One Out of Two

by Daniel Sada

  That opportunity, that moment, aah … Gloria closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Inside, in her mind, there was a series of reversals, furtive exchanges, evocative stencils of bodies in full abandon. Then, as things unfolded, improbable shapes arose out of somewhere: soft and gentle nakedness …

  Untethered, floating, alone and bewildered. Then the couplings: in a blue space, Gloria kissing an otherworldly man, surrendering fully to the initiative his hands and tongue were taking, while her twin staggered around with mouth agape, unable to get anywhere near no matter how hard she tried. Yes, then a sequel with a smoky hue, a pursuit, and proximity: melting into an illusive silhouette of passion and desire: hence, only a tiny taste of satisfaction. Insinuations of such vast pleasure! How unattainable, though, for both of them!

  /

  Welcome to the wedding … What a lovely dress! Why didn’t the other one come? Yes, I understand, now you’ll have a better chance of finding a man. Best thing to do is just smile, at everybody …

  /

  Handshakes fade. Dance steps and glasses breaking. Swirls of laughter and dropped words. It smells like alcohol, meat, a little bit of a lot of things … Swoons, faces, blurry figures, and her aunt keeping an eagle eye out … from the shadows, at a certain distance, because that’s how it should be done …

  /

  It all started up again the morning her sister bustled into Ocampo: her hair down and her silhouette suddenly framed in the doorway of the shop. Gloria, to avoid an effusive greeting, pretended not to see her, sat steadfastly at her machine, the pedal going below, focused on the next stitch and the one after that; she probably had a good excuse, or—how to put it?—was formulating one.

  She had the habit, as did the other, of keeping her eyes on her work except when a customer spoke to her; a quirk like that can be advantageous, and that goes for both of them, because losing one’s concentration under those circumstances could even cause an accident. Knowing this, her sister didn’t say a word, preferring to approach quietly, so she removed her high-heeled shoes and left her bag where it was. Once in front of the other, she uttered her best sentence ever:

  “I danced all night with a slender man of interesting age.”

  At that, the loser, both incredulous and wary, looked up. Eyes meet by way of divination, and embarrassment: eyes no longer identical: not now: then a tremulous lapse that seemed to last too long; the one sitting down now more tentative, and the one with her hair down, racier. But Gloria laughed as if the dance didn’t matter at all, for according to her, it was nothing but a trap, though in fact: a spiteful and invidious guffaw, that then ended: when:

  “He’s coming to the shop next Sunday; I gave him this address. The plan is to go for a stroll. I think I’ll take him to the walnut grove at the edge of town.”

  For a brief instant Gloria wanted to remind her of their agreement, about how what was yours was mine and vice versa, but then she thought it better to listen, knowing that one had to be astute when it came to affairs of the heart: or, as ranchers say, sneaky as a snake. The other, in the meantime, was excited, and with her sister’s implicit permission told the whole story from beginning to end. The encounter, the wedding as setting.

  A bold exchange of glances that insinuates restiveness and invites approach, sweet words in short supply: from one to the other and back again in a move to tantalize, to kiss: why not? Though in this case: wait! for Constitución, based on her aunt’s advice, it was important to first learn something about the man’s background and social standing.

  Along those same lines: let the suitor’s true intentions come to light over time. Considering her age and considering her other baggage, she shouldn’t go losing her head over some momentary fling.

  So, hands were not held or fondled, except while dancing with the music swirling around them … And the dialogue flowed, two silhouettes and an affectionate mood, a future pointing who knows where.

  For a moment, let us imagine—we must—the atmosphere and the rhythm framing the action, the magnetism between them: flirtatious Constitución dimly illuminated and wearing a lovely dress with a definite girlish touch. Let us imagine the man when his eyes lit upon her, dumbstruck at the sight of such a marvel, then, instinctively, with no introduction save a fixed stare, the culminating moment, the propitious sensation shared from afar, and the pull to connect.

  Their faces said yes: ardor.

  Everything necessary to start the ball rolling.

