“Looks like you had a good time, but you must leave immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because Cirila and Begoña’s boyfriends have just arrived and they have to go to them. If they find out their women were with you, they’ll probably fill you full of lead. They’re gunslingers and, well, very jealous … hmm … very violent. So I recommend that you …”
“But I want to come back tomorrow. I really liked it!”
“You’d better leave and not come back. There are some pretty dangerous people around here.”
The sinner grew livid. He failed to understand such magnificent logic, but he hastened his step under the weight of an increasingly heavy suspicion. His fear, though peaking, was still fallible, for he wanted to be brave though didn’t know how: his doubt, his nerves: one feint, two, three, merely his (fleeting) intention to return, but … The world outside seemed to pulsate, and he, still under the spell of the uproar of the voluptuous, made an abrupt about-face and found himself face-to-face with the two bouncers of Los Laureles; one of them pointed a pistol at him and said: Outta here, you chump … or I’ll kill you right now! Hmm, leave — why? otherwise — death in the dumps?
It was then, while in retreat, that Demetrio patted his pants pockets. Some dark instinct propelled him to reveal a truth that, in this quite real fix, must have been horrible, and it was: because his wallet — oh no!? Unbelievable discovery, and — oh no! Plundered — when? During his sexual fervor, and through an oblique kind of reconstruction: aha! when what’s-her-name went to the bathroom … that the sign, that the surmise … Never to be recovered — needless to say! — the abrupt (and well-deserved) downfall of a simple sinner whose only recourse was to leave for Parras that late at night, because if he didn’t … a simple sardine (that’s how he felt) caught in a delicate though unfriendly net, and it was useless to ponder the what-ifs when the outcome, when all was said and done, would be the same, or worse. He therefore proceeded to his pickup in defeat. Fortunately his keys were still in his left pocket, this the extent of his consolation; but what about gas: would he have enough to reach Parras? A drop-by-drop dilemma, which would drip though not ooze, the liquid s-cum of an unforgettable sexual adventure: the ineffable delight seeping (simply) into a fiendish curse: not one red cent! And then: he couldn’t remember if he had had ten thousand pesos in his wallet, or more, though in either case his wealth had evaporated in a matter of seconds, the consequence of his nonpareil sin. So was it — divine punishment? vengeance hurled against his perversions? It is important for you to know — unless you disagree — that his thoughts might get out of joint if he kept mulling his misfortune, which wasn’t done messing with him, because once on the road he feared he’d run out of gas. Evil shadows lurked, and, in fact, when he saw the star-studded sky he knew that something up there was speaking … If only it were astral mirth, a resounding word descending … It wasn’t long before the pickup stopped on its own, that is, deliberately. That’s what had to happen on the road to total rack and ruin. A sinister stop, in defeat, because — who would rescue him at that time of night? Every sound increased his disgrace, all to no purpose, a mockery in the midst of desolation, or an ever-widening lie … Demetrio’s only option was to sleep in the cab, though sleeping was a futile deferral, for once the new day came — then what? Delaying the solution: the infamous: a hardening, damn it, infusing further doubt … It wasn’t till about six the next afternoon that a stake-bed truck stopped and, well, let’s look at it this way: good people must show up, but not necessarily when you need them: to wit: they are the people who solve problems without asking for anything in exchange. Surely such a miracle can take years, or months, or — who knows! but herewith anew and very askew, Demetrio’s lucky though damaged star shone through, though the circumspect señor wanted to charge him for the gasoline. Which meant the big guy had to tell him what had happened from beginning to end. A story with a surprise ending? Of course, and because the señor was cracking up at the whole sexual welter and the other part: the sinister corollary of the dearth of funds. The theft — while astride a throne?! and the rest — in the mire! At a certain point Demetrio asked him:
“Hey, why are you laughing?”
“Because if I’m going to give you five gallons of gas the least you can do is let me laugh. But if you have a problem with my being entertained, then I won’t give you any.”
