here and he there, as if ordained, perhaps because fate did not favor a mother-son encounter in Sacramento. At around three in the afternoon Doña Telma appeared at the very spot from which Demetrio, early in the morning and quite eager, had vanished. Perhaps at that particular hour of the day he and Don Delfín were reaching an agreement on the former’s terms of employment, but no news of it here till tomorrow—hopefully!—and, finally, rather than elucidate what is most meaningful, let’s instead focus on the unexpected encounter between the two señoras, as well as in the euphoria of their surprise. You? Here? What for? Doña Zulema was not—we must reiterate—a good hostess. She did not close the store, much less offer her dear relative so much as a cup of coffee: not so much as the courtesy of a sip at the counter of this commercial enterprise, so let’s exalt her sloth above all. Hence, the woman who’d just arrived requested: A sip of water, please, don’t be so cruel. It was pathetic, and the one thus implored produced two glasses of water, then proceeded to voice her thoughts on the subject of Demetrio; that his romance was moving right along; that he was looking for a job in the area, this the reason he had gone to Monclova. A deluge of facts of greater or lesser importance, which saddened Doña Telma: her oblique complaint—her foremost concern—her son’s fury, how he left Parras without even planting a kiss where it should have gone: neither on her cheek (for example), nor on her forehead, nor on her hand. Doña Telma, however, did not want to reveal the reason for his rage. The point of gravity—full speed till there—under no circumstance; preferable to avoid what was shameful: the indiscretion of peeking into the loaded suitcase while her son slept; then when she woke him up to … Oh, forget it! may all that heaviness float; therewith the phoniness of the adjective “inexplicable” that was and continued to be a terrible mess from which it was quite difficult to extricate oneself, hence the melodramatic conclusion: I think my son doesn’t love me anymore. I am more alone than ever, because my daughters aren’t with me, either. The truth is, I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came to Sacramento. More and more miserable dribbles of sentimentalism, aimless, even groundless (Doña Zulema listening—perchance derisively?), or perhaps she was on the verge of acting forcefully, such as falling to her knees to beg for forgiveness the moment Demetrio appeared: would it be worth it? We’ll leave that pantomime for the morrow, though: I won’t allow you to degrade yourself in front of him. For now, how to move that big guy to pity? What madcap act would do the trick? Once and for all let’s watch the scene that’s worthy of a separate strophe unto itself.
It was a matter of a certain amount of obstinacy to keep one’s eyes peeled westward up the street for more than two hours, even more to hold those particular four eyes thus and through that shop door, an obstinacy finally rewarded by the joyous glimpse of Demetrio’s approaching figure, at which point both cried in unison: Look! He’s coming, with Doña Telma kneeling (for a while already) in a ridiculously doddering gesture. Get up, don’t act the fool! Nevertheless, the theatricality was enacted—of course! though with a bit less solemnity. So, when Demetrio arrived, the solicitous mother made a move to embrace him. You can probably imagine the droning intonation of her plea for forgiveness: verbal twists like sloppy swaddling, then muteness the moment the big guy shook off the embrace and began to tick off his news like rosary beads, indifferent to his mother’s tearful pantomimes, all of which were undoubtedly observed out of the corner of the eyes of some passersby. For this scene took place on the bench; inside would have been preferable, but such qualms of privacy ran counter to the torrent of topics broached in the heat of the moment, consistent with … well, let’s pick up some of Doña Telma’s vociferations: Look what I’ve done! I’ve come all this way to ask for your forgiveness … I, who gave you a suitcase to carry your clothes and money … I, who fixed the hem on your pants, this being the range of vulgarities more or less worth repeating, until Demetrio countered, voicing his delight at being hired by Don Delfín