One Out of Two (7 page)

Everything as it’s always been and carry on. Fortunately, the higher the sun rose in the sky, the less besieged they were, and they didn’t bother rehashing any of it with each other … what? As for the customers, the good ones, that is, those who knew the rules, one or another arrived every now and then, so the twins, in silence alone with each other, got a lot done.

Comments were still made, casually tossed off, by this person or that, while their garments were being handed to them and they paid: “You be very careful, now! That man might be a freeloader.” Or: “So, when’s the wedding?” Impossible to respond amicably, for their words sounded like jeers more than anything else. An “I don’t know yet” from the real girlfriend would surely suffice, because people didn’t insist; such a simple answer was all that was needed for a different and even more entertaining rumor to make its way through Ocampo.

The town was so small, so infernally small, that the gapers and eavesdroppers, though few in number, were already in hot pursuit.

You be very careful, now!

That imperative banged around in their brains because it was such excellent advice, whereas: they still hadn’t given any thought to “the wedding,” the date, and other such sacred problems, and although the twins did not talk, that is, during the days that preceded the following Sunday, the strain between them increased in tandem with all those nonsensical comments and the various directions, all clearly erroneous, they led to; meanwhile, the Gamals focused on the mountains of garments they needed to finish as well as new orders coming in, which, thank God, were not that complicated: cut to fit, that was the extent of it, with not very fine fabrics and no fancy finishings, their daily bread, ergo, they stayed up late working, wanting to recover in short order the prestige they had lost, according to their own deductions, as a result of their romance, and they deliberately left the shop door wide open so that people would see that they were still professionals, whether love was in their lives or not.

But every day and as if on purpose, the prattle and tittle-tattle reached their ears. Their customers continued to make crass comments that were, whether intended or not, insulting, like getting pecked at from behind and kept, as if, under siege—but: what choice did they have? A week of silences, to spite them, as if these martyred virgins were playing some kind of trick, though: at bedtime they deigned to acknowledge the gossipmongering, realizing that it was not in fact a good idea for one of them to spy on the other as they had been doing, it was only a matter of time before the gapers, as well as the giggling gaggle of kids, prying bandits that they were, who tailed whoever clung like a spider to the walls, would station themselves in different spots, near where the nopales grew so densely, along the green bank, to the south, to observe the openmouthed kisses Gloria or Constitución shared with her beau, and this would create an explosion: of enormous consequence.

To make matters worse, right around that time, on a Friday, a letter from their aunt was slipped under the door to their house: the old lady from Nadadores who’d been held in suspension, whom they’d thought dead, or something of the sort, or maybe just lazy or decrepit: somehow beyond hope, because she no longer wrote them weekly missives as had been her wont till then. So they tear open the envelope and see the shaky, not to say deathly ill, handwriting:
Girls, how have you been? I heard that one of you is going out with
—this part was illegible—
mna from gud ffamxili
—then things improved—
the best of Ciudad Frontera: the Seguras, because even though
—again, more gibberish from the scribbler—
they arnt vari reech the half vari gud manurs. Anyway
—this next part was very clear—
I don’t know which of you it is. I beg you to tell me before I die, my rheumatism never gives me a moment’s rest. I hope we hear wedding bells when we least expect them; let me know so I can come … Anyway, please tell me what’s going on, and if you don’t want to bother going to the post office to buy letter-sized envelopes and airmail stamps, as they now require, even though the letter will go by bus anyway, those shameless pencil pushers, if that’s what’s stopping you it would be easier for you to just come here and visit. Nadadores isn’t so far away from Ocampo. I’m sure you could get here much faster than any letter you might write … And I want you to know that my husband and I would love to see you, I will personally cook you a delicious dinner … I hope
—here, again, more scribbles—
thither also haza bxyfrend … re mmbre is hurribl living witot ckildrn or witotha husband, watif sudnly one of u dize? txe othr
—followed by the really awful part despite the spelling and handwriting being impeccable—
who will still be in the land of the living, poor thing! she’ll be left all alone and completely abandoned, and it’ll be even worse if she’s got some horrible disease, dear me! I can’t stand even thinking about it. That’s why I keep telling you what I’ve been telling you for as long as I’ve known you: Get married! Please! … Here at my house
—and the next sentence was impressive because clearly the aunt wanted to draw some very large and round letters—
EVERYBODY’S ALREADY GOTTEN MARRIED. I’M THE HAPPY GRANDMOTHER OF ELEVEN GRANDCHILDREN … YOUR AUNT WHO ALWAYS SUPPORTS YOU AND WANTS ONLY WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU … P.S. DON’T FORGET TO WRITE BACK.