  That tall man with pointy sideburns—and clearly descended from heaven—is thirty-five years old. A little younger than she, manageable: especially: because of the unpleasant tension of enduring a long and rocky bachelorhood. An exceedingly agreeable man who wears cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat, a country saint who smiles at the ladies while smoothing down his mustache to give himself airs. By no means, though, is he a popinjay. Just talk to him, and you’ll see. He uses stratagems to make conquests, like any man at a dance. So much for his bearing, and as for what he does for a living: he buys and sells animals on credit or with cash. Only goats and pigs, because he doesn’t yet own even a jalopy, so he transports his beasts strapped to the gratings on the roofs of the run-down trucks of strangers. Even so: he’s doing just fine, thank you very much, and one day in the not-too-distant future he hopes to be the proud owner of a stakebed truck that he can use to transport his own livestock.

  She dotted every i and crossed every t that had anything to do with her suitor, whose name was Oscar Segura. His likes, his dislikes, she was frank to a fault. Constitución even found out his real address—Calle Gómez Farías, number twenty-five, Colonia Zaragoza, Ciudad Frontera—which she corroborated with Soledad, as well as his marital status, just in case. In spite of his age, he lives with his parents and all his siblings. He is the eldest, and really as wonderful as they come, a paragon of good behavior, according to their aunt’s account, with a warm heart and no attachments, so a great help to his parents in many important ways. A man of deep feeling without streaks of knavery or traces of cynicism. Quite the opposite: moral and generous, a fighting angel.

  The winning twin gave a too-smug description of his upright figure, replete with details that were mostly beside the point. Carried away, she even said it would be her privilege to sketch him, especially his face, and she promptly picked up a nearby pencil and piece of paper. Though now an objection was raised:

  “There’s really no need, I can picture him just fine from your words,” says the loser.

  Then, to avoid any more of her sister’s braggadocio, she stands up, like a spoiled child, or something of the sort: setting aside the tasks at hand, she walks over to the shop door. How puzzling.

  There, sullen and fuming, she stands with her arms crossed. Staring off into the distance, or pretending to.

  There is bitterness, there is pain, there is displeasure and probably injustice, for one was the spitting image of the other and now because of the toss of a coin, they no longer are. The so-called silent one never could have imagined that the Fates of love would show up after they’d been separated for only a few days. Herein, then, lies the catch, for an identical destiny would have been hers had that coin landed after one more turn.

  Constitución watched her with surprise and, yes, at the same time placed a pencil behind her ear, like a carpenter … What had come over her equal? She finally understood that it might indeed have been a mistake to go on and on for so long and in so much boring detail simply because she was happy to have been noticed by a man, that is, any man, who was looking for a woman in order to … Because until then—and here’s the truth—not even a horse had allowed his gaze to linger longingly on either of them, and it was for this very reason that Gloria could not be her accomplice either in this or in any other idyll. But the chatterbox refused to emulate her sister’s angry attitude, and instead turned back to her work, telling herself: “I understand her anger, but I know she’ll get over it. Anyway, she should be happy for me.”

  In the
meantime, their customers came pouring in. As a rule, the twins didn’t talk to anybody: they didn’t like wasting time; they even put up a sign that read: WE ARE BUSY PROFESSIONALS. RESTRICT YOUR CONVERSATION TO THE BUSINESS AT HAND. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB US FOR NO REASON. SINCERELY: THE GAMAL SISTERS. They did not want, of course, to be rude. For although the twins knew from experience that people take advantage of the least sign of friendliness to engage in endless gossip, they couldn’t dispense with the politeness they had always shown between them. They had never shouted at each other like Furies, and they weren’t about to start now.

  Hence, in front of others, all that turbulence and subconscious delight got redirected back into their hearts, or their backbones, for they were women of integrity, even in the toughest of times, and they had to feign at least tainted harmony and elegance in front of others, show those who patronized their shop the concrete courtesies they deserved. Their success was—and they knew this—in large part built upon such a foundation.

