun, of course, because it was daytime, and yes: the carcasses covered with a blue blanket: a subtle way of buying time there in the truck bed … In 1946 there was not even one refrigerated truck anywhere in the length or the breadth of the Mexican territory … Hence the complex aspect of this troublesome situation was to transport the meat packed in ice, oh yes, only from where to where, eh? because to get enough ice: where … And the impossibility (right?) of … Well, anyway, we’ll now close this muddle with a happy fact: Demetrio and Benigno did not have to wander through the ignominious labyrinth of the streets of Sabinas; all they had to do was find x butcher to buy their goods, which had been covered. The transaction in itself was formidable because the butcher (the owner) placed a huge order for the following week: four lambs and eight she-goats — a heavenly delight! or that’s what we would call it.

Let’s mention the drought so we can go straightaway to the only two letters Renata buried near the henhouse. Regarding the latter, later, for it held quite lively interest, and as to the former we can state that October, November, and two weeks of December had already passed and no rain had fallen in Sacramento or the surrounding area, not even in the distance did a bold and threatening cloud appear above any hill, not even did a lost burst of lightning bring a furtive flash to gladden a few hearts — nothing at all! nothing but a solar invasion, with the accompanying clear skies, everywhere and always, whose tones of livid injurious blue began to fill the few inhabitants in those parts with terror. In fact, the nocturnal and diurnal heat seemed to gnaw with multiple rows of teeth, awakening the sensation that at any moment the inanimate might begin to stir.

We can talk about the animate (mobile, legged) only in terms of caution and despondency, or the search for relief in the shade. People, animals, insects — where could they find refuge? There were deaths, mostly in the hinterlands, which became most definitively a horrific expanse, more and more uninhabitable. This serves as a point of reference from which to ponder the increased sluggishness in Sacramento: no signs of whips or spurs, nobody wanted to budge because that meant suffering for the mere sake of it. And as far as business was concerned: sales plummeted, specifically at Doña Luisa and Renata’s stationery store, which was now quite clearly a business of secondary importance, because they didn’t sell food; in fact, for weeks they considered having a go at selling an array of cold drinks, but, to begin with, they’d have to buy an ice chest, then get three blocks of ice every day and start chopping away from early morn … In 1946 there was a small ice factory near La Polka, a place called El Cariño de la Montaña; there are reports that every day great quantities of these blocks were carried by cart, and that it took three trips by boat to transport the entire load … However, the sale of cold drinks had stiff competition; the ten grocery stores in town each sold an unimaginable quantity of such drinks. Packaged coldness — it should be stated — did not guarantee a profit. In fact, all businesses were hurting. The fault lay in the weather — but was it only the weather? The fault lay in the exodus of people to unknown burgs (otherwise called industrialization): the ripping apart of the small-town social fabric, and now let’s focus on Renata and Doña Luisa and extract a snippet of a diffident dialogue: a dinner with dishes piled high with eggs and chorizo to ponder piecemeal the possibility of moving, for example, to Monclova or Monterrey, assuming that Sacramento would soon be doomed: add to this the fanning that kept time with the eating: manual nimbleness shoring up adversity. On one hand, the urgency to flee: the beautiful one putting pressure on the obstinate mother, who claimed she’d rather die in Sacramento than venture into the unknown: I’m not going anywhere, even if it is for the best. Moreover, she said that in a small town she felt protected; she mentioned relatives twice or thrice removed who lived there, as well as her very close friends who lived nearby: Everyone, at the end of the day, would take pity on me. Whereas in the city … The advantageous gregariousness of the small scale, the tribal, the cyclical nature of a consolation that stiffens one’s resolve: right? After this affirmation the conversation took a different turn: Unlike me, you have the option of getting married, going somewhere else … However, the fact that she’d heard nothing from Demetrio came to light: that he hadn’t written; that he hadn’t come; that maybe never again, in spite of living so close. And supreme disappointment became evident: I haven’t heard anything from him for three months. Maybe I could ask Doña Zulema if she has had any news … Her mother gave her permission to … The next day, Renata went to her. Profuse perspiration, rather crass: the effect or the fruit of the way there. Even more sorrowful was her return, after hearing that his aunt also had heard nothing from the one who had sworn and sworn again to frequently visit the town. Another chat during which: Maybe he has a girlfriend there, Renata said with a blush: ugh! on the verge of tears: Doña Luisa, with her indistinct spirit, saw this and went to pat her back, a lot, as if she were patting a deficit or as if she were fine-tuning a single sentence with each touch, one that would be the key, or whatever you’d like to deduce, to rise above a gush of sentimentality and: Keep in mind, you’ll have no end of other prospects. Others? What for?