by Daniel Sada
For a moment the chosen one had a glimpse of something pathetic, because individualism, which is nothing but amorphous vanity, can sometimes gain momentum, and here was a way to make that happen. She realized how easy it would be to run off with her Oscar, because in this part of the country, eloping is all the rage in order to avoid the expense of a wedding, and it is smiled upon by fathers, grandfathers, and sons, among the educated classes or not, and for this very reason, if she proposed it, her beau would most surely agree, and then she could patch things up later; but she changed her mind, because leaving her twin in the lurch was as dishonest as never telling her suitor that there were two, rather than one, he was wooing.
Evening came. And the good-bye, hopeful with good reason, and the magically charged words: “So, you will have me?”
“You can interpret it yourself, as I said. But we’ll see each other next Sunday.” “You make me so happy, my love.” “Well, I’m not at all sad myself.” Fine indelible forebodings. As was customary, and expected, Oscar accompanied her right to the door of the shop, where he met her week after week, not to the house, because, as she’d told him long before, if he took her there people might think he snuck or crept in where it wasn’t at all proper for him to be: once there, quickly strip and smugly proceed with that filthy extramarital business, and that’s why, as the saying goes: “Never do a good thing that others might judge to be bad.” This was a philosophy one had to respect.
There, at the aforementioned spot, they bid each other farewell, and once the outline of the beau’s figure—with that thin thread of a shadow trailing behind—had vanished, she closed her eyes.
To suffer forevermore merely because of their cruel yoke, when she, the chosen one, would easily be on the upswing of any outcome? She wasn’t about to let that go, seeing as how it was now possible to arrange things to her liking. In the end, she would find an excuse that would satisfy three people who love and understand one another. So, standing there like a statue with a sullen face, Constitución suddenly changed, as if struck by a bolt of lightning that would lead her to her house with a bulb lit above her head, and she took off running to see her other half and bring her the news. A live wire: her hair standing on end. Her high heels clicking the pavement. That unique excitement of knowing that she was the only chosen one, the one God or maybe even the Devil had chosen at the most decisive moment, hence with the courage to confront her twin in the heat of the moment. To tell her, with a mixture of ingenuity and well-oiled wit, what she had been telling herself so fearlessly ever since her beau had disappeared in the distance.
Lots of light in the house and, whoosh!: the door swung open to let in the half-crazed real sweetheart, babbling all manner of nonsense. But she got a grip on herself, because: all those beneficial changes, in spite of being radical, couldn’t just be blurted out, for Gloria, who was sorting beans at the table, was listening to a whip-like polka at high volume, nothing more nor less than a song by Los Relámpagos, the Lightning Bolts, with a tololoche solo and an accordion wailing in semitones in the background. Her sister was in ecstasy—such contorted and inspired tangles!—too bad, the dunce would have to turn it down; at a sign, she complied, only to hear:
“We can’t possibly go to Múzquiz!”
Then the same old explanation. One step at a time, all the deficiencies that did not and never would do anything but cause horrible harm, in particular when their three or four objectives came up against this reasoning: which of the two would change first?, because miracles, no matter how strange, aren’t wrought with a plethora of detail but rather in a general kind of way. It was feasible that Gloria, busy much of the afternoon with her bean sorting and the delightful sounds of her borderland polkas, had already thought of that, so she showed no particular concern. Nor was it a victory for her, simply a showdown.
Therefore, and sadly, the remains of their parents no longer mattered.
The issue unmoored …
Next, the petition, in short, the marriage, what both had been expecting but not that Sunday, and here’s the surprise:
“I didn’t tell Oscar yes or no, I left it up in the air, or rather I told him to interpret it himself, though I did kiss him and hug him as a kind of answer. The thing is, I think I’ll say yes: I want to get married, and soon.”
“What about me?”
“Well, I don’t know what to think … I gave you the opportunity to have a little fun, and that was a big gift for you, but it was my good luck to have met him first, and my double good luck that he asked for my hand in marriage. Isn’t it exciting? … If you really care about me, you’ll understand that this is a great opportunity for me.”
