by Daniel Sada
“I warned you, that’s how women from Sacramento are, but I think it’s worth your while to be patient.”
“You know what, Auntie, I don’t want to hear about it anymore. Renata and I agreed to see each other tomorrow. Now I want to be alone. I want to take a walk through town, climb a hill, I don’t know, watch the sunset, and then see what stars come out at night; I think it will do me good to look at the moon for a good long while. I want to think, understand, because I am starting to despair.”
“Do whatever you want. I’m going to give you a copy of the key to the house, and as you know, you can come back whenever you feel like it.”
The moon. The scrublands. The gray and luminous hills. The desert ground to sleep on, as he had done days before, the suitcase: O pillow! O companion! Resolve. Apathy. Desire. But first, to dress appropriately: a short-sleeved shirt for wandering around, a T-shirt, in fact, a trifle bought just in case, or just because. In Monclova he had also bought a new suitcase for his new clothes, which, without a second thought, he had left at Doña Zulema’s house. And where to next? Wheresoever to gird himself, to build up resistance against his circumstantial sorrow, but alone, absorb some kind of new and suggestive blessedness. So he ambled, dined in a tavern—a mendacious plate—then resumed his deliberate aimlessness. No dearth of onlookers watched him depart: hie to the hills, to hell with it all! The moon: light from a waning crescent (no trace of a path), and onward he trudged, trying to find his way. He wished that the night would silence all sounds then awaken his grief and sorrow with a tenuous tinkling. One footstep after another along the path to purification. It was not long before he found a small rise. There he sat. The sparse and far-off lights of Sacramento were also his own sparse flashes, already embossed upon the darkness. Drifting distances; he, extraneous: a fleeing spirit unable to glimpse a center or a refuge along the edges or a place beyond. His ideas failed to flow, but his soul … what weight? Barely any: a formless mass that would never be shaped. A hefty mass of flesh, a medley of legs, breasts, asses, and two faces: Renata’s and Mireya’s: heaven and hell, sanctity and sin, eternal and circumstantial, ruthless struggle and mere toy, but only one really deep intersection, an arid depth, and therein the absurd. If Demetrio kept thinking, he’d turn bright red and break out in tears, because any and every choice might prove fatal. Be that as it may, he had now firmly settled into the enigma of true love, love that placed the most impossible obstacles in the way, and to what end: to reach a cloud? the peak of a mountain? a star? Desire submerged in another desire and hence legions and thereby diminished, until ultimately it wouldn’t know what it was or could be.
There perchance to sleep, sunk in abstractions.
May sleep fix without twisting the purpose.
May sleep strip Renata naked.
To see that saint naked. See her begging for sex.
If only!
Okay, okay, let’s say that happened, that sleep brought him something of the sort. Maybe not the beauty’s full nudity, but how about a sacred hand, offered forth: take hold! pa-leeze take hold! Renata ordered him in a quite implausibly beseeching tone: take hold, my love! And he did so as if it were a phantasmagoric piece of flesh. The more caresses offered the more doubts arose, the more improbable ripening, all for the worst … the entwined hands started to rot. When Demetrio awoke he stood up at attention like a soldier and quickly made his way back to Sacramento.
Maybe Doña Zulema wouldn’t notice his arrival. Not a chance. She, so understanding, wouldn’t dream of daring to ask him where he had spent the night. Surely on a bench in the plaza, or in some vacant lot, or in the hills, or—who knows! In fact, she remained resolutely silent: upon seeing him arrive she gave him a hug and that was all. He did not offer excuses, nor did he explain anything (it was nine in the morning). Though it is true that during the embrace he gave her a few very nice strokes on her head, her arms, her back, and:
“Do you want some breakfast?”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“What are your plans till this afternoon?”
“I want to be alone.”
Alone. To waste time. Demetrio shut himself up in a room jam-packed with statuettes and pictures of saints. Such a moral, recriminating menace: and: what he did was turn all their backs to him. They deserved it! or didn’t they? Their ignorance versus … let’s see … Our lover’s levels of abstract thinking never went very far. Never, definitely, did they take a definite tack. Hence ensued the compensatory masturbation. Action rather than reflection. He fully savored the act and upon feeling the smudge of semen on his fingers he said to himself: I’m becoming a chaos … but I don’t care. He wiped himself off with a corner of the quilt: disgusting!, and he rested—now, finally—and smiled, what a sin onanism was, how peculiar! A sin that consumes itself. Futile fount and for that very reason, extraordinary … and grotesque, and devoid of mystery! which is why later—once again? Thrice Doña Zulema knocked on the door, but only the last time did she ask him the following (take note of the respect, the not-opening, the not-being-offensive):
“Are you going to stay in there? Don’t you want to eat something?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine. Leave me alone!”
