Almost Never: A Novel by Daniel Sada, Katherine Silver Read Free Book Online

hope that would never be fulfilled or disappointed: hence: to leave, to feign ignorance yet know he was carrying the onus of an illusion. The material thing was in far-off Oaxaca. Nevertheless, first a toast. New Year’s Eve: stiff, then soft and therefore remembered. Two solitudes embraced. Mother and son—contrite? The hug lasted a long time.

5
    R omantic music in the penumbra, a bit of rumbling from behind the four walls: sequestered with memories. He deliberately made the volume overflow. Demetrio had no regard for the other lodgers’ privacy. A mere quarter of an hour had passed and Doña Rolanda was already knocking on the door: her voice through the wood: Turn it down! Please! The good part: prompt compliance; the response: the act: down it was turned, without another word spoken. But the following night, the same thing—ugh!—and even more rumbling: the continued increase the result of love’s pull or the lover’s thickheadedness: an inexorable ascent or, better said, a brutal one. And again: Turn it down! Please! The third night of folly, it resounded even louder, and Doña Rolanda had no choice but to present him with the ultimatum that she would forbid him from having a radio in his room if … et cetera … and thus we put an end to the music problem. Of course, the music continued, but the volume: a wisp that only barely stoked the delirium of he who longed for the ranchera goddess. It’s also worth mentioning that Demetrio had not been visiting Mireya. His longing for her and the oft-dreamed-of screws had steadily diminished during the return trip, a great doubt about the future of his love life having conclusively intervened. To make a sacrifice for a hope (unfortunately, always vague) as opposed to his need for a sexual workout, his apprenticeship, his fantasies, but … desire, that unscalable peak, that muddling and stirring blur … Abstinence, to be so wholly parched, the denial of all sorts of urgencies in order to fortify his tattered spirit. An expiation, perhaps, or a punishment—for how long? and moreover, in order to render what, exactly, clear? The truth was that while listening to those songs that waxed poetic about love’s miseries, Demetrio made several attempts to write his first promised letter. He couldn’t decide whether to write “Highly esteemed,” “Dear,” “Wondrous,” or simply, “Hi, Renata,” or the name by itself, next to a drawing of a flower, using five colored pencils. No! Such vulgarity, quickly shunned … Indolence. Inanity … Nonetheless, try, try, try again, knowing that sheer obstinacy would carry him to his goal, whatever that might be, which might provoke stentorian laughter that was nonetheless sympathetic … to enthuse her, make her forgive such … The agronomist managed to eke out only three sentences, not even particularly shapely ones, in an entire week. No reason even to quote them. They cajoled so blatantly that even he felt like a hypocrite, and the worst part: they lacked all credibility. His mission was to fill three sheets of paper, back and front—six pages in all, though at the rate he was going he calculated that it would take him more than a month. Dig out what was most natural in himself (climbing a mountain carpeted in treacherous snow), and express it, and—what words would sound really and truly sincere? what ideas that Renata could interpret as feelings rising from a limpid depth? Ah. So, no. Indolence won the day, and the other; the brothel, the awaiting brunette, the one to whom he need only say: Hey, you, let’s get it on! Away, now! Resist. No, he didn’t go. Abstinence is better … auspicious? Better to concentrate on his work in the orchard, as he was doing. In the midst of it all, Demetrio masturbated one night with great delight to the rhythm of the music. When he felt the semen seeping through his fingers, a mumbled sentence took shape, almost through attrition: I am turning into a chaos.
    A chaos, indeed, what