Almost Never: A Novel

by Daniel Sada

  “I suppose she knows I got married.”

  “Yes, but once she confessed that she had hopes you would be widowed and return to Sacramento to marry her.”

  “Ah, now I understand, she sent you to tell me all this.”

  “So it is.”

  “Well, if I had realized this before …”

  “Abelardo, go to Sacramento! You would make that poor woman very happy. But don’t tell her you’re coming, okay? Just imagine what a surprise it will be.”

  A tricky hope, tempting from afar … Adventure, an injection of life. Spirit, exertion. Toward a stump that could not sprout, and now—new growth? Therefore, an obsolete trip: trains, boats, horse-drawn carriages, sweating, vexation, fatigue, and a sprinkling of folly to bring him back to life. Constructive caresses. Aged kisses like watery broths …

  The dismal truth was that Abelardo’s children visited him only when they needed money. Whenever he called to invite any of them over they, without exception, offered up excuses: that they were swamped; that they’d come later, which was synonymous with “we’ll see when,” and that “when” was never defined … Old age pays a high price, and there’s dross as well, and will continue to be, we could say, excremental, and how to make oneself loved or what spontaneity was needed for him to obtain filial love …

  Nothing, no irksome insistence …

  And when he thought about it with a clear head, Abelardo decided that this Zulemita would look after him wonderfully well for a couple of weeks.

  She would be generous if only because of that unrequited affection from so many years before …

  His Eminence figured he should go to Sacramento without telling anybody …

  A tenebrous disappearance … deliberate.

  We could say that the urge itself to travel in the face of so many crazy obstacles would be a path to rejuvenation.

  Base, struggling spirit.

  I will come back, I will, but, what if I like how Zulemita treats me?

  Two old folks helping each other live a little longer. Abelardo even played with the mad idea that his cousin—still in love?—would come to live with him in Mexico City.

  It was yet to be seen if …

  At least he would spend fifteen rewarding days, indeed!

  Find out if senile love made for resolute decision-making.

  There was also the possibility that his cousin would tell him to go to hell.

  22

  To descend one staircase then climb another that would take him much farther: Demetrio had found that this image portrayed—and summarized—his current plan. The hand-holding on the bench, as usual. No more than one half hour of decent love … A consequence of his showing up when she was not presentable … Thus the suitor had understood the need to schedule dates ahead of time. Because otherwise … too bad! … The subtleties of being out of favor, transformed into something that, fortunately on this occasion, became only a minor obstacle. Or rather the mother told the daughter: Go ahead, but I’m going to call you in … (already mentioned); resulting in: the consequences of haste: blocks of information from the suitor about his new job on the ranch out there in Sabinas; herewith we see the nature of the abbreviated because: his need to be near her so he could see her more frequently—how’s that? As it turned out, the half hour passed in a trice. Then the immaculately platitudinous good-byes we can well surmise: no embrace, no fleeting kiss (not even) on the sweetheart’s forehead: a most respectful one on the face (still so far away), nothing! then, damn, both their hands moving at chest level (arms bent) while he sketched out his plans to return to Sacramento soon to see her—see her! see her!! The looks in the eyes of two saints who, buried deep down in their spirits, longed to be a bit like dirty devils. But that’s another story.

  Finally, to avoid giving Doña Zulema the opportunity to air her lament about having remained a spinster (that night she had told her nephew the idyllic story about her and her second cousin, Dr. Abelardo Rubiales), let us set Demetrio down in Monclova, where we must picture a well-lit scene in a rural living room full of objects that conjure up the most presumptuous rusticity; the new employee, sitting with a bottle of beer in his hand, and his new boss, who never stopped eating canapés and drank nothing. They were discussing all the chores that needed to be carried out in the places under discussion. Demetrio would live at the ranch called La Mena, but he would have to pay daily visits to the ranches called El Origen and La Igualdad, for which he would have at his disposal a well-maintained pickup truck. A pickup truck he could also drive on weekends … ! What a boon, thought the one who had reason to think such thoughts, and still more: On Saturdays I can go to the red-light district in Sabinas, if there is one, and have Sundays free to visit Renata! To think so much: to get entangled only to get disentangled, easy as it goes, and, what a good job he had landed!

  23

  Two naked old people lying in a fairly narrow bed, caressing each other with almost trembling hands. They offered each other fear more than kisses on the lips. At first their quite puckered lips sought each other unstintingly … That is, first the fearful nakedness that they both ultimately imagined as shamelessness: to see each other’s drooping skin offered up to groping touches. It was important to be curled up horizontally next to each other. The bed creaked with each and every move.