  Quick, even if nervous, dispatchers, with the requisite professional grins, because otherwise … Let’s not forget that the competition is always lying in wait.

  But, alas, this time wasn’t like other times. The man from the wedding turned out to be a thunderbolt sundering them apart. The mere fact that he existed led to a still indecipherable double entendre. As soon as the customers left, they sulkily returned to their former positions: Gloria, by the door: stubborn; and the other hard at work, having forgotten, on top of everything else, to take the pencil out from behind her ear.

  For a few brief moments, they looked like two withered chestnuts, the comings and goings of their customers preventing further developments. During one of these intervals, when they’d been left on their own, Gloria offered a solution:

  “I’m going home, because I feel like it and because I think I’ve earned it, and I’m leaving the rest for you. Anyway, I don’t need to ask your permission. While you were at the wedding, I worked myself to the bone, till midnight. I sewed more than twice as much. Now it’s your turn … I’ll see you there at lunchtime. I feel like making a delicious salad for the two of us.”

  There was a tug on her voice at the end: that “for the two of us,” weighed down with surly sarcasm. The quiet one was finally and ardently showing her mettle. Constitución felt the hatchet fall gently, calmly, but also effectively.

  And the loser, the one with right on her side, the one who wanted to complain without going too far, just far enough so that the other didn’t dare reproach her, fled, because: a single nasty comment could be catastrophic. Let her go, what harm could it do? she wouldn’t go far. Home, lunch. An understandable outrage: good grief!

  Then came the moment when they were both sitting at the table sharing the culinary masterpiece that Gloria had prepared with incomparable care: a sumptuous salad of fresh produce, and myrtle juice, and some local ham bought who knows where. Lip-smacking! all this to stop the other from daring to question her attitude: those crossed arms and that knitted brow in the shop. She probably intuited that questions would carry more poison than salve; but, in spite of it all, what was extraordinary was not the clever gimmicks the winning twin used to make her case, but rather the diligence, the scrupulous and obvious artistry the loser had employed when laying out the meal.

  The meanings, the feelings …

  No.

  Not a significant word passed between them. Constitución noticed a certain amount of envy being suppressed with great effort by she who had been, till then, her mirror. Envy? she thought, though maybe not: for there were no dramatic outpourings or angry pleas. So, what was going on? Throughout the meal, only the clinking of cutlery and a masquerade of good manners, no furtive glances sneaking out of the corner of an eye … Specifically, prudence held sway: still: she who had won had no choice but to keep a lid on it, think things through carefully. Gloria was the first to finish and, without even saying “excuse me,” made quickly off to the bedroom. Such childish antics notwithstanding, the moment to clear the air had still not arrived, and, what else could the other do!: she chose to wait: whatever would be, would be, if, that is, it could be …

  A tragedy or a joke?

  What follows is as limpid as the light of day. Gloria went to bed: irresponsible. She who had always been so very obliging—in other words, a robot who sewed—was not that way today, not at all. Maybe sleep would spur her on the next day, but for now she willingly turned the reins of the shop over to her sister, who went straight there, leaving the issues they’d avoided all day to be broached after dark. There in the shop she could spin her own threads of action; in the meantime, she told herself: “I know, she’s suffering, but I’d rather talk to her when she’s more relaxed.”

  Constitución, all alone and with the shop door closed, stayed late elaborating shapes, but only of thought; she didn’t work, either, not knowing for sure what she should do: merrily set about sewing as usual, and if so, what stitch should she use?: and how?; apply her scissors to an idea or the fabric itself?: such foolproof opposites, so which way to turn?: toward the vanity of having been chosen by a man who was, at least, well scrubbed, or toward the marvel or misfortune of that unavoidable likeness, her sister?: mirror, shadow, paradox, or diabolical curse; if she was fundamentally an obstacle … She made as if to do so—there was a lot of work—then stopped. Better for now to focus on the ordering of reality, one more day without stitching wouldn’t provoke a sudden plunge, though … An idea crossed her mind that had come to seem more and more plausible over the past three months or so.