He masturbated twice more, though, to tell the truth, these were not as pleasurable as the first. Then, at about three in the afternoon, Demetrio went out. He felt like washing with bucketfuls galore. His aunt filled up four, that was all she had. The nephew, however, remained a long time in the washroom and she took on the task of inspecting, by stealth, the other room. She saw the saints with their backs turned—what now? perversity behind closed doors? really? Her nephew, happy or unhappy, naked … perhaps … but … whatever’s wrong with that? And, making a modest inference, she mused that masturbation … let’s see, let’s see … is natural for a man, as long as he doesn’t take advantage of the privilege—what else could she conclude? Then—oh, darn!—the evidence: the soiled quilt; a whitish stain, which, when looked at up close—oh!: in it Doña Zulema saw the seed of children, grandnephews, but also of less-than-well-corresponded love, or despair, or spiritual sorrow, or—damn! why such a fuss. Three stains on the quilt, that is, three masturbations and—how disgusting! (already said) especially after making up the bed with new sheets and a new quilt. Be that as it may, no reproaches, no obsessing. What’s more, she did not inspect the suitcases. She could have opened them, for both were closed with only a metal clasp, but …
Now we really must betake ourselves to the much-anticipated tryst. Exquisite presentation. Renata wore a quince-colored dress that sparkled with every move she made, and he a jacket and tie and, indeed, a Mediterranean-blue long-sleeved shirt; no, not a new bouquet of lilies—obviously! bad luck—remember?—; but his suitcase, now an inseparable part of him.
“What a shock you gave me. Why have you come at this time of year? I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Guess what? I no longer live and work in Oaxaca. I had a big fight with my boss and I decided to quit and go live with my mother in Parras. I will find work there.”
“So, you didn’t receive my letter.”
“You wrote me a letter?”
“Yes, a very long letter.”
“No, I didn’t. As soon as I quit my job, I left for Parras because my boss paid me right away.”
“Will you return to Oaxaca?”
“I don’t plan to … But tell me, please, what did you write in your letter?”
“As I said, it was very long. In it I explained some of the reasons I want our courtship to proceed so slowly. I need to be sure this is serious. If you want me to, I can promise that I’ll be yours forever, that you will be the only man of my life, that all my hopes will be placed in you. But, like I said …”
“You told me I would be able to hold your hand on this visit.”
“Yes, hold it, Demetrio, but that’s all, because otherwise I’ll feel terrible.”
“You needn’t worry. I am a gentleman, and you mean too much to me to r
uin everything. I long to learn to love you as you want me to.”
“Maybe you think I’m stuck-up, but try to understand that I am a woman of principles.”
“Yes, I can see that, and that’s what I like most about you: your modesty, your sincerity.”
“My mother is watching us! Look to your right, you’ll see.”
Demetrio did as he was told and … indeed.
“But take my hand, my love, here, below.”
“My love.” Where did that expression come from? From her soul or her conscious mind? And to obey and … already culminating in a feat: below. Desire: barely: a punctiliousness that summed up in a split second all the exhausting trips, everything turned topsy-turvy and reduced to a frenzy of initiation! Then crowned by a trembling and fascinated fingering. The concrete that sates, that calms. The here and now so small yet so glorious. Sanctified flesh worth examining eagerly though with restraint, this game of fingers and palms and endless limitations. Silence designed to stir up fervent feelings and promising portents. A moral path strewn with caresses of sluggish though benevolent beginnings, a steady climb, then suddenly:
“And that suitcase?”
“That’s where I keep my money … Do you want me to open it and show you all the money my boss gave me?”
“I don’t know, that’s your affair. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
“There are no banks in Parras … The truth is, I don’t know where to deposit the cash … I was so anxious to see you, I carried it the whole way.”
“Why didn’t you leave the money at your mother’s house? It seems very risky to carry it around.”
