Almost Never: A Novel

by Daniel Sada

  The onslaught of questions slowly sputtered out, the thoughts and silences turning into undertows and aftershocks: thus their separate obstinacies sharpened, chafing, though all appeared vague and at crosscurrents, until Mireya came upon a clearing in her mind: I don’t want to live with your mother. Kerplunk! We insist that her declaration was as contingent as the journey itself. To wit, let’s frame the scene as if we were viewing it from a certain height and through a lens: dapper Professor Demetrio (under duress) dealing with a pupil who needed repeated explanations as simple as they were definitive; the pressing needs: a house of their own; independence, as well as, and needless to say, distance. Yes, as it were, it would be fine to meet his mother, but Mireya suggested that she would like to live in a city with a dependable hospital, a Mexican city, that is: on this side—never the other! She also asserted that she would need two full-time servants and other minor requisites that may well have felt like prods. And her missteps kept multiplying. Hostility, but … longing for a taste, seeking the mouth that kisses, and as Demetrio didn’t want to look at her, imagine how stubbornly he stared out the window, and all Mireya could do was stroke his neck, from behind—how embarrassing! and so it continued without a hint of even a rude response. On the contrary: a vigorous recoiling, a deeper and deeper retreat: Demetrio elaborating a quite injurious plan: first and foremost, to disentangle himself: oh dear!: gradually deciding how: an uncertainty that would have to last till a none-too-easy determination grew darker and darker. The sun was long in setting. It would have to be carried out shortly after boarding the train to Saltillo. Night was, would be, different. They would both sleep in their seats, first-class seats, to wit: cushioned and cozy: sinking softly, and much farther down than on the bus. It would come and … The agronomist, in the meantime, established a rule that he would no longer kiss her on the mouth, no more frolicking tongues or lips, nothing, not even a puckered peck. Well, maybe an inadvertent one, okay, but no holding of waists, nor clutching of hands, for any length of time. A victory over discomfort. Chilly exchanges, few words. We find ourselves now on the train platform in Mexico City, where Demetrio finally spoke lightheartedly: We are going on a very long trip. We might be on that train for thirty hours, even more. Tomorrow we’ll be in Saltillo, and I’m thinking maybe we can live there. Saltillo has everything: servants, first-rate hospitals, jobs. Things will go swimmingly for us there. My idea is to stay in a decent hotel, and from there we’ll see. This wasn’t what he meant but rather something much subtler: the pretense of very certain courage.

  Night. A long and continuous slumber! Utmost to arrange, before boarding, the purchase of sedatives so they could sleep at least ten hours. They wandered around and found, and also bought, sandwiches as well as a generous helping of dulce de leche candies and candied peanuts. Necessary baggage, a semblance of abundance—undoubtedly!? Once seated they ate their fill, and the train departed. They would sleep sitting down but—careful!—: not snuggled up against each other, only their eyes told the adjacent passengers—what?, let’s see, that they really loved each other? No, no point in that. Just the shared sweats, the bother of wiping away ticklish trickles in full snooze: how awkward to awaken like that! Demetrio’s strategy consisted of maintaining a certain distance, which enabled him to rise from his seat whenever he pleased and thereby avoid, needless to say, waking the brunette. Hence the contemplative strolls up and down the train corridors. To caper at will … ah: he would dare, he would do it, he would get off at one of the next stations, but not before ascertaining that Mireya was completely unconscious.

