After dropping the letter in the mailbox, she was left with her resulting pangs of conscience, her wish for the letter to arrive directly into Demetrio’s hands … Hmm, Renata was certain he wouldn’t be able to make out her handwriting, but it would be enough for him to read her name, writ large at the end, as well as the “I still love you, my love,” another flourish, and that was that.
32
He seemed like a god, it was unbelievable, by the middle of October, Demetrio had lost only ten rounds of dominoes out of the three hundred — odd games he had played at the Centro Social Parrense. At first it was the sly, perhaps sinful passivity of the game, but soon he derived frolicking fun from betting small sums, then defiantly raising the stakes to liven up the entertainment, viewing it almost as a way of life, as legitimate as going to work every day, a life Demetrio was adapting to better than most: becoming ever more skillful as night after night he employed new winning strategies, in addition to his absolute trust in his own lucky star, which meant he always drew good tiles no matter how gently or roughly his rivals shuffled them; hence every player wanted to be his partner to guarantee x amount of winnings and, to sum things up, the big guy won tons of money and daily deposits ensued … In 1947 in Parras there was an establishment that offered the services of a savings-and-loan; two years later it had become more sophisticated after moving and hiring more employees; it still wasn’t a proper bank, but people called it a bank, for none dared call it a savings-and-loan … Anyway, back to Demetrio, who we said was making hefty deposits, a total of fifteen thousand pesos in thirty weeks: just right for a more or less grandiose investment. The brakes were put on, however, in two ways: the most important being an agreement among the most frequently defeated players: a group of twenty confronted him and told him that nobody was willing to play against him anymore, especially when a juicy bet was on the table: We’re tired of losing, said the brawniest one. To Demetrio’s great disappointment he could no longer strut his stuff and had no choice but to do something productive. The second time the brakes were put on was more crushing: Píndaro Macías, the mayor, outlawed gambling, not only at that club but also throughout the entire territory over which he reigned. This was because the big boss had played and lost. He had become a (daily) gambler and, never particularly adept at that particular art, well, there you have it; he also considered himself a visionary with long antennae, and he surmised that to continue to allow gambling of any kind would inevitably lead to social decay, which would translate into an infinite number of regrettable events, so he pulled prohibition out of his hat and ushered in, naturally, the downfall of said club. It made no difference that the pair of proprietors had purchased six new pool tables and several more of ping-pong, for if no betting was allowed — what was the point? So the club closed temporarily, a reopening remaining a possibility until further notice. In consequence, Demetrio withdrew his money from the bank (the fifteen thousand pesos and a bit more of his other capital) so that he could ponder, now in earnest, his business aspirations … What would be best? At one point he even had a notion to open up a high-class cathouse, the first in Parras, for better or for worse, but …
The risk: exuberant!
Where would he get high-quality whores?
Bring them in — but from where? Too difficult!
How many permits? How many expenses?
Evaporation and a mordant grave for such an impossible and indecent idea — right? A tad of regret after the posing of many objections. Immorality as a crappy way of life … What a muddled venture!
It could be said that with money in hand Demetrio glimpsed the thicket of sex, in Torreón: undulations he well deserved, considering his stamina and despite those weekly trips, a few days each; a hypothetical plan to set in motion his underused machinery, but first let’s take note of his mother’s badgering, especially one crucial event around the middle of September, when she reminded her son about going to Sacramento: to wit: what he had promised her and seemingly had no intention of carrying out. The big guy employed no end of pretexts to sharply dissuade her: that he’d go later — okay? later; naturally, she, for a long time already, had sensed an affective uglification, we could call it, because when questioned about Renata, the aforementioned did his utmost to avoid falling into her unbearable snare of questions and answers, mostly through churlish and curt remarks: I’ll go in October … Or: We had a little misunderstanding and I want to wait … Or: I need to feel really good to feel like going … And more shadowy means to make it stop, but the mother, not satisfied, forced from him a confession. She did it tactfully, as if she were stroking thorns; always leading with tenderness, and success like a blossom: to sit together and talk parsimoniously. She cornered him cautiously. Demetrio spoke, spoke as he moved — with Doña Telma pushing him — backward, until he reached the supposed vulgarity of the kiss on the back of the hand, and, yes, the heartfelt lick; perhaps it was the eagerness of the novice to kiss passionately what never before, nevertheless, the unexpected explosion, how strange it had all seemed to him, because her mother had also insulted him. Demetrio wanted to be as explicit as possible, so he mentioned that the day before, he and Renata had spoken about getting married, and then the unexpected had occurred, as well as the consequences that had already taken place (double-dealing Doña Luisa): the pathology of a Puritanism that served no purpose, on the contrary, it messed things up, holding out, always, the path of forgiveness, which also served no purpose. At that point Demetrio had nothing to say other than that he had gone to see Renata the following day and no, just no, and Doña Telma, herewith:
“I know those Sacramento women. I am certain that Doña Luisa and Renata planned the whole thing the night before in order to find out how deep your love for her was. Maybe mother and daughter thought you would make a wrong move because you had spoken about marriage, you might put your arms around her or caress her or squeeze her hand a little bit too hard; any of these gestures would have been normal for you, but you chose a precipitous kiss, with no bad intentions, I know, especially because of where you did it. In any case, Renata must have interpreted it as indecent and especially because of the lick — what a shame!”