“It didn’t occur to me. I was in Parras for only a few hours, then I came here. I didn’t even consider leaving it with my mother.”
“You shouldn’t walk around with that much money.”
“I’ll soon come up with a solution. I can find my way in the world. I have always been a very practical man.”
Renata smiled, as if wanting to change the subject. We must remember that never, except at the wedding dance, had she looked him in the eyes. Decency as a heavenly abstraction yet one with an endless number of perhaps-too-concrete foundations, among which figures flirtation, ergo: head-on or, rather, defenseless insolence: never! what? still to come a long lapse before her eyes could feast upon those of her beloved, which would then mark an abject and absolute surrender: and—ugh! later, later … a later marked by a construct of desires so intricate it formed an impressive honeycomb. Nonetheless, with head downturned, Renata incited him to say pretty things, one after the other, what the hell!, and without improvised creativity, as it were: never would he act the fool and blurt out thoughts that might sound offensive, for being randy; on the contrary, in the end, rather staid sweet nothings, credible, but—how?
There should be no ripe emoting when one is humble in love, humble if a giant and in the presence of a beautiful woman, almost custom made, though somewhat short of stature; humble intentionally or merely a coward for restricting himself to a lexicon that projects pure sweetness, sweetness and extreme caution, even in his tone of voice. An attempt at emotional constriction would be useful. Like shrinking then growing through words. Demetrio wanted, he said, and then he faltered. To force himself to think about the power of velvets or silk, that’s where it all started: oh, he was so insecure, and in the end he realized that the cadence of his caresses on that saintly hand would set a pattern for him that would allow something important to come out of his mouth. He could, but—was he pretending? He could, he was strutting his stuff, as if he were writing a letter with careful calligraphy; and Renata, though gratified, clammed up even more. There were many limits to the fondling (the border: the wrist; the forearm: never!) as well as verbal limits (never speak about a kiss anywhere; never speak about nudity—right? even indirectly), a careful search through simplicity, a temerity that was simply boring. A slow burn, but effective. A dreadfully proper middle ground—right? For a long time even keeled and stellar, until a boy came to tell Renata that her mother had said her time was up. The abrupt ending was that ugly. Remember the reserves of decency: its benefits understood. Yet, the promise: tomorrow again, there—ah! at five in the afternoon. Agreed. And each to his or her own … downhill, we might say, for both had managed to see, if not a towering peak, at least a small romantic hillock, made unforgettable by the contact, which there certainly was, that premise of hands that love each other. For Demetrio, arriving at his aunt’s house was like arriving at a palace in penumbra, where a gray-haired woman, like a decrepit old housekeeper, came to greet him and insisted on embracing him because she saw him arrive almost with a spring in his step and almost smiling, and he, of course, resisted—leave me alone! don’t touch me!—for this was not the moment to receive a doddering clasp. Doña Zulema froze. She trembled when she said that dinner was ready. No doubt, the aunt’s diligence during her nephew’s last two visits was notable. The ostentatious hostess had, as was only proper, demoted the store to second place and had no qualms about closing it so that she could play the part of the accommodating cook: she prepared café con leche, bought their daily bread, made a stew, and, most significantly: kept the cord of her discretion tied, that is: her efforts to reel in her curiosity, so as not to ask questions about the progress of the courtship nor insist once and for all upon a full explanation of what had gone on in Oaxaca. Regarding this last bit, the most curious part was her nephew’s inexplicable zeal to hold on to the aforementioned suitcase: money? a pistol? what monstrous thing? Could be a question of self-inflicted punishment that resulted in the subtle affability Demetrio was beginning to value. No hint of reproach when the aforesaid decided to spend the entire night out. On the contrary, the tendering of a copy of the house key, the placing of great trust, and the longing for a celebratory embrace each time he returned. Perhaps Doña Zulema wished to see in that great big man the son she never had. Son-king or pampered prince, powerful though absentminded, or a struggling warrior, tender and somewhat inexperienced in everything. Nonetheless, during dinner it was Demetrio who aired a concern related to the future of his love affair:
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go back to Parras or Oaxaca. I want to find work around here, but I don’t know where to look.”
“You really want to stay here?”
“Yes, because I want to be near Renata.”
