4
So much to talk about. A random recounting of minor troubles and modest joys. The breakfast conversation was merely a sketch that mother and son would fill in with details and inventions on the train. It was five in the morning, and due to their nerves, or their haste, they decided to finish chewing their toasted totopos and bread on the way to the station in their horse-drawn carriage. Among the most important things the mother — her name was Telma — told her offspring was one as portentous as:
“I’m sure you will find the woman of your life in Sacramento, the woman who will be the mother of your children.”
For Demetrio, this was a vain prophecy. He’d rather imagine Mireya’s marvelous vagina and her breasts like well-hung melons. She was the ideal, even the superlative, mamacita, who would bear him a whole legion of children …
“Did you hear me? There are lots of good and beautiful women in Sacramento; dutiful, not at all tiresome. What do you think?”
“I’ll see. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”
This was the main subject of conversation en route. Hour after hour she insisted. Irksome to the son, who had to hold his tongue. Not a chance he’d spill the beans to Doña Telma; what if he told her that he was sleeping with a spectacular whore in Oaxaca, and even that he had screwed her in many different positions? A son should never confess such depraved sins to his mother. What a terrible lack of respect that would be — right? hence it behooves us to set this scene in a precariously balanced rowboat. A touch of anxiety, a hint of fright, perhaps a moment of relief or something of the sort, all anticipated hours beforehand. Apropos, we must relate a geographic detail Doña Telma and her son, Demetrio, discussed on their way to Sacramento in the first-class carriage—“first” implies the presence of ceilings and walls upholstered in green velvet … anyway, the point is that the Nadadores River runs parallel to the railroad tracks for two and a half miles. If you think that there’s no friction in this kind of kinship, there’s no point in mentioning the subject. But the mother thought there was, for she had heard that sometimes the rising waters covered the rails. An anomalous event that created the illusion that the train was floating. Many had witnessed this delightful effect from afar, but to experience it from inside the train: to feel afloat and derailed: which she never … maybe this would be the first time? Fear. And, it being December, the river is higher, they say, or the contrary: almost not. Hence, until they passed that stretch … just before La Polka station, where mother and son would detrain with their heavy suitcases. A bit more than a mile before said station the river bore east. And the only thing they, as well as the other passengers, saw at any given moment was a sprinkling of the rails: the one on the left: where: unwanted kisses: liquid moderation, which outside observers might have perceived as flotation. Probably not. The river had risen, undoubtedly, but not enough to produce a more or less virtual image … And having thus avoided serious difficulties Doña Telma offered her gratitude to God, and Demetrio seconded that, if only to cover his bases. They crossed themselves ostentatiously, though the one, full-fledged; the other, hypocritical. Anyway, they’d almost reached La Polka. Both had stood up, the son carrying the heavy suitcase to the exit: he staggered under its weight. His mother had warned him that they would have to cross the Nadadores River by boat. On the other shore a horse-drawn carriage would take them to Sacramento. Two old-fashioned conveyances that then and perhaps even now remain the same … Yes, there was the proof, at that point in the century nobody had yet taken the initiative to build a bridge: how difficult could it be so as to avoid the rowing nuisance? For how long had it been thus? And how about buying an automobile to replace the horse-drawn carriage. No, no modernity here, and hence we have mother and son trembling in the boat. Rowing the whole way. The narrow boat was agile. The current would never hold sway. A gentle pull, ah; a glimmer of danger: yes: as stated, the cloud of dust still to come: a mock or imminent attack? the latter: which is what regrettably occurred: the wheels churning dust off the ground: as if to replicate rusticity they arrived in town like a couple of clowns (dust even in their armpits)— Sacramento was three miles from the river. Before that: a third of a mile from La Polka to the riverbank, but on the other side. The load, for Demetrio. Suffice it to say that the aforementioned crossing was more perturbing than the dusty jaunt: a bath at once, compulsory, with brush, soap, and soap-root plant, as soon as they arrived at the home of Aunt Zulema, Doña Telma’s cousin, where they would stay, for the town had no hotels, not even a modest one, not even a hostel. In short, the clouds of dirt were an added touch. A form of welcome … aggressive? Constant coughing, starting with the coachman. The important thing is that mother and son conversed between bouts. She repeated that Sacramento had an abundance of … et cetera. Demetrio’s rude riposte: You’ve told me more than ten times, Mama. And what if it turns out not to be true? Better just forget about it. But the mother, wearisome and defeated, nonetheless hedged her bets: At least in my day there were lots of beautiful women … I don’t know about now … Hopefully it will be like it once was. And once it was like this and like that, and as the horse-drawn carriage made its way through the streets of the town: one over here, another over there, wow, such well-groomed beauties — abloom! such bodies! such faces! such tresses! through the dust …
The magic dust acting as a filthy screen: do the beauties bathe … and how many times a day? If so, as Demetrio imagined, it would be the ultimate consolation, because the gaga gawker was already fully engrossed in painting pictures in his mind. He could imagine them (almost) floating. And above all, how beautiful they must be when even with all this dust … was there really that much? Demetrio imagined them naked, like Mireya, sculpted, but, why the comparison when any one of them was ten times as good as …? Walking loveliness: well-nourished. The agronomist probably thought that those he was watching (lecherously) would attend the wedding. A host of invitations — with any luck! At night, visual delerium: many baths in between … In the meantime the aftereffects of the strenuous journey: colossal exhaustion. For Demetrio felt as though he’d come from the other end of the earth. Hence there rose from his subconscious the utterance “Hi-ro-shi-ma”—disgusting! so many dead. No! he wasn’t in Japan but rather in this small place: where life was flourishing — gorgeous! so healthful, so removed from catastrophes and other degradations … To clarify: Sacramento was horrible. A town staked down in the middle of a desert in a broad valley: irredeemable ugliness, except for the local women … Divine wisdom, could it possibly compensate? or not? Still to be seen if all were really so angelic … and hot! And of foremost importance: capable of whipping up a hearty stew.