One Out of Two

by Daniel Sada

  Now for their send-off. Hands waving: farewell! in front of the house, like an embossment of such deep relief it perforates the page: the aunt, the shirtless smoking husband, and around them: the urchins, holding still: their mischief kept under wraps; they would have loved to run after the twins and lift up their skirts one last time, so they’d never forget their innocent pranks.

  But there is restraint and irritability, if you will: ephemeral sorrows: yes: that seem to complement each other; there are: knots in throats that are easy to untangle and eyes staring long and hard in this direction: at the girls, who turn to look back out of a sense of duty, to express their gratitude with subtle effusion. Farewell … oh, dear! Then, they turn to face forward and catch a glimpse of a blurry figure that has yet to take shape; but sorrowful departures must not be prolonged or repeated, because saying good-bye more than once, according to a local superstition, is like spilling salt, or even like returning whence one hailed, because all paths are erased once taken. A curtain is drawn and behind it an improbable space opens up and … No. The Gamal twins sped up their steps: identical strands of hair blown in the breeze. To tell the truth: they were not heading anywhere in particular, at least not in spirit.

  /

  Pedaling—in the present—to the rhythm of a song: there’s always something, here in Ocampo, for these machines that are almost human to do: their clientele has grown and will continue to do so if they keep at it … These days Constitución and Gloria think complacently of their humble beginnings. What a difficult position to take off from! Here: they’ve been settled for ten years after wandering from place to place looking for just the right conditions. Ocampo is it and will continue to be for as long as things go well.

  Now let’s tell their tale: after they learned to work morning, noon, and night, their ambitions became so thoroughly sealed by the absolute value they placed on money that one peso poorly spent, they feared, would ruin them. With this as their guiding principle, they sustained the flow, and despite constant increases in costs and prices, it never devolved to a trickle. They never went under because they had learned their fundamental lesson: to live without luxuries.

  Except—for to be miserly is also to err—they dipped into their capital to buy a portable black-and-white camera. It was very important that the pictures they took be true to their similitude: to prove it, constantly, but no, not even this was enough.

  On the contrary, each revelation fused them more fully together: grimaces of hilarity and grimaces of gravity: one out of two or two in one or … Pretending they were poor was an affirming and robust lesson that stripped them of all incident and regret, and from such a tender age to eagerly envisage their endless toil at tailoring and dressmaking, see it with lyrical eyes and absorb it into their spirits, know that they might fall headlong into an absurd abyss if they strayed even a little—that’s what they gleaned from such dogged dedication.

  In the meantime, they remained single—what of it? Enviable privilege and great courage were required to counter the advice of their aunt, with whom they kept in touch via exceedingly concise missives; from time to time Gloria sent photos and the other sent others: all against a backdrop of desolate desert landscapes and adobe walls: they sent them out of a sense of duty, and the response was always the same—arriving with alacrity wherever they were living: “Get married, you silly girls, and be quick about it! But don’t flirt with the first young man you meet; you have to be coy, give yourselves airs, or you’ll regret it …” They opened the envelopes together and with delectable malice. What mirrored mirth! So much reiteration was like a riddle without enough clues, an agonizing idea that never breaks through its own closed sphere.

  But if we wished to draw conclusions, we’d be wrong to assert that they dug in their heels. Nothing of the sort! … “Better alone than in bad company” is a well-known expression they heard all too often throughout their long and arduous wanderings, and living without a husband’s agreeable ways made them feel more fulfilled … Sacrifice and faith: this is what they learned from remaining in their immaculate state, no matter where they happened to be, and the rewards of motherhood would come later.

  Their eyes never strayed from their goal: not even a peek at that wad of bills, for caprice too often trumps reason—yes, indeed! they knew this all too well—and they found work in a variety of places to pursue their larger purpose of becoming accomplished seamstresses, earning humiliating salaries in exchange for learning those sundry skills. Luck was on their side, even in this, for every town and every village needs somebody to make clothes. They became so proficient, whether sewing by machine or by hand, that they were able to formulate a theory. This, then, is the principle:

  “The secret is in the needle after the scissors have made their cut.” And a long explanation follows.

  One was the other’s teacher and the other also had to be hers. Their nighttime conversations, accompanied by romantic music and generous libations, usually turned on the conundrum of velocity versus perfection: which?: one has to be better, but according to what or to whom?

  At that point, they really did have to think about their future. That’s why they looked at the stash still packed away in that plastic bag Soledad had given them … The truth is, they hesitated, but … They considered Ocampo, a peaceful town with friendly people, and found plenty of reasons to test their luck there.

  They made their decision one bright, sunny day: to go there right away and invest most of their inheritance. Nearly sight unseen, they bought a not very big house with a rather rustic patio; they also bought a couple of used sewing machines: Singer, top of the line, as well as a spot to set up their new shop. They doled out money for furniture, necessities, knickknacks, making purchases here and there and … Finally, all of it: the whole story in Lamadrid, their parents’ horrendous accident and—to top it off—profane burial, then their life in Nadadores, their setbacks, their recoveries, at some point all got spirited away: cruel memories: except Soledad, their legendary aunt whom they never visited because they didn’t want to quarrel, for by now they were in their thirties and had their own opinions, though they appreciated her for her honesty, for having helped them get on their feet: but not for her own self, not for her company.

  “We have to write to our aunt.”

  “You’re right, we should tell her where we’re living.”

  Time passed: one day, under their front door: the twins found a large, lovely orange envelope. It was undoubtedly a letter from … They opened it and read: “You’re invited to the wedding of my son, Benigno; my boy is getting married. Both of you should come, we’re throwing a big shindig. I suggest you do your hair differently: for example, one could wear it down, and the other, piled on top of her head in a tower. And don’t dress the same, and don’t stick together the whole time. Take my advice. There’ll be many single men and you might just catch one. No matter what, I’m sending you my blessings, and remember, we always have a big bed for you in my house, because: things are better around here, not like before, now we even have enough money to travel. Anyway, it would be our pleasure to welcome you into our home again. Fondly, your aunt who misses you, Soledad Guadarrama.” The date of the wedding was written along the bottom of the blue card, especially for them … In four days’ time.

  At this point—we should get our bearings—the Gamal sisters were rapidly approaching their forty-second birthday. Across their foreheads and under their eyes, down their necks and along their eyelids, clear ridges had appeared, as if some phantom fiend visited them at night and sculpted their slumbering countenances, and while they were at it, their bodies, with the clear intention of making them look more alike: making them one—poor things—: as if life were pure and vain idealism, for the number two can never be one. Whatever the case, and as for their sameness, we could wax eloquent, speak of dimensions and analogous depths, but …

  Constitución and Gloria found in that invitation—by all measures, kind—the key to their perhaps most dee
ply buried preoccupation: “There’ll be many single men.” Such crass nonsense because: after reading this refrain, the twins saw each other and themselves differently, and from that moment on the ambiguous gift of looking so much alike began to make them uncomfortable. They could not both go to Nadadores.

  No matter how badly they now wanted to look different, even with makeup, each on her own: without agreeing or intentionally seeking obvious contrasts: no: their identity was fixed, it was a curse and that was the end of it and nobody knows why. That is: in the past they’d tried: if one dolled herself up, the other wouldn’t; if one wore a dress, the other would put on trousers … But folks aren’t so easily fooled: even if they managed it in Sacramento or Cuatro Ciénegas, or even here, in Ocampo: they were recognized: on the bus, but more to the point: their luck in love was limited to much-too-furtive glances: from the absentminded. Which is precisely why they never went to dance parties: moreover, they were so unsightly that nobody ever chose them, not even the drunks. Hence, their path was narrow and grew ever narrower as the years went by … What horrors! a knife’s edge, a distant glint, and maybe unnecessary.

  Then that wedding: an opportunity, an illusion, a short vacation, a break from the routine, even if this marvel of meticulousness was a source of pleasure. Which is why they didn’t have the slightest remorse about being slackers because from seven in the morning till seven at night—twelve full hours of toil, well, except an hour and a half to rest, figured into the schedule and offering concrete benefits, lest we think otherwise: the midday meal, washing up then lying down on different beds: sleeping soundly for fifteen or maybe ten minutes: power naps—every day except Sunday their customers arrived with their fabrics and left satisfied, their garments packed in bags with handles—paper bags—that the twins used because they happened to like them. Though lately, they had so many people traipsing through their door that they were falling behind, so rather than fail to fill orders as promised, they sewed till midnight almost every day. Hence, the stress previously mentioned.

  Hence, also, the success—they worked for cheap—that allowed them to forget for long stretches their lack of acquiescence to love: men and their kisses, the sexual divide, those ecstatic shapes of bodies intertwined: over there, in the impossible beyond: tenderness was there, in the heavens.

  That’s why this was so disruptive. The wedding. The separation. The attempt to find out if somehow: the gnosis of a miracle: a suitor might unexpectedly appear. But only one would go, because both, they couldn’t, no way. They discussed it extensively, the pros and the cons …

  And they finally decide who would go to Nadadores with the flip of a coin. Heads or tails? Constitución won, and poor Gloria: she was left in a terrible predicament! She’d have to work double. One could even say, she’d have to work fast—chuck the usual perfectionism—if she was going to keep up with the orders. For her to fully embrace her defeat would require a change in criteria. To cleanse herself of envy so as to condescend, pretend to be someone who cared, though to tell the truth, deep down she bitterly wished that the other had been the one who’d lost, even if she was her equal. They still looked alike, but Gloria wanted to deny it when tails turned up and her ire rose.

  “I hope you find someone good: a real man; but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  Wary dismay, and ultimately: razor-sharp envy; the loser issued her warning in tremulous tones and under the guise of great sincerity as she sewed without looking at her dear sister’s girlish delight, the perspicacious or deeply wise winner knowing how imprudent it would be to say anything that might provoke a silly spat, that it was advisable, for now, to accept the advice, pretending to repress her sense of triumph.

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high.”

  The talkative one, however, was a hypocrite, for she rose at dawn, in the dark and stealthily, not making any noise that would rouse she who remained unconscious. Complicated maneuvers to dress: then running euphorically the four blocks to the shop, after leaving on the bed a short note that read: “I’ll be at the shop. I’m going to make a dress out of our finest fabric, because I’m thrilled to be going to Nadadores. This is, after all, my big chance.” These lines, when read by the other, made her think that a fundamental attitudinal change had been wrought. What the devil had Constitución dreamed?

  Erroneous notions. Getting all in a tizzy over a make-believe affection.

  Now the gloating had come out in the open and was on the verge of flooding the scene or creating total disarray, as if the winning twin wished to provoke, or so the defeated sister saw it, heavy-duty envy or cold indifference or—why else? And that cursed coin toss now loomed large and powerful enough to destroy her twin. Imminent danger of … Gloria thought to herself: “I don’t like the look of things … I’m going to the shop. I’m going to set that girl straight.”

  And off she went without even a bite of breakfast. Also running … There Constitución was, nose to grindstone, sewing her dress, her attention so rapt that she failed to notice the other’s noisy arrival, until that one said:

  “I can’t envy you because what is yours is mine and vice versa. Isn’t that what we agreed years ago? What? Aren’t we exactly alike? I don’t understand why you came here so early, almost almost sneaking out. I didn’t care for your note. What’s wrong with you? Who do you think you are? What’s gotten into you?”

  To which the other replied, “You’re right, I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high.”

  “Don’t play that part with me. You’re all in a tizzy over something you have no idea about, and I don’t want you coming back sad if you don’t get what you want.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high.”

  Stubborn as a mule—a hypocrite and a fool—she kept sewing, not paying any attention to the irate protestations of the loser. That same sentence, “You’re right …” et cetera: repeated over and over, as if it were the only thought in her head. And dawn broke and the other—the roles reversed: therefore—expressed her rage till she had nothing left but regret: while Constitución was, as it were, borne aloft by longing: the taste of dripping honey, the slow probing, or the words whispered into her ear by the man of her dreams. Scents and lingering gazes! Sinking gently. Kissing.

  In the wake of her foolish outburst, Gloria turned tender. She couldn’t figure out how to look good in the far-gone eyes of her sister, who kept pounding away at the pedal: if she docilely repeated that same meek and innocent sentence, it’s because she didn’t want to gloat over her triumph, which also explains the extent of her conscious restraint.

  “Forgive me, sister dearest … I do wish you all the best: I want you to have the most wonderful time ever. I know that all your pleasures and rejoicings will also be mine.”

  Herewith a scene of relative closure, each with her own notions looking for subterfuges, paths that would lead them to the core of their own pet daydream, or to a false principle, wherever the power of suggestion reigns.

  The interim. Working like rodents, for it was silence that held sway.

  All the while, customers came and left, gracious and grateful, like an apocryphal procession of manikins and marionettes. The shop: the setting, and the sisters, each in her own way, pondering separations as well as surprising alliances. About the wedding: say no more; about the toss of the coin: not that either; about luck: maybe … Throughout these fateful days: they ate, they worked very hard in complete silence. Words: only those that were absolutely essential. There was one sentence—at night: just before bed, here’s what Gloria said:

  “I hope you come back with good news; I’m going to sleep peacefully, for what is yours is mine, as you well know.”

  Full stop, next scene, the day of reckoning.

  Constitución left. Her sister stood at the door to the shop and raised her hand to bid farewell. There is always a first time. Always a tearing, loose threads dangling … But Gloria remained stubborn:

  “Have a great
time and say hi to everybody for me, I hope you bring back—”

  She didn’t finish because her sister quickly placed distance between them: such a small and indifferent figure she made. Only an indistinct echo remained in the air. Then: intimacy as an idea that unravels.

  Here, her equal, the part that didn’t go: no tears or futile stratagems, no mannerisms, only the closing of ranks and strong convictions. And a quick return to take a look around the work space: a concrete desert filled with squalor and lacking air. Nascent longing and the word absence seeping into the sewing machines.

  Chin up! for it’s ten o’clock in the morning and a work-day, and no matter what, the customers keep placing more orders, paying down a deposit or the whole amount up front.

  The unfilled orders. So much to do, and along came someone who asked the inevitable, “Where’s your sister?” and the response was necessarily friendly though laced with a certain trace of evasiveness. Many other such questions ensued, which she answered between clenched teeth. The barrage of interrogations let up only in the afternoon when Gloria closed the door and continued pedaling till midnight. Alone, self-contained, restrained.

  The action started just as her fatigue set in, at bedtime. She imagined the shindig, the enveloping music, and her sister sitting on a chair, alone, silent, a woodpecker perched on a branch, a toy bird, poised and waiting for a polite man of reasonable height to ask her to dance, but not even the midgets bothered. Lying in bed, Gloria conjured that sad scene, suffered in her own flesh the moment her aunt approached to try to coax her out, lead her enthusiastically over to the heart of the wedding party: the young newlyweds mingling, the toasts, the Cheers! Where everyone was milling. Where shoulders were rubbed and introductions made …