by Daniel Sada
Cloaked madness and a static moment neither could intrude upon. Constitución did not want to demand an explanation for the kisses and touches, because the plan had been different, slower, more irksome. So they looked at each other, perplexed, as if good and evil had suddenly swapped places and from then on they could pretend to ignore both, maybe melt them down, or believe they had melted them down into a dreamy and detached state wherein nothing is truthful because it doesn’t last long, because in the end it strays, because it fails to settle into a shape. And their stare is, their stares are, so many things. No … They must be simply fed up.
The prolonged stare they shared, eyes glued on eyes: one stare, one single unbreakable thought, bound together, therefore, also in the consequences. Stares that deliberate.
Static? … Who knows, because: the only thing Gloria wanted to do was give the flowers to her twin. It was an invitation to the continuation of an ideal: the other was grateful for her deference, so: the smooching sister timidly said:
“We can have fruit tonight if you’d like …”
Constitución jumped out of bed. Together but without touching, they made their way to the table.
“You, sit, I’ll peel the mangoes and get them ready,” Gloria said, trying to be very gentle.
Her twin consented—silent maneuvers—and: while they ate, their eyes suddenly met, not to hold the stare like before, instead, Constitución let slip a simple giggle, an emblematic trifle her twin did not know how to calibrate, and because it was so importune, seemed to her like mockery.
A mistake or fear or a tender swagger.
Which made Gloria grow sullen—pseudosentimental—anticipating rebukes and reprisals, and when she saw the other stanching her scorn, she took her revenge by smiling more broadly, as if to release some of her stress. Constitución’s response was clear, petulant: she immediately let out a chortle, which led the other to follow with her own … A concert of crows … Finally, their nervousness found an outlet, hilarity was preferable to anger, at least it was more roguish.
The racket grew and grew …
Irrepressible, both … In the midst of their girlish guffawing, the painful narrative of their joyless lives played in their heads like a filmstrip of febrile images wherein their circumstances—piles of them—formed a vacuum, a vacuum that for better or for worse stood in counterpoint to what they never were nor ever would be: two different beings, two ideas, two premises in search of unity. So: they let themselves be carried off by a lyrical event; so: their laughter was their tears turned inside out by the terrible truth that they looked so much alike, that they could never ever be otherwise. Accursed roars of laughter that were soon heard in the street and perhaps—why ever not?—if their range was even wider, throughout the entire town.
Absolute proof to any passerby who heard that the love of one, or both for one, had driven them mad—rumors about their romance were spreading far and wide, and not in a good way—or that they were sloshed, though, who knows! … Likely speculations.
Then came the calm, as could be expected. Gloria was the first to force herself to quiet down, though the other was about to, as well. Oh, those eyes, they had to avert them if they wanted to prevent a second such remarkable outburst. Hence: they playacted, in a way; though this was not, not at all, their goal, these inane charades wouldn’t last because before long they were once again sitting and facing each other like two mischievous girls, and: Constitución pretending to be eyeing her plate full of uneaten mango: broke the ice by saying:
“I don’t know if I saw right, I was far away and the sun was shining right in my face, but I did notice that you were really sidling up close to one another; what I mean is that we were brought up with principles, weren’t we? Well, not to offend you, but I assume you didn’t let him touch our noble parts.”
Indeed, the loser had anticipated such a remark and responded like a daughter who was feeling contrite:
“The kisses and hugs you saw were the only ones.”
“But that wasn’t our plan. Why did you have to get so greedy?”
“So he won’t forget you, so he’ll stay up all night thinking of your love—” now with aplomb she confessed.
“It’s just that—”
“Wait … I haven’t finished … Look, I want to be completely honest. If I let him kiss me, as you saw, it was because I thought you might regret lending him to me, and I wanted to make the most of my opportunity, because I have no way of knowing if it’ll be my last.”
“Well, you shouldn’t go around imagining things that aren’t so. I would be incapable of betraying you, I honor our agreements.”
“So do I, don’t forget that I use your name and also don’t forget that I lost the coin toss, and I didn’t make a fuss when you went to the wedding.”
