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?
Next step: digging up the letters: the fat one and the thin one. A (strategic) maneuver at noontime. Digging more with nails than with the whole hand to get to the not-very-deep bottom. The aridity aided her: finding and hoping. Rereading under that authoritarian sun — in the middle of December! To pronounce each word out loud would be like pleading: Demetrio … Demetrio, come! Come love me! If only that effect would result from that cause. More likely Renata would stuff the tender pages under her mattress: right in the middle so that when his beloved lay down he would feel her weight in that faraway ranch. Naked imaginings: yeehaw!: that’s it: an ambitious “yeehaw” as a response to a hot and steamy reality, and then a glimpse into a nighttime bedroom scenario: Demetrio on his back, hugging a pillow, a wool pillow, pretending it is Renata’s succulent body: in, out; in, out: further in and not all the way out: a deep-seated position, yes, so that the sperm would soon gush: so that immediately the scion would start to sprout (pretty nice, isn’t it?), O masturbation! understood as a libation. A vibrating plea: Don’t forget me, Demetrio. Feel my body even if it is a pure and vague illusion. Feel it like this or like that, as if I were keeping the rhythm you tell me to keep. After this mental entreaty, Renata went to lie down for a while in bed. First she placed the letters where we said before and tossed and turned to see if … She cried out with unwholesome pleasure … She wouldn’t even think of masturbating: only motile sanctity, ever more feminine; more denigrating divinations. Well then! at that moment a few drops of rain began to fall on the roof. Large drops, we should say: hail? Increasing: really joyous, because the random symmetry of sounds was so merciful! At last! Huge heavenly onslaught in the middle of December. The outburst decreed by God lasted for three hours and a tad. It was a — contorted — miracle! whose consequence was colder and colder and now, indeed, the logic of terrestrial life: winter, as it should be, seen as a camouflaged accident, which put in order a disorder that was also fortuitous.
Needless to say Renata and Doña Luisa celebrated Christmas modestly, but with the consolation of shivering while they ate their chicken dinner.
27
In, out; in, out; in, out: frantic and frenetic midst the nausea the big guy felt in those primitive quarters. Sex as corrosive expansion; sex as a thrust from something far away; an urge with an exasperating sting. That debut onanism on the ranch, the result of despair, for three months had passed without so much as a touch, not even a graze, down there, not even a toying with — never! not even when he washed by the bucketfuclass="underline" soaping around his belly button: the lather necessarily falling toward his scrotum — always a possibility? when that action produced stimulating tickles: ah, dealing with that problem was what the (final) redemptive bucketful was for: water to the rescue, and that was that. Thus sanctity should be understood as routine abstinence, abstinence that sets the spirit aflame in order to transform it into some kind of foil, or also into a knot that was only kind of untied; the beneficial sensation of being in control, translated into a quarrel with oneself, ongoing, although Demetrio had discovered during his many trips to Sabinas and Nueva Rosita that there were brothels in both places, in that region they were called congales or zumbidos: to wit: cathouses, almost clandestine (better), but till then — we are at the beginning of December — he had not had the nerve to pay any a visit, among other reasons because hooking up with a whore meant a sleepless night for sure, for those houses, according to what he had been told, opened their doors only after ten at night, and the return trip to La Mena, and the early morning chores the next day … Nevertheless, the person in question didn’t realize that the peons themselves would forgive him a slight excess of this kind, only for the obvious reason that seeing him so saintly, so single, so single-mindedly devoted to the comings and the goings — making sales! as well as his apprenticeship, though only as the hoister, of the slaughter of the animals, the slitting of throats, the skinning (also selling), the bringing to pasture (more and more), and the keeping quiet; as well as his connection — a counterbalance — to civilization through the radio and its songs, night after night: a soothing softness even if it was distressing. It was Benigno who told him he should go to the congales to appease his bachelor longings; for his part, he wouldn’t breathe a word to the boss; he should go, let off some steam, whenever he liked, for as manager, he was getting results never seen before: he was taking a lot of initiative selling meat and hides: quite pleasing progress, all noted by Don Delfín when he received the weekly take. But Demetrio resisted any disparity. On the contrary: what he needed to do was purify himself to avoid confusion. Once, he confessed to Benigno that whores scared him; he even admitted that a long time ago he had fallen in love with one and that such foolishness had ended badly, for he was no longer able to distinguish between a good woman and a bad — where, then, could one find the truth about love? That since then he had had filthy ideas, which led to the terribly shameful. What he did not confess to the peon was that he had a saintly sweetheart in Sacramento — why spill out the private? For his part, keeping that secret made him feel more blessed, more energetic, even though he had made no effort to go visit she who would certainly be his lifelong wife.