Almost Never: A Novel by Daniel Sada, Katherine Silver Page B

parsimonious stroll that included the search for a tavern (how about some carne asada tacos?) and locating Renata’s house: he would never ask his aunt, rather … it was more evocative to find it on his own. So he left. Be back soon. The town smelled of sweet marjoram. Odd. The evening heat was so extreme, it felt inhibiting; imagine, therefore, the savage sweating. Another wash, later, upon his return. Fat chance! There remained the fetters of haste. Everything the outlander would have to compress into distasteful actions: eating quickly and while sweating, everything seemed to be sweating: the walls, the trees, the tables, the food, the earth itself, and Renata’s house seen from a distance, a rectangular delusion set against the barren doodles of the sky: a—humid?—counterpoint slowly growing dark. The house was located on the corner of the plaza; it was white. Not quite at ease, Demetrio wanted to sit down on one of the benches in the plaza. His proximity excited him, and more sweating ensued. Nonetheless, there was Renata lit by a naked bulb. A door was open. The respectable diva was a small thing in motion, her long curly hair was visible but not her waist and legs. Oh, such a paragon so eager to be a mother, hmm … tomorrow he’d be able to appreciate her fully. The store. His aunt had briefed him on the stationery store, and now that we’ve mentioned that good woman, let’s assign to her, as the agronomist did, the task of informing Renata that the singular suitor from Oaxaca had arrived in Sacramento and what time would their date be, eh? Quite a favor. A matutinal task. In the afternoon, around five. Fast forward to the delight of she who would bathe and perfume herself like never before. Heavens! both must be presentable. But first aunt and nephew had to deal with how they would sleep. Not together. Why not? Well, just because! Yes, in separate cots in the open air, because of the heat; because Zulema had no fans … It would have been lovely to curl up with each other without sheets—dear me!—exposed to the fate of the regional breeze and the old woman’s tremulous caresses: a fleeting fancy (not warranting a response) that wouldn’t happen now—just because! Maybe later would come that irksome and dull indulgence. Zulema must have understood this, for she knew that with the morrow would come the declaration, the illusion … An illusion stitched with boredom: precisely what happened after a sordid morning during which Demetrio couldn’t figure out what to do with himself. Then came the good part: depart well-groomed, counting almost every step. There was a script: he would sit on the bench in front of the door to Renata’s house. The procedure described by his aunt, in turn described to her by … Renata would make him wait about twenty minutes: Doña Luisa’s advice. You’ve got to ride the high horse. A means of increasing desire or, rather, artifice. That’s why Demetrio didn’t know about it, of course.
    And, finally, the wait.
    Zulema gave her nephew a bouquet of white calla lilies: the only thing she found in her neglected garden. The importance of an offering. But Demetrio got rid of the bouquet, tossing it into the bushes in the plaza. A mere ostentation prone to complications and what for. Words are better, however they come out …
    But the wait …
    Half an hour!
    Damn!

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    “G o ahead! You mustn’t wait.”
    “But if I do it … I don’t know … It might be a mistake in the long run.”
    “Go ahead! Get pregnant! What are you afraid of? A child will bring you good luck.”
    Mireya wasn’t quite as alone as she claimed. Once in a while she was able to shoot the breeze with a neighbor who had an abundance of work—thank God! She was a first-rate washerwoman, her name was Luz Irene, and she had a ten-year-old son who was in fourth grade (also thanks to God). A fact worth noting because it indicates a growing joy. Certainly we should picture a hovel of a room crammed with