After reading the letter, the twins stood perched like two buzzards on the top of a tree, or rather: with the urge to fly away; in a game of sidelong glances, their crestfallen faces failed to find an appropriate expression. They could not, dared not, look at each other. The commotion in their minds was a shade of white and their ideas traced the cruel outline of a hateful outburst, because that sentence: “Everybody’s already gotten married”
…
had to have been intended as either mockery or menace. Gloria, the one holding the piece of paper, bit her lip and seemed on the verge of collapse, but she managed to rein in her rage and: without asking permission from her other half, she furiously tore it up and hurled the tiny shreds into a nearby basket, while the other, without moving a single finger or saying anything about the other’s rash act, observed her indulgently, trying to understand her motives, which were none other than her very own.

Shreds? Shards? Of the past? Of a bygone chapter … All up in smoke? … Yes, that’s what they’d like, once and for all.

In response to the obvious insult, the shredding spoke volumes, a step forward, a proposal: to hell with the same old story: their aunt with her unrelenting advice, and the twins, considered spinsters, understood that this would be the last letter they would ever read, and if others arrived containing the same song and dance, as could only be expected—they imagined the handwriting even shakier, completely illegible—they would destroy them before opening. Moreover, why should they send pictures and greetings if the central topic was so obdurate and humiliating, if she treated them like dimwits? In addition, this business about her children getting married within such a short time—when were the weddings and when had Soledad let them know?—was nothing but another form of pressure, a despicable lie, an obvious deception designed to propel them into action. Oh well, and still, each held on to her own secret and an event such as this was not about to make them reveal anything.

That’s why they didn’t speak, nor would they; instead, calmly and in spite of everything, they created some order out of all that psychological turmoil, because—knowing their own strengths, their impulses—the heated fluctuations of any discussion would expose the plans they each harbored regarding the beau. It can thereby be inferred that their future loomed, quite vague, and love: don’t even mention that, though for now the only game they were playing was its pursuit and the emotions it wrought.

Around midnight, in their bedroom, they again looked at each other up close, the tips of their eagle-like noses almost
almost
touching. Their eyes revealed greater wisdom, a unique and sensible vulpinity. More united than ever?: finally, they embraced, for they would share the same fate. A discreet scene in which a single sentence was uttered for no particular purpose:

“I’m glad you tore up that hostile letter,” Constitución said.

The bait was tempting, but Gloria, cleverly, was not about to start explaining her own reasoning: she offered only a blush: a touch of sadness, or to put it indirectly: she grinned like a Cheshire cat. With that, ipso facto, they released their tight embrace. The so-called winner made a hand signal, her fingers sticking out like horns that she moved in and out, flexing her fingers, her mouth keen, implausible thirst: her round lips moist, just look at them, will you!: she wanted to get tipsy, but her twin motioned no: wagging her index finger back and forth. Next came other gestures, hands moving every which way, grimaces, and even irony, they laughed and, what the hell!, because any subsequent disagreement would be the opposite of a celebration. Yes … Pantomimes and criteria that made it inappropriate to drink a toast right then—it was neither Friday nor Saturday—tomorrow they would have a lot of work, and … Alas, to sleep.

Chimera? Abyss? Each futile longing with its own
de motu
… The thing is, neither had the foggiest idea which single notion was indispensable for them to fully embark on a different life: with the burden of their similitude, still facing mirrors, but mirrors that are aging. As such, they seemed like two blind, even delirious women who find no walls or anything else worth groping … Only Oscar: with a stippled landscape behind him: for both of them: in one: dribbles and drabs … From afar, come here! Come now!, but no … The virtual sensation vanishes.