  The aforesaid should also be considered in light of other details: once they were filled full of sandwiches (two each), and traditional sweets (three each), they swallowed the sleeping pills as planned. Mireya took two: the prescribed dose, according to Demetrio. And he, well, he only pretended to ingest his. He did not swallow what she did. Rather, he held the pills on his tongue, tolerating the bitterness as well as he could or, more precisely, until he saw his sex goddess asleep. Eight or nine minutes passed, a lapse filled with disagreeable disintegration, a matter of discipline, until finally—out, out, you tiny yellow pills!: remove them and place them in his shirt pocket and all set and remain calm, had to, because when he asked the ticket inspector how long it would be before they got to the next station, he heard him whisper, an hour more or less, God willing … So, an hour of intellectual proliferation. The fading of the Oaxacan chapters. What had been a plethora and might never be repeated. Nevertheless, the almost outstanding future: to live with a whore—what?!—besides building her a house and continuing to struggle for a happiness that, how could it ever be; a heroic feat, indeed, such a red-hot entanglement everlasting and so to do one’s duty, comply! Comply for years with the crass obligation of screwing consistently, and when their old age came upon them, to what end alas. Moreover, the kid? What would become of him? Ugh! Nervously awaiting the birth to see a resemblance, if any: his eyes, her mouth; his nose, her eyebrows, or some other less obvious physiological repartition, that, yes, ultimately, or maybe nothing, and then what? Mellifluous life … A growing doubt … Little certainty that mattered … Not that, absolutely not, right? It was not in Demetrio’s interest to do something so far removed from his sentimental convictions. Nevertheless, he began to caress the hair of the sleeping, defeated woman, as if he were petting a cat, and it was palpable that in the depths of that lascivious soul there resided a spirit filled with goodness. The occult part of an occult faith that can reach great heights. Perhaps hidden within was the lushest honesty, but the scoria … so many layers of depravity … sex that refines eternal vibrations … So no, flat-out, no, right? To leave her there asleep would not be tragic but rather the natural upshot of a steamy transaction. For his part, he hoped Mireya would arrive safely in Saltillo. Certainly finding herself in a bind—indeed—she wouldn’t be so foolish as to not find a job as a first-rate whore. Dignity, pure and marvelous, right? Even Demetrio had faith that she would become a queen overnight, an unparalleled goddess of pleasure, in whatever house of prostitution she found. With such a body … In fact, and viewing things from a different angle, the moment she awoke, her lover wouldn’t be there, but she still had four headcheese sandwiches, six dulce de leche candies, and four bags of candied peanuts, as well as a surprise of some consequence: a big wad of bills. Demetrio, before detraining at the next station, will have carefully placed the aforementioned wad in her bra. Therewith, we reach an appropriate place to tie things up.

  And now we can open, unfurl …

  He waited at the top of the stairs, money-filled suitcase in hand. Lights were visible in the nocturnal distance: a forlorn hamlet. His arrival, like attrition. At that station, virtually virtual, seven people descended, among them Demetrio, who once his feet touched the ground quickened his pace without planning his route in the slightest. There was a flicker as of embers in the distance and a bright gas lamp in the station … In 1946 only 40 percent of the country had permanent electric lighting … Here, therefore, none: not even a shy sixty-watt bulb, only (and perhaps to the agronomist’s benefit) the merest glimmer: a flame cipher, or barely a brushstroke: such weaknesses everywhere, all the more reason to fling himself headlong into the hazard of the haphazard. Quickly now, propelled forward by the dread of Mireya perking up and pursuing him in a panic: a futile pursuit through the darkness, fruitless clamors; and Demetrio’s tentative advance, wishing only to secure for himself an enveloping and beneficent silence. One thing he knew: not to return to the station, where the brunette might be lying in wait.

  Such a thought brought heavy perspiration. Onward, onward: trouble: barking dogs: an explosion of barks, but no sign of agile bodies eager to bite, and Demetrio: cautious: where could he go risk free? Avoid the mud huts, scattered about or clumped together on the wavering horizon. The only adobe building was the train station. Would knowledge of the hamlet’s name be useful? Should he find it out? Better to take to the hills.