Then the señor laughed again, and quite explicitly explained what Demetrio would have to do if he wanted his help: he described how to plead on bent knees, joining his poor hands in dire supplication (ha), as well as a maelstrom of final flurries. No way! The guy was a reasonably good man who was holding all the cards, above all, his laughter sounded like a motorbike, though, if we are to be more precise, edged with forgiveness — so what could Demetrio do?: forbearance: scolded dog that he was! A long chiding though not very thorough, more like a drip that tickled, or, if you like, any exaggerated surmise. Let’s see if it’s appropriate now to say that the stranger’s laughter seemed to throw salt on open wounds: which lasted days, psychic fraying translated into a silence that made his mother suspicious, for day after day she watched her son in saintly seclusion. He ate little. Ever since he arrived in that sorry state, stepping out the door seemed dangerous, footfall by footfall! Colossal fear, tremors, consonant tension. And the dear lady longed to find out what horror had befallen her lamb in the cathouses of Torreón. You can trust me. Tell me what happened. I’ll just listen. Unburden yourself. This attempt at persuasion would be repeated more than five times and in different ways, and the result could be none other than his contempt: all and any way: however he wished: such as: turning his back on her, or giving her a sour pout, or muttering nonsense, or, you can imagine the rest, until … Who knows what devil prodded the big guy to blurt out his wretched story. He spoke as if he were in a hideout, avoiding anything that would shed light on the extent of his folly. In fact, he decided not to describe the sexual. With his mother he had no confessional playbook to follow other than traipsing from one surprise to the next and summing it up strategically bit by bit. Hence his opposing inventions, nurtured by the supposed innocence of a person still apt to be astonished who realizes that everything is disappointing, beginning with the cathouses of Torreón, where thieves and murderers abounded. That is, some guy stole his wallet at gunpoint. That was the only anecdote (an auspicious invention), the rest was nothing but a pile of sketchy notions, as cerebral as they were abstract. A drastic and meandering simplification so that his mother would understand only the cruelty of the theft and his attendant anguish, about which she, without holding herself back, proclaimed thus: I know how terrible you must feel, but that’s what I’m here for, to help you through this. Nonetheless, Demetrio, at some point after his confession, began to elaborate a grievance that had its origins way back when his father used to beat him; whippings for any reason whatsoever; the terror of living without hope, knowing that whatever he did would be wrong; the sense that the simple fact of growing up was a threat, the weight of which would soon crush him, as if life were perpetual confusion and he had no choice but to toe the line if he wanted even modest security. Or rather: never even attempt to stray. That’s why he studied agronomy, because his father had forced him to, because the señor owned land that his only (submissive) son would have to manage. Manipulated, though only temporarily, for Demetrio finally rebelled. He fled — when he graduated, of course! — from his house, with an ideal of freedom that didn’t — nor ever would— have any foundation. The purpose of his life revealed itself only in puffs of mist and … enough already! His glimpse of what was essential was as normal as it was overwhelming: get married, have children, work like a burro, and have not the slightest spirit of transgression. A vertical trajectory as unobjectionable as a plant that bears fruit, although being alone and doing things he didn’t like, for example: agronomy — how could such triumphs hold his interest? Demetrio had followed a script whose sequel was uncertain, if not straight-out false. By his age he should have been an opulent man, swelling with countless honors and endless pride, but … who was to blame — he or somebody else? or, whom could he rouse with the extent of his affliction, though to put a fine point on it: failure … simple failure? failure because he’d been robbed in a place he should never, under any circumstances, have been? When his mother heard that word she entered the fray: I think it is absolutely clear that you have not failed. You are a professional with a future and you also have savings in the bank. If they stole a portion of your capital that doesn’t mean you’re ruined. You must also understand that it is your good fortune to have me, I’m a widow with some money and … Such redeeming niceties and that appeasing blahblahblah were not sufficient. Enough with the harangue. Demetrio stopped her with an “I know, I know, enough,” then added that he wanted to invest and to work with great resolve, but he didn’t know at what. Nothing fit the bill entirely and, oh, such sauciness — from an overprotected fool? You like games, you could invest in a pool hall, there isn’t one in Parras, a pleasant place where people could also play dominoes and cards. You’ll do well even if there is no betting. I’ll help you. Unexpected illuminating twitch! Smiles that shine. Light that floods the scene and sketches overhead a spectacular hunch. Thank you, Mama, for … Now to come up with a name for this business. A sudden about-face: a complete change of mood … A hunch, ready to pluck! … A fluke supported by a good dose of spunk (to wit, the so-called lucky star shooting sheets of lightning) to pound the pavement every day to find a well-situated locale in Parras, large — needless to say! and with easy access. Oh, uplifting resolve, which would in turn be the recipe for shedding light on all manner of dark corners.