Daniel Sada - Almost Never

In the afternoon, after bathing neither in the cedar tub nor by the bucketful, though impeccably dressed, he gracefully betook himself to the trysting bench. He wanted to ask Renata for forgiveness, see if maybe. Doña Zulema, immediately and with investigative élan, followed him, closing the store behind her. She maintained a constant distance from each of the big guy’s quick steps: praying to God, all the time, that he wouldn’t turn around, wishing perhaps to gain clarity from the prayers she was sending up, not yet. And now the scene itself. Demetrio asked a child who was playing in the plaza to go tell Renata what you, Doña Zulema, and I can already guess. The child went and returned quickly and:

“Renata says she can’t come out and to please not come again.”

The ultimate definition. As Demetrio carried out his contrite retreat his aunt hid behind a tree and from there saw her nephew returning with his head hung low and his fists clenched. She, prodded on, hastened her step so she could open her shop as quickly as possible: of course!: she would stand behind the counter knowing herself to be, let us call it, an actress: her chin leaning crassly on her theatrical hand and her bare elbow resting upon the aforementioned surface: distinguished stillness in waiting: a wait that didn’t last long, given that soon Demetrio’s figure formed a faded outline: at the door: sadness and rage. Now he really did want to spill his guts:

“It makes no sense for Renata to tell me to go to hell only because I kissed her hand … I don’t think I disrespected her. I don’t feel guilty in the least, my kiss was affectionate, completely affectionate! I could never behave in bad faith with a woman I want to marry. And you know, Auntie, as I told you two days ago, we’ve already spoken about getting married, you were even willing to live with her mother … Anyway! Now everything’s ruined. Now Renata doesn’t want to see me — and why?! why?! I don’t understand … Anyway, she was the first one to bring up getting married, I planned to propose to her much later …”

The big guy’s enraged huffing and puffing put an end to his harangue, and from one of his eyes there sprang an unborn tear, which he didn’t wipe away, despite how macho he was, but his bitter feelings finally betrayed him, the tear rolled, trembling, down his left cheek: no way! because — really — how shameful! Then Doña Zulema spoke:

“Demetrio, I think you made a mistake …”

“A mistake?! What mistake?! I treated Renata just fine and that’s why I don’t want to stay here one minute longer. This puritanical town horrifies me. I’m leaving!”

Or rather, as it was late evening the aggrieved man would go sleep on the top of the hill. His aunt was unable to stop him. Instead she watched, moments later, as he stuffed his dirty clothes into his suitcase, and after a spirited shutting he grabbed the handle and took off down the street. Why watch as he walked away?

More and more cars and trucks. A teeming trough. A miracle of motorized and motile phantoms. To tell the truth, and looking at the phenomenon from a different angle, the production of intractable tractors grew in dribs and drabs; whereas bicycle production — a minor news item — appeared to be, by all accounts, incalculable, even though burros were still exceedingly useful. Just think of carrying cargo, which bicycles obviously couldn’t do. Given the foregoing, we really must assert that in 1947 the Mexican automotive industry was at its apogee. Cars, trucks, and tractors were being assembled as quickly as toys, and the demand was growing constantly, in no small part due to the excellent conditions the automotive companies were offering for the purchase of said conveyances.

Not counting the use of tractors (not yet), let’s take Sacramento as an example (and place ourselves smack in the middle of 1947): one could count six cars and eight pickups, whereas at the end of 1946 there had been only two pickups. Let’s also take Parras (much more populous than all the other towns in Coahuila), where there were twenty vehicles at the beginning of the year in question and thirty by the middle of the same year; a tripling, then, because in December 1946 there had been only twelve. We needn’t do a breakdown of cars versus trucks, for all we have to know is that there were three tractors. All this said, let us betake ourselves to Parras, that universal cultural center superior to, let us say, Tegucigalpa, or — what was the previous comparison? anyway, that’s where we are in virtue of the fact that Demetrio was living at his mother’s house; he, whom ill fortune had dogged throughout the central region of Coahuila, arrived and told Doña Telma that life had dealt him a few bad hands, though as yet no blows that had felled him fully … That ranch job had turned out to be a fiasco … He didn’t tell his mother anything, at first, about what had happened with Renata, he simply said that in order for him to live for any length of time in Parras he would need to buy a pickup truck. The mother was happy to help in any way she could, though her son’s savings sufficed (ha!): he bought one in a jiffy (a bit used and without a stake bed) in Torreón, he wouldn’t go to Saltillo even if his life depended on it, and now, indeed: Demetrio’s truck could be counted among the vehicles in Parras. He still had enough money for some boring investment or other. In the meantime let’s imagine him as unemployed by choice. Indecisive and smug or, if you prefer, a perpetual seeker in pursuit of not employment but rather new horizons; the search for plots in outlying areas where he might plant an orchard, that is, when the blessed new beginning … Months passed and there came no decisive move toward either investment or employment.

Be that as it may, Demetrio was up late every night, for a very ad hoc club had opened in that huge town, a place for diversion — a miniature hell whose name lent itself to a thousand interpretations: Centro Social Parrense — but that in essence served as a cantina and a place to play dominoes and billiards into the early hours of the morn. Above all else, decency, for neither women nor children were allowed in, soldiers likewise, though anyway there never were any in the vicinity. Playing relieved tension. The joint, very roomy though quite dark, opened at five in the afternoon and closed at one in the morning; and — careful now! — only four alcoholic drinks per person were allowed. Whether a defense of decency or merely a sham, you still couldn’t get drunk: hence the club’s success, for it had public, as well as municipal, approval, such as it was. In this respect it must be said that the mayor of Parras occasionally went there to spend a few congenial hours shooting pool and dealing dominoes. Also, by the way, it is fitting here to add that the Centro Social Parrense was for members only. That is, one had to pay a rather hefty fee to join, as well as modest monthly dues. By the middle of 1947 it had forty members. Although the monthly dues drove some away, others were always on hand to replace them. Hence a steady number: a few more, a few less: ergo: may more players come, and we’ll see if they last … We mention endurance because soon the under-the-table bets began. Demetrio fell headlong into this so-called trap and began to realize fabulous winnings. He rarely lost. Once, he won two thousand pesos in a week: that was a huge sum in 1947, and with minimal effort. We emphasize the obvious: gaming, especially playing dominoes, was turning into an insurmountable source of income and he, therefore, into a fearsome player, who, undefeated, challenged many: which many took him up on — good thing! let’s play! — whether as trembling contenders or devoted clientele, they never came out ahead. The result: a rather sordid fortune. And now, returning to the quotidian, let’s take a look at his cohabitation with his mother, who never tired of asking him about Renata, to which he responded: My love life is fine. Or: We’re taking a break to think things over. Her mother doesn’t want us to get married. She’s afraid of being left alone. Or: The mother is the obstacle. Or: I promised to go see her in September. By then I’ll know what she’s decided. Or: I’ve written her three letters and she hasn’t answered any of them. Or: It will all be resolved by September, but I think our love is on the right path. Or: Believe me, please. I never give up. Credible pretexts piling up or applied like a poultice that would soon become excessively soggy, for Demetrio showed neither signs of affliction nor the least urgency to travel thither, despite his pickup truck. The truth, awkward because so inexplicable, or rather the mistake of that accursed kiss on the back of her hand, would not be recounted until his mother, with her dose of adult and feminine intuition, would apply sweetly insistent pressure, which she was on the verge of doing, but …