  If the constant b
arking frightened him, hearing a voice would have frightened him even more, for to be found soon, a shamefaced discovery, especially with that suitcase full of banknotes, for then: aha, a holdup, aha: to explain why he’d fled: the simplest deduction if captured by more than one. Also, a holdup in such a forsaken setting: divvying up the loot in the dark among the lucky locals: an oblique hypothesis … so improbable. Or maybe they’d call to him from afar: Sir, we have your wife here!!! Come get her, please!!! Or even: Sir, your wife is crying. Don’t leave. Don’t abandon her!!!! In that case, undoubtedly, the brunette would wait at the station until they caught the irresponsible wayfarer: the hunt on horseback, and Godspeed! and with a pack of dogs to sniff him out … At such a thought, Demetrio hastened his pace as much as he could: bad, good, and again bad or rather unhappy, for he could hear the pounding of his own heart as well his own footfalls: would speed resound?: this question slowed him down, then more beats and more steps if only to establish a definitive distance from any such mishap. Before him lay the curve of the night, punctuated by a chaos of stars. No more flickers of huts, nor qualms arising from them. It was good to see a hint of the moon in the crown of a tree. Our wayfarer had to pass that apparition for any relief. He still had a long way to savor it, though suddenly he stopped, because carrying that suitcase … No, he didn’t want to look back, it would be a bad omen. Hence, he set his sights north … where else? The remaining traces of light showed him silhouettes of cacti, huisache, and a rough and tangled tumbleweed, and farther on—perhaps—a jumble of scrub. He knew to avoid such shapes because coiled snakes were known to doze beneath them, his ranch experience now coming in quite handy. As for wanting to sleep, he would have to do so on a flat patch far from any underbrush or spiny shapes, on the hard ground, seen for what it was. But, where could he find such a spot? How much farther had he to go? Demetrio walked about two and a half miles and finally … He could use his suitcase as a pillow. We must take into account the cold winds, and he jacketless and … To sleep exposed but with the certainty that nobody was pursuing him. Otherwise he would have already been found! Demetrio thought he discerned flashing lights behind him: rude and provocative shouts ordering him to stop, or else … Well, let’s imagine shots from a rifle or a pistol, aggressive houndings, a clamor from behind—is that all? In the end, rejected hypotheticals in favor of commodious accommodations, to stretch out fully across the hide of the earth. He’d surely have aches and pains the next morning for not having lain on any padding whatsoever. Demetrio in the guise of a log, and overhead, a world of unknowns: coyotes might approach while he slept. A sniff or two, then gone: contingencies. He would remain rigidly still if he happened to open his eyes. Maybe keep within reach … To be attacked would be quite unfortunate, but why steep oneself in fear?

