in abstractions.
May sleep fix without twisting the purpose.
May sleep strip Renata naked.
To see that saint naked. See her begging for sex.
If only!
Okay, okay, let’s say that happened, that sleep brought him something of the sort. Maybe not the beauty’s full nudity, but how about a sacred hand, offered forth: take hold! pa-leeze take hold! Renata ordered him in a quite implausibly beseeching tone: take hold, my love! And he did so as if it were a phantasmagoric piece of flesh. The more caresses offered the more doubts arose, the more improbable ripening, all for the worst … the entwined hands started to rot. When Demetrio awoke he stood up at attention like a soldier and quickly made his way back to Sacramento.
Maybe Doña Zulema wouldn’t notice his arrival. Not a chance. She, so understanding, wouldn’t dream of daring to ask him where he had spent the night. Surely on a bench in the plaza, or in some vacant lot, or in the hills, or—who knows! In fact, she remained resolutely silent: upon seeing him arrive she gave him a hug and that was all. He did not offer excuses, nor did he explain anything (it was nine in the morning). Though it is true that during the embrace he gave her a few very nice strokes on her head, her arms, her back, and:
“Do you want some breakfast?”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“What are your plans till this afternoon?”
“I want to be alone.”
Alone. To waste time. Demetrio shut himself up in a room jam-packed with statuettes and pictures of saints. Such a moral, recriminating menace: and: what he did was turn all their backs to him. They deserved it! or didn’t they? Their ignorance versus … let’s see … Our lover’s levels of abstract thinking never went very far. Never, definitely, did they take a definite tack. Hence ensued the compensatory masturbation. Action rather than reflection. He fully savored the act and upon feeling the smudge of semen on his fingers he said to himself: I’m becoming a chaos … but I don’t care. He wiped himself off with a corner of the quilt: disgusting!, and he rested—now, finally—and smiled, what a sin onanism was, how peculiar! A sin that consumes itself. Futile fount and for that very reason, extraordinary … and grotesque, and devoid of mystery! which is why later—once again? Thrice Doña Zulema knocked on the door, but only the last time did she ask him the following (take note of the respect, the not-opening, the not-being-offensive):
“Are you going to stay in there? Don’t you want to eat something?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine. Leave me alone!”
He masturbated twice more, though, to tell the truth, these were not as pleasurable as the first. Then, at about three in the afternoon, Demetrio went out. He felt like washing with bucketfuls galore. His aunt filled up four, that was all she had. The nephew, however, remained a long time in the washroom and she took on the task of inspecting, by stealth, the other room. She saw the saints with their backs turned—what now? perversity behind closed doors? really? Her nephew, happy or unhappy, naked … perhaps … but … whatever’s wrong with that? And, making a modest inference, she mused that masturbation … let’s see, let’s see … is natural for a man, as long as he doesn’t take advantage of the privilege—what else could she conclude? Then—oh, darn!—the evidence: the soiled quilt; a whitish stain, which, when looked at up close—oh!: in it Doña Zulema saw the seed of children, grandnephews, but also of less-than-well-corresponded love, or despair, or spiritual sorrow, or—damn! why such a fuss. Three stains on the quilt, that is, three masturbations and—how disgusting! (already said) especially after making up the bed with new sheets and a new quilt. Be that as it may, no reproaches, no obsessing. What’s more, she did not inspect the suitcases. She could have opened them, for both were closed with only a metal clasp, but …
Now we really must betake ourselves to the much-anticipated tryst. Exquisite presentation. Renata wore a quince-colored dress that sparkled with every move she made, and he a jacket and tie and, indeed, a Mediterranean-blue long-sleeved shirt; no, not a new bouquet of lilies—obviously! bad luck—remember?—; but his suitcase, now an inseparable part of him.
“What a shock you gave me. Why have you come at this time of year? I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Guess what? I no longer live and work in Oaxaca. I had a big fight with my