The collapse of the other, who nonetheless stood up bravely without making a fuss or expressing any distress, and off she went, straightaway—even if extremely slowly—to her bedroom to lie down and think about specific courses of action and the consequences thereof. After such a lashing, best would have been to grope her way to bed, but that’s not what she did; her step was steady, and as the light there was on, she switched it off and lit a candle, which they both did often when they were at a loss. All of these actions were scrupulously observed by the now truly victorious twin, who didn’t move, aside from her head, which was indiscreet. As it happened, there were no tears.
Beans: the good and the bad shouldn’t mingle once they’ve been sorted. Constitución analyzed timorously. Hardships, plans, the first cause serious shrinkage whereas the second become inflexible and tend to win out. Which of the two piles on the table contained the most beans? Each bean would have to be counted—requisite patience—because they looked the same at a glance, but if the difference was minimal, small concessions would have to be made, because: a feeling can carry as much weight as a law: or vice versa, and this made the real sweetheart set about counting raucously and out loud the pile that was still full of grit. As soon as her sister, lying in bed in the next room, heard one, two, three, four, she called out in a commanding voice, whereat this one rose immediately and went running smugly to the other: who was already standing up: the now definite leftover distressingly backlit by a lively flame.
“I understand you well enough. You have the right, and I know full well that it’s silly to play childish games when it comes to marriage. I’m going to leave this house forever, yes, that’s what I think is best. I promise you’ll never see me again because I’m planning to go far away. I admit, I might one day feel like seeing you, but I’ll be so far away, it won’t even be possible. Forgetting will be difficult because it’s like a ghost that wends its way in and out of our thoughts at will, but time is wiser because it contains your death and my own. On the other hand, don’t think my going who-knows-where is just some passing whim; I’m doing it because I know that my presence would only complicate your relationship with Oscar, and then he’d wonder which of the two was truly his wife. I don’t want to be in the way, that’s not what I was born for … And since there have never been any stupid accusations or tit-for-tats between us, I’ve decided that you should keep everything, that is, the shop, the house, the furniture, everything except our savings, which I’ll take. It’s the best way to make us square. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I agree.”
“So, I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Fine by me.”
For the moment there was nothing left for them to do but switch off the lights and get into bed and good night. Happiness? Anguish? Irreproachable maturity?
Darkness, interior ruminations, a lively flame: left lit: by both: possibly for very different reasons. And it trembles if the sighs of nearby words bend it and make it flicker. If it spoke: what would it say? To merely illuminate such a confined space expresses enough. It is perpetual resolve that speaks by blinking, and only rarely, if ever, lets itself be caressed, and abruptly returns to its own shape when left alone: then remains, immaculate.
Because here the silences crown that flame as queen: a lone reality surrounded by myriad mysteries, lively ple
nitude requiring a fixed gaze, yes, Constitución’s, who has yet to fall asleep, whereas the other is already deliriously dreaming.
Dream and gaze are leisure and faith. Throbbing terror, anticipation that conjures paths and precipices. Everything is halved. It’s comforting to look back, whereas the future might be diffuse. And those eyes wide open: what hopes do they hold? Desires lasting but an instant, and under the circumstances merely melancholic: what began then ended: that sameness that can be no longer because the Devil has come to settle down right smack in between them, disguised as a magician, and how to get rid of him now? With words? The other half leaving forever and the Devil playing the role of the one who lost: is that a solution? Though if one half chooses what best suits her, any imprecision becomes whimsy or destiny; to seek wholeness, to wish to preserve it, maybe that’s just faith that hasn’t anywhere much to go.
Or does it?
Constitución needed light. Yes and no were both dissembling.
Because the flame—given to dalliance—flickers when it feels that someone within its illuminated sphere cannot find a simple and conclusive idea.
At that moment, however, the fiancée wanted to go to the dining room, switch on the electric light, and serenely count beans: the good and the bad: how many?: in order to likewise sort her thoughts, but just as she was about to begin, she stopped. Convinced the act was futile, she understood that right there in her bed, in the semidarkness, she could find the remedy that would allow her to sleep like her other half. In other words, she didn’t need beans to see sense, or light, or any damn thing at all.