  This between-the-sheets finale ended up being more lachrymose than throbbing. The sensual part occurred shortly after their encounter. Abelardo’s arrival, with a cane!: rather weary from the vicissitudes of his trip from Mexico City to this deserted and desolate place. Delayed recognition: the doctor (who boasted a quite graying quiff) was carrying his jacket over his forearm: he had to due to the heat: as he also had to loosen his tie and unbutton the collar of his shirt. An old-fashioned introduction, a bow, on the threshold of Zulema’s shop. We will spare ourselves the slow verbal rapprochement and go directly to the embrace, which we should posit as the very marrow of the thing, because it was the first one they had ever exchanged: Zulemita! … Abelardo! … What good fortune! After seeing each other’s wrinkles: it’s been so many years! For her this moment was more than unexpected, it was a sign from the above and beyond: God had willed it, and willed it well. The entire panorama of a lifetime, made to wait … Waiting behind a counter, always backpedaling, the heavy daily dullness, what could have been and—likewise—the waxing of what had been an irreparable youthful error … A life that stippled till it made shine what would literally become a deep fissure at the peak, this while they embraced. Finally, that the embrace would be the longed-for summation, above all for Zulema, who resisted letting go; and she won the day because when it came to physical strength she had much more of it than he, and what’s more: she was holding him up—careful! the cane lying on the ground. And words of love now as flowing as song: words repressed for half a century or more. To not let go of his aged wrist—no! Even if he tried, his efforts were, if we may say so, pathetic! … Whereby Abelardo had no choice but to demand, with plaintive tenderness: Let go of me, my love! and she—how wretched!—had to do as she was told.

  More catching up in the kitchen. Everything that had settled like pirouettes of fog over long years and without a chance of clearing, all Zulema’s fault. That relative who came to tell me about you should have done so when I was a student. Now I am a widower and I have children and grandchildren, Abelardo proclaimed, then added in a phony tone: I always loved you, Zulemita, even though you were my cousin. There was no forgiving herself the blunder, now immense, the result of her recondite small-town candor. A regret to be churned in her stomach juices, never to be expelled.

  But there they were, facing each other. No point in talking much now. They chose to wallow in carnal delights. Naked—anon! the silent exchange. Zulema took the initiative and unbuttoned her blouse. In response, he dropped his trousers. A jumble of garments strewn across the floor. Portents of ultimate disorder, even more so if viewed from above: O collage! Nevertheless, what we now see are the difficulties of divestme
nt, more for him than for her, because standing on his feet without his cane—how was he supposed to keep his balance? But he did—really! A matter of dignity, of heroics, except his shoes: their removal—a risky business? That should take place while they were seated on the edge of the bed. Zulema, on the other hand, naked from head to toe in the kitchen. The rest can be inferred. Promptly, then, came the pleasure of the naked embrace, so full of tenderness and so abiding, though: it couldn’t move forward, for Abelardo simply couldn’t, confound it, no matter how hard he tried, and what a pity that he was unable—proof positive—to induce even a subtle erection. Nor did she particularly crave vivacious penetration. Hence the solution was to curl into cuddles from head to toe, extensive pathways for meandering hands that—onward! erred then found their way again. Anarchic displacements or, rather, trembling activity that slowly turned into very concrete circles drawn with index fingers on bellies, chests, arms, faces, and that’s all. Their sexes—no way!—rather to respect them, to pay homage to his impotence. The naked sacred attaining a higher ground, and thus three days were spent. Zulema closed the store on his suggestion. When we say “three days” we wish to emphasize the consistency of their routine, which included eating, sleeping, and talking, this last one wrapped in each other’s arms in bed: an ascendant life fitted onto a flat one, that is: always naked, with an ever-increasing tendency toward the detailed familiarity with such a plenitude of wrinkles, but also in their many or few achievements during the long years they had been passing through. So, the finishing touch, bodies for the long haul (now), as well as lives whose paths diverged like two branches growing from the same trunk. Essential trunk, blood: cousins, disgrace, penury, and the impossibility of knowing that never—never! God forbid! even when it was not unheard of for some family members to marry and have normal children. Anyway, holed up for three days during which the amusing—and fascinating—part was to watch Abelardo naked and using his cane to move around from here to there; of course she couldn’t laugh, for she was ecstatic, and he upon seeing her broad hips, her dropping flesh, likewise her breasts, like balls of socks, he had to hold back his urge to let out a giggle, a weak, sickly one, because on one of those afternoons he confessed to her that he hadn’t been feeling well for the last few months, and this certainly was quite crucial, for on the third night, while both were sleeping in perfect peace, she awoke around three in the morning after feeling that Abelardo’s body had grown quite cold. She touched him with her usual tenderness and was overwhelmed by terror; she shouted, shook, then placed her ear against his chest, and no, no beat. The aged gallant had died … Aaaaayyyyy … No matter, she tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, a kiss with consequences, and nothing—nothing! He showed no sign of gratitude. Then came Zulema’s subconscious howl hurled to the winds. Her closest neighbors were far away and in between were courtyards, orchards, thatch. So unless she immediately got dressed and went out to the street and screamed like a madwoman, disturbing all the sleep surrounding her, the best thing would be to await the dawn. In the other room … to attempt to doze in the other bed … She couldn’t. Poor thing! What unfortunate love! What a dire circumstance!

  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!”

  24

  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 w
ondrously 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.

  25

  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.