Almost Never: A Novel (20 page)

Being the manager meant he was in charge. Up to Demetrio when he’d issue the first order, just as the sun was setting … Also, the useful relationship with Bartola and Benigno, the only inhabitants of La Mena apart from an unknown number of snot-nosed kids … So he roused himself to go see what he should see, and in order to smugly tell them to make him something to eat. He acted too hastily, because the chubby little woman was about to bring a plate of beans to his quarters. In any case, his arrival inside, where the family sphere had all the comforts of domesticity
de occultis:
ergo: no tantrums in the background from the naked children (there were three, he discovered), only a few sounds from them moving about. The adults’ terseness was noticeable, for they did not initiate any conversation. Boundaries, hermetism, and the sudden gravity of two captivating words:
Drink, eat:
a reverse order, issued by Benigno, and that was all the encouragement the manager needed to set things in motion, like this:

“I don’t understand why Don Delfín gave me so much money … You saw the size of that roll … I think it’s too much.”

“He gave you that much because he probably won’t pay you again for months. Maybe not till December, or even later,” Benigno said.

“What?”

“That’s what he does with us.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because money’s no good for anything out here on the ranch … It’s his way of keeping us enslaved. Once a month he brings us sacks of beans, oats, and flour.”

“That’s all you eat?”

“Sometimes lamb or goat meat, but only when he gives the okay to slaughter one … That happens at least once a year.”

From there they went on to the grisly, or bellowing—we could say—details, for anything extra they ingested was restricted to snake or rabbit meat (an abundance of which could be found in this desolate wasteland, according to the peon), and soon the topic at hand did an about-face, for the big guy was an urban creature and liked to constantly change the subject: dissipation galore, or deliberate disconcentration. The question arose whether they had ever considered living in a town or city, and the immediate response was—never! a word both deep and euphonic that also contained a shred of logic both definitive and conclusive:
If we lived in town we wouldn’t know how to use money … That scares us because we don’t know anything about numbers.
In the face of such a well-conscribed truth it seemed futile to push the peon past who knows what boundary to give further explanations, and no, only the weight of the hardened squaring, congealed, as well as the discomfort if … hmm … How to clear things up? Somehow they let Demetrio know that they had no desire to prolong the conversation, that their routine determined their terseness: early to bed and that’s that. Rising at dawn was more pleasurable than anything else. But there was one more volley: a tidbit of information dropped in passing that broached the most shameful deficiency: neither Bartola nor Benigno knew how to read or write, whatever existed outside this rustic scope of their life was and would be very difficult: obstacles like too-sharp thorns, so much so that any unplanned movement created an upheaval, and anyway—why? oh fie! Why try to join a society that is so unforgiving? The confession was hesitant, so how to interpret what only barely, or what almost; one could affirm that illiteracy was synonymous with fixed deep-rootedness, or merely a roughshod philosophy born and bred and dead in the opacity of a small, almost unpopulated world, an—enough!, and—phew!, the guest (of sorts) understood grudgingly after consulting his wristwatch. It was eight p.m. So late! Horrors! And this: a watchword: get used to not enjoying what nights can bring: the relief of—socializing! damn, which was also the (spiritual) relaxation so necessary to make space for the doldrums of the day: no way! not here! and no way to order the peons to stay awake; an indication of future problems … with the boss—when he came? The radio was a consolation to help the newcomer relax, to listen in irremediable solitude to songs and news that really did seem more alien than ever, faraway clutter, which would no doubt become less and less appealing, though for now … Well—good night! and so let’s appreciate his urge to go and fiddle with the volume and tuning knobs. Salvation radio, night after night … the project of slowly falling asleep. A partial victory, in the end, but … In 1946 the only radio station that was broadcast nationally was XEW, the Voice of Latin America. However, there was no shortage of clamorous crackling and hissing that interfered to a point of ruining the original broadcast. An important thing to know because plenty of nights an English-language station would cross paths, then take over, and that’s what Demetrio suffered almost daily; we say “almost daily” because we are evaluating a stretch of time characterized by a fastidious routine. Nonetheless, clarifications are in order. Which is why we must find a temporal counterpoint. Therefore let us turn to Monclova, when Don Delfín and Demetrio were just coming to terms. The transcription should have fallen squarely into a notebook in which the new manager was writing down every step he would need to take once he got settled at the ranch; one of those, very important, was the list, with names (for social reasons) and addresses, of the eight butchers in Sabinas and the four in Nueva Rosita. The distribution of the butchered: one lamb per week, as well as three she-goats. Meat on the move. A sure sale, in any case. A lot of money to keep—where?, nowhere, therefore—in the suitcase? The shining advantage resided in Don Delfín’s coming to the ranch every week: on Fridays: an essential habit in order to, among other things, collect the cash from the weekly sales: that’s it: let’s repeat that this is an advantage because otherwise Demetrio’s mangy quarters would soon become an absurdity, to wit, a warehouse crammed with bills. Manifold futility at the mercy of an arbitrary windstorm—and what conjecture would become reality if a storm swept the bills away? The loneliness of the ranch lent itself to such imaginings, for already the utterly unusual was making incursions: fortunes flying over the desert: when? never?

The first time Demetrio went to Sabinas he asked Benigno to accompany him. He wanted to be sure not to lose his way along the supposed fifteen miles from one point to the other, for the moment he started the truck the peon warned him about the large number of forks off the main road, hence:
Come with me. You can help me find the butchers.
Unfortunately, Benigno didn’t remember the precise location of those establishments. It’s just that, trying to find your way in that urban muddle … In fact, the peon had been only four times to Sabinas and only once to Nueva Rosita … In 1946 Sabinas had a population of approximately thirty thousand inhabitants, whereas Nueva Rosita was a town of fifteen thousand, or perhaps fewer. But both places had spectacular commercial activity.

This work trip turned out to be a kind of holiday for both. So:
Come. Do as I say. Let’s go.
And yes, agreed. Yes, flat-out compliance, by virtue of the fact that both would benefit from a temporary disconnect—from what?—the monotony of the ranch, less longed for by Benigno, but the manager: how about it? A different environment; the world, culture—bah!, his presumptions had to be exaggerated …

Of course, before unpacking the knicking and knacking of selling and buying the meat, it’s worth sorting through the core of the sparse exchanges along the way:
You might not want to learn anything about numbers, but you should realize that money gives you freedom of movement.
Freedom of movement? More dependency, more anxiety, because numbers are limiting. A different kind of servitude, perhaps an even darker one, because of not knowing the true value of things. A reality calibrated to the quantity of coins and bills. Another corral or a different prison, but a much less happy one—or not? and since there was no escape, better to have someone higher up who resolved all the problems: a god, a boss, and therefore further submission to a perfect fit, to stay out of trouble—and uncertainties? In case we have interpreted the peon’s words otherwise: that is to say: harum-scarum, it is worth recording here his conclusion:
No matter what, we are slaves to somebody or something, and I prefer to know who it is and what the one who gives me my living is like; as long as he treats me well, right? why dig any deeper?
Then, the counterattack:
But wouldn’t you like to be like your boss? He is rich and powerful.
In the face of such a bold truth there arose a tiny truth:
You do realize, sir, that I don’t know how to read or write.
A sharp deficiency, the final blow, and a return to silence, not without Demetrio blurting out a crushing commonplace:
There’s no doubt about it, we are who we are,
would you listen to that! What? Demetrio saying such things. Or rather, once and for all he had to attain a mental toughness that could dispel all sorts of humble arguments. Or rather, his own—how prodigious were they? or rather—what did they settle? So, no further attempts at conceptual largesse, better not to get angry for no reason, but rather to clearly recognize his role: he was nothing more nor less than a masterful manager; he was, therefore, a person who should know about numbers and an infinity of other organizational procedures (what words!) that would put this lackluster ranching business on a firmer footing. Know thyself, in order to fit oneself in and—hey! know that this peon, like those from El Origen and La Igualdad, didn’t count. It’s a matter of language, that’s all, and—what is to be done? None could be his assistant, because none was a problem solver, besides about trifling issues related to provisions. O crass circumstance … so reductive! which also made him feel (now, really) alone—alone! a lonely madman? Unless he had a woman by his side … Renata (fixation), still unattainable … Longing in the ether, damn … Because he was neither a missionary nor an apostle … And the course of that vital truth—put to the test? In fact … it was important for him to know that not even at moments of direst despair should he expose his most mundane thoughts, considering it much more appropriate to emulate the behavior of the peons: their terseness, their lack of expressiveness, their perhaps saintly subjugation.

Blood on his hands: on Benigno’s.
Come on. I’m sure there are sinks in Sabinas that have some good soap.
And just like that the peon—what a bother!—made the trip. A brute question of haste … Moreover: dawn had barely broken when Benigno began killing animals. In less than two hours he had slaughtered a lamb and three she-goats. Such murderous dexterity put Demetrio on tenterhooks, for he made the following calculations on the side: this ranch hand could kill thirty-two animals in eight hours, as well as slit their bellies, cut them up, and skin them; and if he added up the number the ranch hands at El Origen and La Igualdad could slaughter in the same amount of time … A contest between them, someday, with a prize for the winner, not money but food: an abundant ration of canned goods wouldn’t be so bad; the notion of a feast in the middle of such scarcity; but based on what Don Delfín had said when they were there in Monclova, the sale of meat was by special order, so this time the meat would be sold to the butcher who offered the most; imagine that for a whole month—nothing to sell! ever since the last manager escaped on foot and at night through the desert. Even if there had been orders, there would have been no way to fill them—how? Clearly selling live animals would be more convenient, but the butchers in Sabinas and Nueva Rositas were too lazy to do the slaughtering. So, to return, here we have the meat on this reckless trip, in the sun, of course, because it was daytime, and yes: the carcasses covered with a blue blanket: a subtle way of buying time there in the truck bed … In 1946 there was not even one refrigerated truck anywhere in the length or the breadth of the Mexican territory … Hence the complex aspect of this troublesome situation was to transport the meat packed in ice, oh yes, only from where to where, eh? because to get enough ice: where … And the impossibility (right?) of … Well, anyway, we’ll now close this muddle with a happy fact: Demetrio and Benigno did not have to wander through the ignominious labyrinth of the streets of Sabinas; all they had to do was find
x
butcher to buy their goods, which had been covered. The transaction in itself was formidable because the butcher (the owner) placed a huge order for the following week: four lambs and eight she-goats—a heavenly delight! or that’s what we would call it.

L
et’s mention the drought so we can go straightaway to the only two letters Renata buried near the henhouse. Regarding the latter, later, for it held quite lively interest, and as to the former we can state that October, November, and two weeks of December had already passed and no rain had fallen in Sacramento or the surrounding area, not even in the distance did a bold and threatening cloud appear above any hill, not even did a lost burst of lightning bring a furtive flash to gladden a few hearts—nothing at all! nothing but a solar invasion, with the accompanying clear skies, everywhere and always, whose tones of livid injurious blue began to fill the few inhabitants in those parts with terror. In fact, the nocturnal and diurnal heat seemed to gnaw with multiple rows of teeth, awakening the sensation that at any moment the inanimate might begin to stir.

We can talk about the animate (mobile, legged) only in terms of caution and despondency, or the search for relief in the shade. People, animals, insects—where could they find refuge? There were deaths, mostly in the hinterlands, which became most definitively a horrific expanse, more and more uninhabitable. This serves as a point of reference from which to ponder the increased sluggishness in Sacramento: no signs of whips or spurs, nobody wanted to budge because that meant suffering for the mere sake of it. And as far as business was concerned: sales plummeted, specifically at Doña Luisa and Renata’s stationery store, which was now quite clearly a business of secondary importance, because they didn’t sell food; in fact, for weeks they considered having a go at selling an array of cold drinks, but, to begin with, they’d have to buy an ice chest, then get three blocks of ice every day and start chopping away from early morn … In 1946 there was a small ice factory near La Polka, a place called El Cariño de la Montaña; there are reports that every day great quantities of these blocks were carried by cart, and that it took three trips by boat to transport the entire load … However, the sale of cold drinks had stiff competition; the ten grocery stores in town each sold an unimaginable quantity of such drinks. Packaged coldness—it should be stated—did not guarantee a profit. In fact, all businesses were hurting. The fault lay in the weather—but was it only the weather? The fault lay in the exodus of people to unknown burgs (otherwise called industrialization): the ripping apart of the small-town social fabric, and now let’s focus on Renata and Doña Luisa and extract a snippet of a diffident dialogue: a dinner with dishes piled high with eggs and chorizo to ponder piecemeal the possibility of moving, for example, to Monclova or Monterrey, assuming that Sacramento would soon be doomed: add to this the fanning that kept time with the eating: manual nimbleness shoring up adversity. On one hand, the urgency to flee: the beautiful one putting pressure on the obstinate mother, who claimed she’d rather die in Sacramento than venture into the unknown:
I’m not going anywhere, even if it is for the best.
Moreover, she said that in a small town she felt protected; she mentioned relatives twice or thrice removed who lived there, as well as her very close friends who lived nearby:
Everyone, at the end of the day, would take pity on me. Whereas in the city …
The advantageous gregariousness of the small scale, the tribal, the cyclical nature of a consolation that stiffens one’s resolve: right? After this affirmation the conversation took a different turn:
Unlike me, you have the option of getting married, going somewhere else …
However, the fact that she’d heard nothing from Demetrio came to light: that he hadn’t written; that he hadn’t come; that maybe never again, in spite of living so close. And supreme disappointment became evident:
I haven’t heard anything from him for three months. Maybe I could ask Doña Zulema if she has had any news …
Her mother gave her permission to … The next day, Renata went to her. Profuse perspiration, rather crass: the effect or the fruit of the way there. Even more sorrowful was her return, after hearing that his aunt also had heard nothing from the one who had sworn and sworn again to frequently visit the town. Another chat during which:
Maybe he has a girlfriend there,
Renata said with a blush: ugh! on the verge of tears: Doña Luisa, with her indistinct spirit, saw this and went to pat her back, a lot, as if she were patting a deficit or as if she were fine-tuning a single sentence with each touch, one that would be the key, or whatever you’d like to deduce, to rise above a gush of sentimentality and:
Keep in mind, you’ll have no end of other prospects.
Others? What for?