we already know. The mechanics of peaking in pursuit of new peaks.
What was new was that Demetrio, caught in the undertow, had learned to lick her clitoris. Oh, such ideal reciprocity! His record was fifteen minutes, doing only that. What’s more: he was constantly checking his watch while he licked away.
8
Nobody can predict when one illness might lead to another, nor when unexpected complications might arise from a given treatment. Sometimes allopathy completely cures a disease, ends minor complaints or prevents them; competent pharmacists, both dear and cheap, abound, and one must, indeed, take into account the patient’s overall physical condition, none of which was done in the case of Don Pascual Melgarejo, an octogenarian unable to allay his ills: at issue was a vegetarian diet complemented by insipid dishes, some truly repulsive, others almost tasty, none that made him actually vomit. In any case he preferred the counsel of a local herbalist to the trips to and from Cuatro Ciénegas, a pedantic town, according to him, and this included the old folks and even the school-age children, so imagine what could be said about that town’s portly doctor, quite expensive and, therefore, hyperbolic in his manners and his way of talking. All this to establish the seriously screwed-up situation of Don Pascual Melgarejo, who made an enormous effort to avoid the aforementioned expeditions, to wit: he overdosed on herbs, and nothing good was coming from it; he perspired, as we said, to excess, but he had no intention of surrendering, believing that if he did so, death—a rank and corrupt woman—would come for him at any minute, a notion he soon explained to his wife and daughter: You can’t trust the comfort of a bed. Thus came the horrendous consequences, the diminished capacities, the failings that took a greater and greater toll, for example: his mood was down in the dumps, and his laments were nearly in the same lowly place: moreover, the need to learn, for real now, what urgency meant. As we’ve seen, he traveled twice to Cuatro Ciénegas on his own and carried out the doctor’s instructions to the letter: the schedule for ingesting dose after dose of medicine; the correct nutrients, all in the proper proportions; everything except the repose. Never that: If I lie down I’ll die in the blink of an eye, a verdict spoken in cavernous tones, unbelievable to Doña Luisa and Renata, who shook their heads in response. But his fierce obstinacy served him ill. One day among many he suffered a mortal collapse on the street, about two blocks from his house. Yes, alas! He was very dead—poor thing—nothing but a pile of rubble. A heart attack, as was later ascertained. Some local folks carried away that familiar corpse, which was, needless to say, deeply mourned by his wife and daughter. By others in Sacramento as well: professionally lamented and wailed with appetizing dread. Four days of mourning. Mourning in shifts. There were six of them—did he deserve fewer? Uninterrupted and melodramatic to the max, truth be told. As if these people were being paid for their painful performance, but no, not a dime, rather the result of pure ghoulish faith (if one may speak in such terms); rosaries that weary, wearied, would weary; by day, by evening, by night; a moaning mill that—oof! better not get too close. Zulema dropped by to offer her condolences and lasted all of fifteen minutes, then—the escape! astute; we have to assume the stench drove her away. So, to reiterate: a four-day wake, such foolish obstinacy because both Doña Luisa and Renata had to inform the four who were married. Telegrams. They had to come. The death of their father. And yes: they all arrived contrite, in addition to the woe of the rough road, accompanied by their husbands, also worn to the bone. Everything done properly, or at least in good order, the next step being to organize the open-casket funeral. Well, let’s imagine the fond farewell wholly dominated by a stench akin to a dozen rotten eggs.
We won’t talk much about the burial. This synopsis should suffice: there was a chorus of cries, over-the-top good-bye clamors. We’d rather mention certain events that occurred during the short respites from the wake. Sentences: written down one at a time by Renata, who left, then came, then left again, fidgeting in the room farthest away: her letter to Demetrio would not be long, half a page at most. But one sentence … and hours