  Next: the glow of a piquant sun. At the caress of its first rays Demetrio made ready to rise and start walking. Achy grumblings, indeed, but how much greater the suffering if he failed by the end of that day to reach a town, one with a hotel. A tall order, but if we consider it under a different light, maybe returning to the train station wasn’t such a bad idea, now that he was convinced he’d encounter no trouble. In fact: from that moment on his intuition would be his guide. So vast were his surroundings that merely locating a hill would offer comfort: and: to walk in that direction. Cottages here, train tracks there. He decided to head in the direction of the nearest hill, and as he walked he began to recite the Lord’s Prayer: so—phew! not since he attended church with his parents as a child, he didn’t even remember it, he made it up as he went along, and as he didn’t want his entreaties to be bogus, he simply muttered again and again, God, help me. Now we can take an even broader view: a man measuring more than six feet tall walking through the desert carrying a suitcase. Miles: three, five, to which we’d have to add the first signs of thirst. Fortunately, he came upon some cottages at the foot of the aforementioned hill. He received a peaceable welcome. The arrival of an enormous and unexpected visitor who, of course, asked for water. He spoke Spanish—really?! How could a local peasant imagine that a man of such magnitude would speak this language of ours without stumbling? With a different accent, to be sure, but not haltingly. And they posed the question that you and I (and others) can already guess: what was he doing in those parts, and so—must he lie? We’d guess as much, though that he did so with misgivings. The need for an untruth, even one pulled out of his sleeve. Here are the good bits: they were chasing him; he ran like the devil, leaped like a gazelle (though carrying a suitcase, packed with personal papers); he changed direction ten times to shake off the three or four villains (perhaps killers; no, not that, because they didn’t shoot at him); they probably called off their pursuit when they finally lost his trail. And in response to a key question from a young sombreroed man as to the reason for the chase, the recent arrival said his pursuers had confused him with another man of his same height, one who had fled in a different direction, one who was carrying a hefty sack, indeed, and the contents—eh? what were they? and the answer: I don’t have a clue! The sprinkling of questions soon abating met with a bittersweet counterpoint of lies? Yes, which he had to maintain until he reached a village: a fully fluent supersized scammer, aware that any sharp query, formulated by any tomdickorharry, would be like an itch that would mean a pathetic scratching: almost a swelling. So, at least at this impasse, luck in the abstract seemed to take the form of a redeeming angel, the one who had accompanied him from the moment he got off the train. Because the peasants believed him, out of pity, or tenderness, but they believed him nonetheless, or better yet, they forgave him, so much so that nobody dared ask him to open the suitcase. A pistol inside: a real probability, or an unhealthful mystery. Better to meet the unknown with meekness. Better to enter the realm of respect, and a small dose of decency, don’t you think? Nor did he receive any indirect abuse, no suspicion, nothing, for as he appeared, he appeared to be a good man, just to hear his woeful voice … The luck of the crossroads!, merciful … Back to the important subject: when the visitor asked the whereabouts of the closest town, a peasant said there was one about twenty-five miles away, and another offered to take him on his burro to a dirt road where passed trucks and people on horseback, if only rarely. A head start of six-odd miles: some sort of favor, but—oh prodigy of prodigies! For Demetrio was born under a lucky star, and now its luster was beginning to be felt, a beneficent and honed luster it turned out to be.

  A burgeoning lie becomes a crass albeit pleasant reality. Watching that duo atop a burro retreating into the distance must have greatly amused those peasants. Poor burro carrying a dwarf and a giant, an unexpected oddity in that open country: the giant’s feet constantly brushing against the ground, inevitable: glorious dust, a yellow seam sewn by hooves and feet: an image soon to become a faint point before it disappeared. Few questions along the way, rather comments from one or the other but not about the pursuit. The conversation, such as it was, was too oblique to matter; in fact, there’s no point in mentioning even a sentence at random, or rather, if you’ll forgive me, perhaps only those spoken upon parting.

  “Well, sir, here’s where I leave you. I hope all goes well by you.”

  “Thank you very much, really. I am very touched by all you have done for me.”

  “Good-bye and good luck!”

  This apparent conclusion to the episode was the sign of an almost unbelievable elucidation, in which the coming mishap implied roads going in all directions: how could Demetrio be certain that trucks and men on horseback passed by here. His four-hour wait was weighty (as bad as that sounds), and nothing, and then hunger and anguish, thirst as well, for the sun had baked him dry. He was sweating, he was trembling. Then he remembered the money in his suitcase—would it sweat? A drenching. A softening. What was going on in there? So he opened it, just to see: yes: humidity, the dangerous eventuality that the money would be worthless if it began to fall apart. Gripped by such fears, the wayfarer grew more and more concerned at the unlikelihood of a t
ruck picking him up to carry him to village x. Unless all that stuff about a village was those folks’ idea of a joke, uh-oh, he was talking himself into an ill-fated end: going the way of dry toast … Getting toasted, indeed: iron willed and gullible. Something extraordinary would have to happen before evening: salvation like a hanging bough, but for hours not even the distant hum of an engine, nor of horse’s hooves, nor of any phenomenon that might bubble up into a mirage. The process of penitence, for having done what he had done, while his body’s stuffing was already wadding up from hunger and thirst, so much so that taking even mincing steps was as painstaking as trying to climb a eucalyptus tree would be for an obese man.

  Evening came and nothing.

  Night came and nothing.

  Falling asleep in spite of himself, impotently … Making do with the gravel of the road … Better to be resigned to vanquished immobility than attempt …