One Out of Two

by Daniel Sada

  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 nth 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?

  Also, in the shop or while eating lunch or dinner, when they were concentrating in total silence, one of them would suddenly say: “Don’t worry about that. Oscar is dependable. He’ll be back.” To which the other, a bit taken aback yet pleased by the divination, in order to maintain the flow but not the sadness, would respond: “I’m so glad you think so, because sometimes I have my doubts. I don’t know, maybe one day he’ll regret our proper courtship.” From there would ensue a conversation, which would then be abruptly cut off in order to tamp down their fears.

  More recently, that is, when one Sunday followed another, they stopped spying on each other, only every once in a while, out of ghoulishness or avarice, but not systematically. Let’s agree that for the one whose turn it wasn’t, the best thing to do was get into bed and wait there for her equal’s return. The thing is: it didn’t make much sense, given their mutual intuition, the other anyway would know nearly straightaway all that happened out there in the walnut grove. Also, they spoke sparingly about the specifics of any particular outing, unlike how it had been at the beginning; from this it can be seen that each on her own never neglected a single detail: the same tone of voice, the same graceful charm: which meant that there wasn’t a chance in hell that even by that time the boyfriend suspected there were two rather than one. How could he have?! Only the idle one would make a few terse comments: “Things didn’t go so well; you were bored. He talked about pigs, don’t deny it.” Or, on the contrary: “It was an inspired afternoon, wasn’t it?” and the other would nod.

  One weighty reason not to go around spying on each other was that even the lowliest of the town’s inhabitants were already aware of the glorious romance. They likely drummed up their own hackneyed conclusions, mostly because there’s a whole lot of dead time in this town. And here, any courtship is a downright puzzle until finally the date of the wedding can be surmised or is announced; it stops being a problem once the not-so-fair maiden explains to whomever is asking the specific reasons for the glacial pace. But since the sign in the shop read: DO NOT DISTURB … RESTRICT YOUR CONVERSATION TO THE BUSINESS AT HAND … the Ocampan gossip mill was running at full tilt. Moreover, still pending—and this is conditional—was which of them the man had set his sights on, as well as the glaring doubt about whether that stranger already knew both of them and if he could differentiate between them based on a single feature anywhere. No. Indeed. It was of course better for them to keep those details secret.

  And, the final twist: why in the walnut grove, why there, when all couples meet—and always have met—in the town square, the only square in town? This is a very serious issue, in the opinion of many, and it is highly likely that at
least one spy observed them from behind some bushes. None of the three, however, noticed any movement or peeping eyes in case there were any nearby; and anyway they weren’t going to go farther away—past the nopales or anything like that—just because they’d been seen or heard.

  The upshot, alas!: love sprouted, and grew, like ever-searching ivy: inwardly: by necessity: never flagging: a secret force that loses its way because it’s all so unfathomable; in the same way, hypocrisy was born: between the twins: how unbecoming!: and although they sensed it, they didn’t utter a peep about this dreary development because they wanted to avoid, they thought, a probably foolish confrontation. Their usual kindnesses: everything they had so diligently nurtured to avoid anger between them, now—and this now looms quite large—: they no longer cared; they had vaguely fallen in love, like two capricious adolescents, and that’s why they were teetering on the verge of hysteria … Well, really because there was a subject they couldn’t broach between them: the blessed nuptials, the critical future.

  The big proposal: which Sunday would it come? To wait: but for how long? … It’s just that sometimes Oscar, when sitting on one of the tree trunks next to his beloved, would suddenly stare off into the horizon, as if the colors of the afternoon held the key to the tribute he would pay. Tense moments when he’d babble incoherently, and, not daring to mention marriage, would turn to his favorite subject: the weaning of she-goats and the complications that arise from the fattening of swine, as well as his alabastrine desire to one day open, next to any road whatsoever, a huge restaurant for truckers only, serving carnes adobadas and fresh tortillas, where there would be a jukebox and a dance floor and some shabby sluts—who would double as grub-slingers—available for pickup.

  A great business venture, maybe.

  Oscar churned the project over in his mind with a daring that bordered on madness, but his plans didn’t include his Constitución, who could, after all, be put in charge of the kitchen; maybe he didn’t because he thought that a good wife should stay at home, taking care of her brood.

  Frankly, Gloria was not the least bit interested in such blather, but Constitución found it amusing. As for the former: the takeaway from all this was to feel loved by a real man until the day death put an end to the pleasure, to have him always near, to love him with determination, and now she’d had her chance … What else could she ask for? Whereas the other was interested in quickly starting a family before she got too old. So, when she studied her boyfriend’s features, she sketched in her mind the faces of her children.

  These discrepancies, even if conveniently concealed, led to the Gamal sisters becoming a bit rude. A hint of rude, because words never wound as much as deeds, and accordingly, a lack of consideration, or a certain indifference, became more pronounced as the days went by. Shouldering her own plan, each forgot she had an equal, and their similarity slowly became an obstacle: like putty in their conscience; so, in the shop—the first to wake up went early to open. And washing and leaving (quickly dressed) without telling the other—they could work all morning without once looking at each other; at home: remote: at lunch and dinner, each staring at her own meager plate, though still—more to be cynical than urbane—one would make as if to share with her twin her small portion of poached eggs in salsa or her frijoles charros or whatever morsel she had; and above all: when it came to outings with their beau, she who was left behind to twiddle her thumbs, also sealed her lips: the idle one, she who was consigned to her bedroom.