“Listen, there’s a very rich gentleman in Monclova who owns, among other things, many ranches. Once in a while he comes here because he has a property near Sacramento that he’s neglected, according to what I’ve heard.”
“And you, how do you know him?”
“I’ve known him since we were children. He was a classmate of mine at school and he always stops by to visit me. He comes to my store for a refreshment, and we talk.”
“Was there ever anything between you?”
“I never wanted him. When we were young he tried, but he finally realized that we were better off as friends and, well, I agreed with him there. He married very well, he has eight children and a ton of grandchildren.”
“Sounds good! How can I get in touch with him?”
“I have his address in Monclova. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to pay him a visit. His name is Delfín Guajardo.”
“I’ll go tomorrow. That way I can also deposit most of my money in a bank there.”
“Money? What money?”
“The money in my suitcase. It’s part of my earnings and my savings.”
The mystery now solved. No further comment. No backhanded reproach about the risk of … never! In response, finally, Demetrio’s impulse: to check his suitcase: to go, to know. He knew. And, as his gratitude remained unmitigated, he took the initiative to embrace his aunt. She was happy. A magnificent hostess, and something else besides: the taking-shape of enduring respect, as opposed to Doña Telma, oh, that meddlesome mother, so insolent. On the contrary … he just wanted to check if the fifteen fat bundles of banknotes inside the suitcase
remained intact … Ugh! a crude memory of his accounting: and: the aunt could have taken two while Demetrio was bathing. Careless of him, in fact, at a glance, to have left it: yesterday: oh. Though, all told, he would have forgiven his hostess for swiping five bills or so, why even check? Better to plant a kiss on her cheek, a slightly salivary smack. Which he did: muuuuaaagh! And her delight redoubled; she: squeezed: then surrendered, a cuddled make-believe mother; she: her feelings and her charm abloom.
19
One less problem …
Around 1946 a wide road began to appear between Ocampo and Monclova. We are talking about a sixty-mile stretch, more or less, through the principal population centers of Coahuila’s central region. For some time there had been occasional stretches with gravel that filled those who drove on them with hope for the future, but mostly rough ground prevailed, a series of disorienting winding roads that few knew well and that others, without even a basic layout, wouldn’t risk. In any case, the direction you chose was determined by finding raised vistas, rather than the (always imprecise) points of the compass: to wit: what was in back of, or ahead of, or adjacent to, on the right or the left, and otherwise one’s bearings, the difficult verticality, finding one’s way by day, of course, for the threat of a fiasco if night fell smack in the middle of the trip, all that adversity and all that viability, but more adversity: those roads lacked uniformity, they got wider, then narrower, potholes abounded; so we can picture carriages, carts—and very infrequently funny-looking buses and cars, not to mention serious trucks and pickups—a to-ing and a fro-ing, which indicated that few dared make long trips. From Ocampo to Monclova: a challenge—who would do it?! Even from Sacramento to Ocampo, because if you take into account the innumerable and capricious twists and turns … well, let’s start with the idea that a straight line from Sacramento to Monclova was approximately twenty miles and from Sacramento to Ocampo about forty-five, but with so many curves, most of them unnecessary, and moreover poorly built, let’s see—how many miles does that add? Clearly, as far as the dirt road was concerned, one must consider verticalities. Clearly, the sixty-five-mile-long ribbon of a road had to wind through three or four canyons and squeeze through a mountain gorge, and there indeed, the curves—hopeless! but the remaining stretch: the desert plain … True, the engineers had to use their best judgment to save miles, and, back to the main point, let’s just say that the shorter the road the better—right? The practical must triumph, per usual. And the practical in this case was to get people off the train. Or, to allow people to travel farther and with less chagrin. So they could come and go in a day from one place to another without any problems, regardless of the distances specified above. That said, the pith of the previous digression was that when Demetrio traveled by train to Monclova he saw through the window some impressive motor graders in full operation working on the road, right in the Cañón del Carmen, between La Polka and Celemania. His traveling companion, a man of about fifty, told him that the road would be finished by the beginning of 1947, according to the state government. A huge step toward modernity. In the same breath he mentioned that after its inauguration a bus company would immediately place in circulation a large number of very well-equipped vehicles, and perhaps a short while later it would become a flourishing highway. Another significant advance. Finally. What follows now is Demetrio’s resulting commentary: