A 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!
10
“Go 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 furniture, in the middle of which was a powerful radio … quite an achievement! On the other hand, the contiguous and ultra-run-down room next door — believe it or not — belonged to Mireya, who in spite of screwing so much (and with so many) still couldn’t afford to buy an apparatus as showy as her neighbor’s, not even a normal one, nothing, nor any furniture as shiny as that of the exemplary washerwoman, whose knowledge of life was vast, somewhat harsh, but quite judicious. A not-very-cheerful philosopher, or a dour woman well versed in the most elemental aspects of causes and effects. Or rather, Mireya should thank God she had her as a neighbor. They had spoken many times about the prospect of the tart’s pregnancy. The harshest and most oft-recycled advice Luz Irene offered was none other than: The child is what matters, not the father, and the second, from a different angle: We are human beings, but we are also animals. The animalistic, held up like a key, opened doors onto all sorts of tender mercies. One could profit from people taking greater pity on a mother than on a single woman. At another point in the conversation Luz Irene, who with good humor scrubbed in her sink the soiled underpants of ladies and gentlemen, maintained that, as opposed to what most people thought (that is to say, “all the chumps”), a child never was and never would be a burden; that ever since she had become a mother she had been flooded with work, both from that concrete and unavoidable responsibility and from …
“But I believe in love, and even if it sounds weird, I believe in the couple.”
“Love is a gift from God; He knows who gets it and who doesn’t, just like He decides who is rich and who is poor, who ugly and who beautiful.”
“Do you think a woman like me deserves to get married, have a family?”
“Only God knows … But you might as well try.”
A wild and crazy imbroglio, the suggestion of fabricating evidence, a bubble that fate can pop or leave intact, especially regarding the birth of a child; once the outcome is there to see, that’s to be seen … Who would take on the role of father … an archangel or an animal? Backward reasoning that led straight to numbing sorrow. For no matter what, the woman was the loser, this the premise and the conclusion. Another more telling premise, but also darker, was that Mireya slept with many men. Out of necessity, needless to say! but still …
“If I get pregnant, they’ll throw me out of the brothel.”
“That’s the best thing that could happen to you.”
“What?!”
“I can get you work as a washerwoman. To tell you the truth, I can’t keep up with all I’ve got.”
“It’s a lot of scrubbing.”
“Just look how well I’m doing. Any day now I’m going to open a grocery store. I’m already saving up. What’s more, touch me. I’m strong. Touch me!”
To timidly touch that feminine musculature. To engage with the other’s energy so fully, she could almost feel real sparks. Hence, vibrations whose emanations, indeed … Each vibration helped form a thought. A thread, too many threads: while Mireya was touching her, the request for a favor (that process) was forming in her mind, a brilliant and teeming favor: depraved and fortuitous, thus fragile. By the time the tart finally removed her hands from those imposing arms she had already formulated a plan she would now reveaclass="underline" the request for a sacrifice of merely a few hours; this, her sentimental impudence: she asked Luz Irene to accompany her to the Presunción brothel, preferably on a weeknight; to remain outside watching, waiting, until Demetrio — the man in question — left. She belabored her description of him: tall and thin, young, about thirty years old, or a bit more. Nobody was quite like him, such an alluring presence. In other words, she’d hang around outside. It would be quite easy to distinguish what looked like a beanpole made of skin and bones though little of both, leaving the brothel, of course, and impressive — indeed! given that the Oaxacan world was peopled by the rather short statured, right? Then, after identifying him, to follow him, find out where he lived; the street, the address, the neighborhood — such vital information! A huge favor — she reiterated. And, the response? Luz Irene was mum. It was difficult to follow the wagging of her head, covered in an orange scarf: the horizon, the ground, her glances left and right, never eye-to-eye, or not yet, and in the meantime still not a peep. Finally, Luz Irene played around with the thorny problem of whom to leave her son with; someone trustworthy: but whom? A favor that incurs another favor and so on only to be subsequently settled: whom? She had a relative living in a wooded though squalid suburb of Oaxaca. Far out. Though it had been a long while since she’d visited her. She was a kind and generous person, hence: the language of persuasion: a manageable performance. Nevertheless, she went to see her to ask … Well, the favor couldn’t be granted too soon. That was the first thing she expressed. An entire prior explanation that led to, Yes, I’ll help you. Though …