  Intentionally or not, they slowly became opponents, though despite the magnitude of their jealousy and ingratitude, the knot of their shared lives had not shaken loose.

  At bedtime, they were nothing but two ghostly and ataxic monkeys furtively wrapping themselves in sheets and blankets with the falsest possible modesty. And then their dreams, in some ways the same, might have corresponded to their predictions, which each safeguarded as if it were a favorite ornament, safeguarded to avoid wounding her other half. Picturing themselves far away or picturing themselves together, but always with Oscar: which one? On the off chance that he would accept a rather peculiar marriage: with two wives, who are in fact one, so …

  In a case this convoluted, circumspection held sway. It was time for keen reflection. And since both knew that their hoodwinked boyfriend was an honorable man, in his own way, would that insanity, living with both of them, as reiterations, and in the same bed, be good for him? … Everything was still up in the air … In the meantime: more of the same: there was such a backlog of work, they hadn’t time to think about future rewards. On automatic: and their customers discreetly offered their tact, along with yards of fabric they’d soon come back to collect, sometimes in only a few hours, as perfectly sewn garments: the money: their purpose: which they stashed under a mattress. And the outings and Oscar with his obsessive objective: the huge restaurant that hopefully …

  As if nothing of any importance was going on, the seamstresses focused anew on what had earned them their reputation. Their image was little by little getting spiffed up, and their productivity spoke volumes of their unrivaled harmony, of a life tethered to a single foundation: exquisite work done quickly. Though if people knew the truth, they’d know that deep down inside simmered nothing but the basest of passions, still controlled, perhaps, by that indissoluble devotion to their age-old sameness.

  In the end, a vain contrivance. They were like two excessively celebrated actresses whose eccentricities people find a way to forgive. What would be seen as a defect in anybody else was in them a mere peculiarity. If one of them held hands with her boyfriend on the way to the walnut grove: it was original and that was the end of it. If the other (either one) at some point clung to the walls like a spider, it was because she was watching over her twin and because she didn’t know if that stranger was decent or not, and she’d find out by keeping an eye on him and her sister. In short: “You reap what you sow …,” or so went the facile adage they’d heard so often wherever they’d been.

  But let’s now put on our spectacles and peer more closely at their dark reality: they almost never looked at each other: a nascent horror of seeing themselves, like a curse, repeated. Why, after all these years, didn’t they look any different, not even when expressing hatred or joy? Why was God so mean as to turn them—and only them—into such a crazy joke? Which meant that, to talk to each other … Only every once in a while, maybe because they knew they could change their destinies by again tossing a coin for their beau, and that meant never seeing each other, even hating each other, severing their union: now truly noxious and monstrous. Both mulled this over in the same way and deep down inside, and since their intuition laid bare both of their nasty ambuscades, they were afraid to confront their truths.

  But, about that coin toss: they read it in each other’s minds, and saw the long threads that would unravel in its wake. Oh, my goodness! Two-headed snakes, tale-bearers, maquiscoatl witches, who while focused on their stitches struggled to know what mortal sin their parents, now cadavers, had passed on to them that they had to pay with their lives. And each reproached herself for not being devout enough, not even to a saint or to the image of any virgin.

  They spent horrible days silently sulking and exchanging glances both gloomy and askance.

  One night at dinner Constitución finally dared to break the ice. Someone had to speak, so let it be the chatterbox—we could’ve guessed—and not without a certain amount of trepidation, for she was broaching a thorny subject:

  “We still look alike, but maybe our obsession with looking alike is what’s holding us back. The thing is … Well, you know what I’m talking about! So, for a few weeks now I’ve been thinking that what has always been a virtue has become a defect that might destroy us.”

  Gloria, who was washing the dishes, looked her up and down like an inquisitor as if to say: “Okay, now let’s see what’s in this can of worms.” Because she, caught by surprise, wasn’t thinking of mentioning the problem. On the contrary, her master plan was
to play her cards close until the whole thing blew up, but cruel destiny was saying to them “Here, take that!” and destiny is nothing but a trickster demon. There was, however, no hope, they were so much alike that they could not sequester even their deepest secrets, so she answered stiffly:

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too …”

  “So, what do you think we should do about it?”

  Gloria, hesitating, kept at her task, and after a gray moment of temperance, she answered quietly:

  “There are many solutions, but all of them are awful …”

  “We have to come up with one good one.”

  “Look, I can’t think of anything. What I will confess is that at this stage of the mess we’re in, being twins really bothers me. To tell the truth, I believe that we’re going to be done for, because we can’t keep tricking Oscar; we know full well that rumors spread quickly around here, and in the end, somebody’s going to tell him straight out what’s going on.”

  “But, do you think people know that he’s going out with both of us? Do you think anyone has noticed?”