  This was it: to let her hair grow so she could tease it into a beehive; and to wear different clothes than Gloria: garments that would reveal that enormous beauty mark above her right shoulder blade. Yes, so Oscar would see it right off the bat. Wear dark glasses and a darker shade of lipstick, or pencil her eyebrows, or …

  Turning it over: her thoughts churning, and right around midnight, just as she was about to reach a decision, that is: go to her sister to explain her resolve, a doubt suddenly appeared. The fact was, the two of them had been entwined since they were inside their mother’s belly, and they had worked so hard to live life simply, as two peas in a pod. Two halves that had always been a single seed, a single pureness, and a single path. No, they couldn’t separate, and a change at this stage, what would that entail? Constitución had to immediately repent, even feel ashamed. She couldn’t bear for the other to suffer.

  Detour—and an affirmation—back to feelings of sameness. Place herself on the other side of the mirror and from there understand, feel what the loser is now feeling. Better like this. As if some demon had sent her an urgent message from a primordial cave to make her mend her ways. How very amenable of him. And then there appeared, it had to appear, a pleasant temptation, the idea of sharing what she had with so much pluck acquired, then accepting the consequences. Once and for all, and just because, may the miracle fully embrace them both.

  She bolted out of the shop. First, she put the padlock on the door, though she forgot to switch off all the lights. She didn’t realize this lapse would raise suspicions, for instance, like about how maybe those gals were so swamped with work that twenty-four hours weren’t enough; how they’ll go blind, even hunchbacked from sitting such long hours and focusing on all those knotty threads. Possible, but at that time of night, the lights were on at their house as well. What for?

  So much light and sadness. Light! in a different sense: unanticipated luck. Constitución came bearing good news while the other was playing with beans—dry beans, even a little shriveled around the edges, just so you don’t picture a mushy mess—killing idle hours and also reenacting them: according to her bitter understanding, her hands on the tablecloth: a bit disconcerted, no, very much so, because to tell the truth, sleepless Gloria was thinking about things related to separation, and if she shed a tear, it shined brightly then fell. Her fervor burned inwardly, but the winning twin, no matter how delectable she now felt herself to be, could not fa
il to notice the situation: her equal’s sorry posture, hence the moment for:

  “I thought you’d be asleep, you don’t usually busy yourself with beans at this time of night. Well … I know what’s bothering you, but I have a solution that’ll cheer you up …”

  And she spelled out the plan she had cooked up only a few minutes before, in short: “share the man,” easy enough to say but the game would have to be played with strict rules that would, well … Consequences—what about them? Back to basics, which seen from the outside seemed ridiculous, that is, “emotional.” The so-called lucky one summed up by proclaiming:

  “You know that there’s something mysterious that connects us and can’t be broken. If God made us identical, it must have been for a good reason.”

  “But you—”

  “There are no sensible buts about it, the only thing to say is that what’s mine is yours and that’s all there is to it.”

  The other one’s face lit up.

  Gloria! She, her very own self! She also made for love, for gripping sensual pastimes … and excess! And sighs! Everything she’d never hoped for, because: she’d already descried the rupture as she moved the beans around: what a paradox. And they embraced, just like that, as if by embracing they could merge into a single solitary spirit. It was time for a toast.

  So: they took out the bottle of Club 45, full of enough booze to get them both quite tipsy.

  Cheers! they said, and toasted to their good fortune, to perennial sisterhood, and yes: to be as they were, reluctantly submitting to but nonetheless taking a stand against love’s conventions, against the relativity of the flesh, both of theirs, their parallel excitement, so that by clinking their glasses together they were marking the beginning of an enterprise that might very well compensate them for all their sorrows. And they played their records and danced with winged steps, and after they’d gotten thoroughly soused—gulp!—they discussed the precautions they would take, and between gales of laughter, they proposed guidelines: sustainable or not: but festive nonetheless, for tomorrow there’d be time for revisions.