“Yes, exactly, and I don’t want to argue over stupid things, either. I don’t like nasty jabs or backstabbing; we are above all that. What I’m worried about is that there’s no going back now from your brashness. And I’ll have to do what you did.”
“Go right ahead, if you want to, that is. I highly recommend it. It’s a way of keeping him hooked, at least in my opinion; you have to give him little bits at a time so he’ll really fall in love, so he won’t see you as some kind of archangel and give up; in short, so he’ll always come back. What’s more, you should remember that we aren’t that young, and we’re not gorgeous enough to be getting all persnickety.”
“Maybe you’re right … I wanted the romance to develop slowly, but we are getting on in years, and maybe we’ll miss—”
“Exactly. What if on one of those many trips he takes he meets a beautiful young woman? Don’t think it’s not a possibility.”
Bull’s-eye. Paradox?: the loser won, the so-called quiet one scored lots of points. That view of things … —the result, it would seem, of surreptitious groping—was the balm that actually eased the qualms of the one who had won. It must now be said: in the meantime, this really was a game, or a strategy, devised by Gloria during those long stretches of restraint and strength of character, meant to place the other on the horns of a dilemma: to see whom the winner would choose at any given moment. It was about creating an insurmountable obstacle with the gentlest of means: still, deceptively dodgy: and totally overlooked, of course, why not? The real sweetheart wanted them to be reconciled because disputes always arise out of a lack of proportion, and her shaky idealism: puritanical, not even commonsensical: whereas the kissing twin was reevaluating their ruse, which placed their sisterhood on the highest pinnacle, though she didn’t do it to frustrate in one fell swoop Constitución’s illusions but rather to attenuate them, becloud at least slightly her jovial specter of the future.
The present: their eyes still locked, as if rummaging through in them for a simultaneous expression, which they found, finally, in a fresh though not deliberate smile.
Next: they got up to clear the table: sleepwalkers loath both to act and to resign themselves completely. Lights on: switch them off: night and irritability and the awareness that tomorrow is Monday and there are heaps of clothes in the shop: like pulling apart a colorful cake: work—and harmony and diligence and … —all of this remembered before falling asleep. To return to their credo of energetic principles. A difficult week awaited them: ugh: full of intense effort, and … Best to forget all about their obligations, because, anyway: it made more sense to go straight to sleep where their dreams could hold anything at all.
And the switcheroo: they had similar dreams: in black and white: flat, without pain or any emotion—they got out of bed very early and bathed, just like any other day: together: soaping each other—and once the cold water had revived their senses, they told each other: nothing: Oscar had vanished, though obviously they would remember him in their vigils, but, what a strange test for them! Then, identical preparations. Taking even more care with their lipstick and hair. Every single shining detail. Ready, set: which is which? Just as they were: they sat down at the table: a quick
breakfast: a bite of whatever, then they were off.
A little before seven o’clock they opened the door of their shop. May the customers come, but those who did were not really customers but rather busybodies, and since the shop rarely opened so early, only a few straggled in, two by three, or one by one: stubborn early risers, just to confirm the rumors they’d heard: “Does one of you have a boyfriend?” “Congratulations!” “Brava!”; laughing to themselves: cynical. So annoying. Tightlipped: because the opinions of those inquiring were unwelcome. A boorish onslaught, but with a purpose. “How lucky you are! and at your age, it’s not so easy to …” “I hope he has good manners!” “He does,” was Constitución’s cutting reply. Such comments are forbidden, and Gloria pointed with the longest needle she could find at the sign they had so recently hung up: … RESTRICT YOUR CONVERSATION TO THE BUSINESS AT HAND … SINCERELY: THE GAMAL SISTERS. The visitors were rendered speechless, the words balancing on the tips of their tongues, slippery or not, then scurried out the door with their tail between their legs. Stooges! But mostly: Deadbeats! The twins, then, wondered if it was better to keep their noses to the grindstone with the shop door shut so as not to have to dodge and duck all those people, so they could simply plug away—in blessed peace, we might say—with only the usual interruptions … Doubts lingered … but if they hung up said sign: on the door: outside: they would need to get a large nail and hammer it in hard, and, oh drat! what a waste of time! Moreover, truth be told: it would make them look far too stuck up. So …
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.