Dear Demetrio:
I am sending you this note because you must come to my house accompanied by one of your relatives before I can see you. My mother wants to meet you and find out a lot more about you. Remember, you insulted me when you licked my hand, kissing it first. As you must have realized, I was very offended. So, if you want to continue our courtship we must formalize it. That means, in case you need an explanation, that it must have a clear goal, but for that to happen you must ask me and my mother for our forgiveness. The family member who comes with you must also show remorse. Our relationship has to change, it must be leading to something that is good for both you and me, as well as my family and yours. If you don’t do what I ask, it would be better for us not to see each other. What I mean is that there’s no point in continuing our romance on the bench, instead of here inside the house where my mother can witness everything we do. This has to happen soon. Think about this carefully, your decision is very important for me.
Renata.
The reinforcement of decency. The girl’s mother could finally observe from close up the lack of groping. Or, rather, a kiss on the mouth — never! nor on the cheek. Or, rather, to hurtle into marriage, ask for her hand, a ring, a wedding date: ascent, or merely the turn to the horizontal so that Demetrio could get a glimpse at the details of the script: all fucking must result in children, whence the supremely obvious was derived: having to work like a dog to support such a large, sacrosanct! pack, because that’s the way things were. Sex with responsibility. Sex with a gush that brings forth fruit, in the name of a peace that must always remain muffled. Too many binding fetters, or rather, one had to gauge it in some other way: a paid prostitute in perpetuity, in order to attain the guaranteed benefit of sex and an almost improbable serenity. As well as the joy of the children — beautiful? green-eyed? always smiling? hopefully! To put everything on the line, believing the witchcraft would be forever beneficial. A sharp turn. Path. Light. An all-embracing formula. No more lascivious confusion. No more offal. Demetrio stroked the pink page as if he were caressing with delight the skin of that beauty in order to absorb it, as if he could glue it onto his spirit. Annealed eternal love. Adherence and release. The truth was that Renata was pushing him toward a defining sentiment that would lead him onto the right path.
The sanctity of sex — abiding? Yes, yes, yes: relief, spaciousness.
And now (ahem) — why didn’t Renata come out in person to tell him what she had written? Could she have saved herself the long vigil, because — how many versions of that very brief mes-sage did she draft with her mother? The handwriting was unbelievable in its perfection, but — what for? for if they’d spoken on the bench they could have abounded in dozens of details. Plans, subtle revisions, and a grope here or there as well, sidelong and almost without meaning to. Bah, but she, as usual, had to play hard to get. She gave herself too many airs — her mother’s advice — all to give him to understand that the acme of true love was still far away. More and more scrambling up steep escarpments. The air more and more rarefied but healthful nonetheless …
It was advantageous that Doña Telma was in Sacramento. She, as well as his aunt Zulema, would be overjoyed after reading the pink page.
Therefore, a conclusion in pantomime. Not another night spent on the bench, for the proof of his love had been long and monomaniacal, maybe even mature, if that’s what we’re going for — or what else?
All that followed had a touch of the ridiculous about it. Demetrio had to show the blessed letter to those women who were waiting eagerly to hear tell of his adventure in the plaza; however, before anything else, he said he was very hungry. So first came the rectifying assault on whatever was edible and easily dished up. Bread alone, no beans, no nothing, so: a cold plateful, though filling. No, the big guy shouldn’t care about anything other than quickly extricating himself from his stomach’s necessities and, chewing four rolls, two pelonas, and two conchas, poorly and in great haste, all he could say with his mouth full was: Here’s what Renata wrote me. Read it! The truth was, it was a true delight to pull that all-important sheet out of the pink envelope, unfold it, and: let’s see: two bespectacled readers, their heads almost knocking against each other. Doña Zulema was the one who read it out loud in a sarcastic tone. She must have found happiness amusing.