Almost Never: A Novel

by Daniel Sada

  After dropping the letter in the mailbox, she was left with her resulting pangs of conscience, her wish for the letter to arrive directly into Demetrio’s hands … Hmm, Renata was certain he wouldn’t be able to make out her handwriting, but it would be enough for him to read her name, writ large at the end, as well as the “I still love you, my love,” another flourish, and that was that.

  32

  He seemed like a god, it was unbelievable, by the middle of October, Demetrio had lost only ten rounds of dominoes out of the three hundred—odd games he had played at the Centro Social Parrense. At first it was the sly, perhaps sinful passivity of the game, but soon he derived frolicking fun from betting small sums, then defiantly raising the stakes to liven up the entertainment, viewing it almost as a way of life, as legitimate as going to work every day, a life Demetrio was adapting to better than most: becoming ever more skillful as night after night he employed new winning strategies, in addition to his absolute trust in his own lucky star, which meant he always drew good tiles no matter how gently or roughly his rivals shuffled them; hence every player wanted to be his partner to guarantee x amount of winnings and, to sum things up, the big guy won tons of money and daily deposits ensued … In 1947 in Parras there was an establishment that offered the services of a savings-and-loan; two years later it had become more sophisticated after moving and hiring more employees; it still wasn’t a proper bank, but people called it a bank, for none dared call it a savings-and-loan … Anyway, back to Demetrio, who we said was making hefty deposits, a total of fifteen thousand pesos in thirty weeks: just right for a more or less grandiose investment. The brakes were put on, however, in two ways: the most important being an agreement among the most frequently defeated players: a group of twenty confronted him and told him that nobody was willing to play against him anymore, especially when a juicy bet was on the table: We’re tired of losing, said the brawniest one. To Demetrio’s great disappointment he could no longer strut his stuff and had no choice but to do something productive. The second time the brakes were put on was more crushing: Píndaro Macías, the mayor, outlawed gambling, not only at that club but also throughout the entire territory over which he reigned. This was because the big boss had played and lost. He had become a (daily) gambler and, never particularly adept at that particular art, well, there you have it; he also considered himself a visionary with long antennae, and he surmised that to continue to allow gambling of any kind would inevitably lead to social decay, which would translate into an infinite number of regrettable events, so he pulled prohibition out of his hat and ushered in, naturally, the downfall of said club. It made no difference that the pair of proprietors had purchased six new pool tables and several more of ping-pong, for if no betting was allowed—what was the point? So the club closed temporarily, a reopening remaining a possibility until further notice. In consequence, Demetrio withdrew his money from the bank (the fifteen thousand pesos and a bit more of his other capital) so that he could ponder, now in earnest, his business aspirations … What would be best? At one point he even had a notion to open up a high-class cathouse, the first in Parras, for better or for worse, but …

  The risk: exuberant!

  Where would he get high-quality whores?

  Bring them in—but from where? Too difficult!

  How many permits? How many expenses?

  Evaporation and a mordant grave for such an impossible and indecent idea—right? A tad of regret after the posing of many objections. Immorality as a crappy way of life … What a muddled venture!

  It could be said that with money in hand Demetrio glimpsed the thicket of sex, in Torreón: undulations he well deserved, considering his stamina and despite those weekly trips, a few days each; a hypothetical plan to set in motion his underused machinery, but first let’s take note of his mother’s badgering, especially one crucial event around the middle of September, when she reminded her son about going to Sacramento: to wit: what he had promised her and seemingly had no intention of carrying out. The big guy employed no end of pretexts to sharply dissuade her: that he’d go later—okay?, later; naturally, she, for a long time already, had sensed an affective uglification, we could call it, because when questioned about Renata, the aforementioned did his utmost to avoid falling into her unbearable snare of questions and answers, mostly through churlish and curt remarks: I’ll go in October … Or: We had a little misunderstanding and I want to wait … Or: I need to feel really good to feel like going … And more shadowy means to make it stop, but the mother, not satisfied, forced from him a confession. She did it tactfully, as if she were stroking thorns; always leading with tenderness, and success like a blossom: to sit together and talk parsimoniously. She cornered him cautiously. Demetrio spoke, spoke as he moved—with Doña Telma pushing him—backward, until he reached the supposed vulgarity of the kiss on the back of the hand, and, yes, the heartfelt lick; perhaps it was the eagerness of the novice to kiss passionately what never before, nevertheless, the unexpected explosion, how strange it had all seemed to him, because her mother had also insulted him. Demetrio wanted to be as explicit as possible, so he mentioned that the day before, he and Renata had spoken about getting married, and then the unexpected had occurred, as well as the consequences that had already taken place (double-dealing Doña Luisa): the pathology of a Puritanism that served no purpose, on the contrary, it messed things up, holding out, always, the path of forgiveness, which also served no purpose. At that point Demetrio had nothing to say other than that he had gone to see Renata the following day and no, just no, and Doña Telma, herewith:

  “I know those Sacramento women. I am certain that Doña Luisa and Renata planned the whole thing the night before in order to find out how deep your love for her was. Maybe mother and daughter thought you would make a wrong move because you had spoken about marriage, you might put your arms around her or caress her or squeeze her hand a little bit too hard; any of these gestures would have been normal for you, but you chose a precipitous kiss, with no bad intentions, I know, especially because of where you did it. In any case, Renata must have interpreted it as indecent and especially because of the lick—what a shame!”

  “So, what’s your advice?”

  “You shouldn’t give up … You should go to her. You’ll see, she’ll forgive you.”

  “What a pain! really … I must admit, at this moment I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere.”

  “I understand how you feel. Just remember that she is still in love with you, but she wants you to fight for her, she wants to be absolutely sure of you before she takes the next step … Hmm … I know all about those Sacramento women.”

  “They are too complicated.”

  “But they’re worth it. As soon as she’s yours, you’ll see, everything will come right.”

  What’s to say other than that this onslaught left Demetrio bewildered. It would seem that Puritanism had unknown tentacles, arising from the most unexpected places, which had finally pinned him down and paralyzed him. He now saw that nobody he told about the incident of the kiss and the lick would take his side. Hence, to accept defeat, admit his mistake to the four winds, and thus avoid ever being squashed; and the admission of guilt—would it save him?, perhaps, but in the meantime distension to the point of obliteration, or as the chance to be dissipated to a point of satiety, and to elude his mother, once and for all, Demetrio ended the conversation like this: I’ll decide whether or not I should go to Renata. Now I need to take care of myself. Please don’t pressure me and don’t bring up this subject again. Because right now I’m going to Torreón. Just so you know, I’m going to sin! What? I’m starved for sex. I want to lose my head! I’m dying to … and … well … I’ll probably be back the day after tomorrow. Stunned, Doña Telma slowly lowered her head: “I understand him,” “I understand him,” “I have to understand him”—et cetera; she could repeat it to herself a hundred times, as if she were poking her breast with the point of a knife. A temporary setback—did she know that? And h
ere we have the beginning of the skit: on the road, once and for all; the knot that almost came undone every time Demetrio placed his shoe on the gas pedal; the truck and the gasoline were his lively assistants that gave him a boost—right? another boost would be to whistle out of tune the whole way so he’d feel like a lad about to be initiated, for he was on his way to commit the greatest misdeed of his life, something like, let’s see: what if he hired two beautiful whores so they could take turns massaging him and doing him? That’s it, one would shower him with caresses while the other got on all fours—yes! and then the other way around, and that way, long-lasting sexual antics: the whole night, no matter how much it cost. When he arrived at a cathouse called Los Laureles—very costly—he immediately called two women over: one blonde and one brunette. However, the joint’s policy required that he order a drink before choosing. So, while he downed one shot after another Demetrio thoroughly planned his anticipated seclusion with the duo: step-by-step, assuming they agreed; at the same time, he’d be open to their suggestions, this or that change of position, more efficient arrangements, whereby nobody would feel at a disadvantage. They: concubines; they: sheaths with opinions as if they were mocking a simpleminded puppet, someone who found comfort elaborating a pleasing idyll only to grow weak before taking even the first step, because while they sat at the table he didn’t touch them once, a long way from an array of what could and should potentially be done: a thoughtful, lascivious, sinful trio, though for Cirila and Begoña, which is what they were called, what mattered was to get the client drunk as quickly as possible. Hence the mischief of shamelessly ordering mixed drinks they barely sipped, the trick made manifest: obvious to anybody who knows the ways of any cathouse, but he: how many straight shots of tequila did he have to imbibe before he became unbearable? Eight, nine at the most: an amount, once reached, that made him lose his balance, fall off the chair, and pick himself up with great difficulty, but once on his feet he said again: Let’s go to the room! I want the two of you at the same time. Oh, really? well, out with the bills already: ergo: the spender rendered unconscious, and next they called over the bouncer to drag him to the room of sin, the concubines following behind, amused and mocking. Slow motion once inside: a real fuss to undress somebody not used to drinking so much alcohol. In the end, the man couldn’t perform, not even half an erection could he muster. The worst part was that he’d paid in advance, an exorbitant fee, for these two cynics who, after seeing him impaired, called the bouncer back to have him thrown out on the street. They carried him as if he were a rag doll. A collapsed and futile mass, and: how could he drive the truck in his state? Demetrio had no choice but to ask someone to call him a taxi that would take him to a hotel, a cheap one, please. This episode entailed a long list of grievances, culminating in a long overdue explanation. The taxi driver informed him that none of the joints in Torreón’s red-light district allowed sex with any of those statuesque women until you’d first drunk torrents of booze and paid in advance with a hefty roll of bills. He also told him that if he just wanted sex he should go to the seedy women, the worst of the worst, all over fifty, perhaps some chubby young ones and, to top it off, they stank, those sitting on their rocking chairs, each one in front of the open door of her own mangy hovel. There were lots along a three- or four-block stretch. The thing was that if he wanted fine flesh he’d have to drink like a donkey and … which has already been said … money attracts money, right? as well as disgust and definitely drama. Like so many others before you, my friend, you’ve been had. After uttering this reproachful rant, he hurled at him a hail of insults, and who knows how much they affected Demetrio, for his reason seemed to be drifting like a slipstream: he heard sharp words—but which ones? The discourse was—could it be?—inebriated. The little he caught became faint in the face of fleeting memories of Oaxaca: there everything was straightforward, no sly malevolence, only direct consummation, whereas here … longings left unquenched that get reabsorbed and mess everything up … Money evaporating in proportion to aggravation provoked, knowing that if he returned to the red-light district he would have to do so with great caution: not pay in advance: duh!? Suffer, err, and top it all off sleeping in a hotel, ergo, impersonal sleep, even more so because the room was—cheap? Demetrio didn’t know how much he’d paid the taxi driver or the clerk at the … A fortune—tough luck! And there he remained till noon the next day. When he awoke he had no appetite, only pure dismay. His priority—can you guess?—: go find the pickup. His hangover had left him transfixed. But he found a taxi and, did he remember where … ? He paced painstakingly through the red-light district: four blocks; very few people in the streets; the big guy’s lucky star better start to shine soon; if only it would magically appear—now!—his vehicle, among the splendors of chance (few, many, just the right number): leaden destiny, for God’s sake! and, after walking around like an inept detective he finally found his pickup, it was all in one piece, and it even seemed to have acquired a new sheen. He took off, of course, for Parras … automatically … Well done! The magnet: sanctity—what else could it be?, or at least caution was pulling him back. The devil would pull at him later … But now let’s have a look at this:

  His arrival at the house of rustic beauty. His silent mother, big like him, wanting to embrace, let us say, a distress: and: the parry: such scoundrelly persistence. Right away Demetrio’s retreat so he could pull himself together. There was noise in his head and twisted (red) threads, so to speak: confusion, unmitigated, or one obstacle after another: intrinsic, or—what the hell were they? Some kind of logjam lay in wait for this semisinful man, a logjam that threatened to drown him in one single and frantic obsession: sex, at any cost: once, again, then again and again, recondite recycling. However, when he saw all those saints in his room, porcelain beings that seemed to grow bigger the longer he watched them, he muttered this: “Demetrio” is synonymous with “nobody’s fucking me.” And he fell asleep. His dream did him no favors. Mireya appeared, as if against her own will, shining from the jewels that bedecked her. She was the queen of the red-light district in Saltillo, where he found himself. When she saw him she said in a malicious voice: Well, well, I finally find you … You might like to know that your daughter is twenty years old—had that much time passed?—She’s studying medicine at the best university in Monterrey. I pay for her studies with my work as a high-class prostitute. What do you think about that? Now, get out of here, because if you don’t, I’ll have my men tear you to pieces. Go away! You’re a pathetic fool! Demetrio woke up with even more encephalitic din. He began palpating his temples with his fingertips, trying to soothe the internal whir. He had meager success. Little by little—thank God!—the noise went elsewhere.

  What the big guy needed was a long and deep cleansing, and that’s what he got. The lathering had to be like an incursion into territory where all memories, good and bad alike, become futile. More and more beneficial suds. An inkling of a new beginning where it would be ordained that he could do whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he acted strategically, per the reigning paranoia, whenever he acted boldly. It had been a good idea to get rid of the brunette, but—Renata? that haughty yet suffering decency … hmmm … let her suffer; may her error ramify; this was the already prodigious and accepted revenge of a macho and now let’s turn to something else … See-through-sex; provocation-sex; struggle-sex. So many gradations of falsity that would soon become achievements. Then came what was not desirable: he emerged resplendent and perfumed, and his mother stood in the main hallway and intercepted him and—what do you think she said? Her indiscretion erupted … She was in such a state of anxiety …