Dreams proliferate, come then go; days and duties—lapsing at night—: reality: just as it is: without ebb and flow; likewise the twins, making their usual sounds: grindstone and more grindstone, indeed: a monotony that seeks rootedness, a lethal pretense, or tentative beginnings, because: due to Oscar’s punctual arrival every Sunday bearing gifts—bracelets, brooches, bobbles, and bottles of scent—they fell in love: in a similar way, even if deep down inside each was immersed in her own wiles: and: as time passed, that deeply perforated love couldn’t be avoided but they couldn’t talk about it, either, so in the end it would be an upheaval rather than an opportunity. By the same token, little by little such perfect presents gave the well-scrubbed beau partial license to kiss them gently, to lightly caress their knees, and thighs whenever possible—or rather, as far as the rancher was concerned, the pleasure was purely: his sweetheart sometimes yielding as she defended herself against his touches—so he, confident while riding those buses packed with passengers, could well imagine Constitución’s legginess, and her sex further up—though he was decent: with self-control—: the possibility, whenever he thought about that triangle women have, where the young ’uns later come out, wow! though after all those feints and parries, the wedding would be a coronation, and after that, imagine the affection, the loving welcome when the husband arrives home weary from work and the gaggle of kids as well as his wife gather around him, large meals with proverbial seasonings prepared by his wife, years of the same life, serene: in short: he was savoring his own longing like wine that plumps up the senses before settling in for the long haul. But first, he’d have to knock himself out, fight and win many battles to earn his just reward.

The bad part is that those women were deceiving him, not out of treachery but rather sisterhood: that union so sanctioned that they never allowed themselves to be carried away by the fiddle of tickling fingers or a mouth that insinuates kisses, a current so strict that there’s nothing to gain but restraint and a push to escape whenever it tries to extend its range, in itself a long, drawn-out game: serious later: and grand at the same time, because that blasted birthmark, if Oscar discovered it, you be very careful, and how! … In the meantime, the passage of his hands over the twins’ skins should never include their backs or shoulders—no auxiliary hugs—so nothing but kisses and the real temptation: in between their thighs.

However, there are three mouths—more precisely, two: in one … And the other that accepts: three! and they talk, eat, and laugh, play at being the beginning of something that flows into: does silence hold more hope for happiness? These mouths—so sweet, so sisterly, then devilish, then saintly: transfigurations and time away from being either you or me; we: appearances, twins before all else, and then …

Grindstone and more grindstone, each one with her own credo, because Gloria, when she kissed her supposed boyfriend, would forget about her sister, thereby rendering the memory of those enchanted moments fodder for her dreams: same with the other, and for Oscar, of course. Whether eating, sleeping, or even while keeping their noses to it: many mental journeys.

And, of course, every time each went his or her own way, he or she carried a piece of the other. A triangle, to put it simply: three gnawed points and a conjugation: or to put it indirectly: two similar points and a third one far far away.

Passion conjugated: repressed, obsessive, in full conformity with the rules of the game; in fact, one could say that because there was so much uniformity in their actions—always stopping halfway—in all three of their igneous heads flowered a convulsive urge to tell all, but they had to wait.

However …

We must agree that between identical beings, mimicry also includes sanctuaries of sorrow that are impervious to being aired or traced, as well as very short-lived yet incommunicable points of view. Hence, after all those years they had learned to intuit each other from afar, to know without meaning to that they were being observed by the other. But, let’s get to the point: currents ran between the Gamal sisters even when they were sleeping, yes, indeed, they were twins, to the
n
th degree, and proud of it, and here is one example:

Whenever one of them looked in the mirror for any length of time, for example, when she was getting all gussied up on Sunday, two hours or so before the beau arrived, the one looking would feel like it was her sister who was looking back at her out of that enormous and paradoxical full moon, intentionally imitating her primping, a form of mockery, and every once in a while—why not?—would quickly wink; then reality would return when her twin suddenly appeared beside her to hurry her along: because: with four of the same: oh, dear! which of them was who? If the reflection was accurate, they were all ghosts, or the other way around. Then, an outright denial when they left the gleaming, and the gleaming itself: would it flicker without them?