they approached to touch the body of the shouter to tell him to “Calm down!” and other things of that sort, but Demetrio kept on in the same vein: shouting wildly, as if he were taunting fate by spewing barbaric things such as: I’m going to hang those thieves! Their names are Liborio and Zacarías! No matter how much they tried to console him, nobody managed to calm him down, and he continued spitting out incoherent babble. With their combined forces, however, they did carry the giant, but only for half a minute, after which Demetrio violently bolted. They wanted to take him home, which was only—how many blocks away? But he told them to let him go because he would walk on his own two feet and just fine, thank you. The thing is, once he was put down (roughly) on the ground, Demetrio stopped shouting. On the contrary, he showed a curious kind of dignity as he walked away. A respectable upright man, casually straightening out his shirt and pants. It was a good thing that he had become quite sober, as was appropriate, and he stayed that way until he reached the house. A few followed him, just because. Imagine, then, the embrace between mother and son. The defeated duo, alone. Or, rather, inside the house and with the door closed. Or, rather, they cried a lot. Yes, there was a big because.
The coincidental robberies. The unimaginable. Too much trust given to those who didn’t deserve it. And Demetrio lodged the most serious complaint:
“I always have to start from scratch, always, always, always. I want to come out ahead for a change.”
“It’s not the end of the world. We won’t be starting from scratch. Fortunately, I still have money saved. Though I never thought such a thing could befall us.”
They kept talking sorrowfully, standing up, without losing their balance, and embracing each other, though soon they loosened their grip. There in the middle of the courtyard their desolation pointed in a certain direction. Then the pair began making futile speculations. Here’s one example: why were others able to lift themselves up with no problem, while they, no matter how hard they struggled, just couldn’t. God doesn’t love us, she declared, then immediately added nuance to her affirmation, beginning with the following banality: Or, He loves us with tough love. After elaborating on the advantage of being close to God, his mother proposed they go to church to pray for more than two hours. Demetrio, without hesitating, agreed and rejoiced, for it was of utmost importance to thank the Almighty that they hadn’t been completely scalped; for the robbery, in both cases, had been somewhat prudent. It was not a catastrophe, it just was, and—what might have happened if they’d stayed in Sacramento for two more days? or a week? eh? For now, let’s watch mother and son walking with their heads down, leaning on each other with good balance and clutched hands. Many passersby saw that saddened pair take one step after another. But what they mostly noted was their entrance into the temple. Their rustic humility that would be rewarded in the great beyond. Anyway, finally they kneeled and then began a kind of harsh penitence, parabolic, parodies of Our Fathers and Ave Marias: whatever they knew partially, thus: a gallimaufry of somewhat dim-witted prayers, and wedged in there were mother and son requesting that nothing dark happen in their lives again. In the end, their prayers were spicy enough to burn their tongues. There was generosity and even pain, for they remained kneeling for three hours, and their knees … ayayay … Then they left, almost stumbling over themselves. The walk back was more difficult. Mother and son were thinking—in between the ays—about everything they had to do. Renew their trust in people, but—to whom, what nature of folks, would they give it? The truth is, things were complicated, really, supercomplicated.
38
Oh my, the queue. We wish to emphasize the number of people looking for a job. More than twenty-five were counted. All men, and Demetrio requested solid references from each: a letter—signed? the name of the reference, and, if he lived in Parras (rather than some nearby locale), precisely where. Sometimes he was swayed by summary impressions; an agreeable smiling face, a placid voice, mild manners, and other such niceties. When someone struck a chord, he was asked to return that afternoon. More revealing exchanges ensued, a deeper digging into the details. That is, to