Constitución decided to think about her fiancé, Oscar, her rancher and dreamer. His conversation. His life: like a predictably preterit respite: happiness admitted for stretches and much-too-subtle dissatisfaction. His spirit of struggle limited to surveying what is closest at hand. In him, there’s no emancipation, no adventure. Would the man be worth it? She cannot imagine how the weaning of she-goats and the raising of swine can so fully occupy his lucid thoughts. In the meantime, the lively flame seemed to smile, as if to ask sardonically: and what about you? Your sewing: what’s that? Your identity: what can it presume?
Such well-delineated lives, where longing is neither an ascent nor an earthly fire. Lives in purgatory, which are, after all, what others think they are, and if that makes sense then let that sense continue, culminate, so many lives draw together and so many move apart. To seek similarities: what for?, there are loads of them in some way or other.
And the fiancée thought about life with her future husband, who, for example, during all those Sunday outings had never once asked her how her business was going. Only at the very beginning were there a few questions, but this was just to get a general overview; the man certainly would never agree to let her work on her own or God forbid earn more than he! Horrors! Cruel humiliation! On the contrary, soon, indeed, he would reveal his own sinister plan, pull the rug out from under his splendid spouse by selling off her dressmaking business and using the profits to buy his truck or maybe that restaurant of his, serving tacos de carnitas: smack in the middle of the desert, though next to some highway; that’s right: where his wife, joined to him in holy matrimony, would oversee a bevy of girls. A life of despairingly small chores. A life up to her neck in soups and reheatings, in cooking and cleaning up messes. A life in an apron. And the man: lord and master, who will strut his stuff and stroke his long black mustache, black like her image of him in profile or looking at him head-on. Not to mention the children and the family hearth. Would this be the reward for kisses that would continue for who knows how much longer?
No!
Wide awake, the fiancée thought it better to snuff out that light, that despicable candle, whose flame was a mockery, a terrifying and mendacious burn. She rises swiftly—it was midnight or even later—and angrily blows it out.
Darkness and the end.
“Gloria! Gloria, for heaven’s sake, are you still asleep?”
“What? … Huh?” answered drowsily she who was dreaming of sibylline locales in savory company.
“Wake up, woman! I want to turn this thing around.”
“Ahh … At this hour? … Ugh! Why don’t you tell me about it tomorrow?”
“It’s urgent, you have to hear me out!”
The other half, the good one, shifted sleepily in bed, pulled up the blanket, then said:
“Tomorrow is Monday … Mmm … We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’d rather talk now than work tomorrow.”
“Oh! … I was having such a lovely dream … Don’t ruin it for me … Mmm … bye-bye!”
There was nothing for the wide-awake one to do but go and switch on the bedroom light, but she didn’t stop there, she poked her twin in the ribs, though playfully, until Gloria finally rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed.
“Let’s celebrate!”
“Celebrate what?”
“Do you remember that a long time ago we agreed that what was yours was mine and vice versa, that our sameness must be safeguarded?”
“Yes … How could I forget what keeps us together?”
“Oh, please, don’t you see, I regret trying to break our bond.”
Gloria stood up without saying a word, then walked to the bathroom to wash her face and quickly comb her hair. She returned, still half asleep, mumbling under her breath, she also adept at non sequiturs.
“It’s past one, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, I have no interest in looking at a watch.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“No, and I don’t plan to be … But tell me: what’s wrong with you?”
“How can you ask? You forced me to wake up.”
“Forgive me, my darling sister! But … the wedding …”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“What I’m going to say is that there isn’t going to be any wedding …”
“What?”
And with this “what?” she upended the foolish promise of a rosy future that only ever belonged to the realm of the imagination, to the many-flavored kisses that sublimate in order to distort, and to those soft beginnings that gradually harden. Because in the long run, love would cease to be what dreams dictate and turn instead into insipid bread, intrepid monotony, and in the end and forevermore: subjugated love.
The natural ease of recent days would anyway peter out all on its own, because the effusive man, once satisfied and settled down, would set aside the maelstrom of affection to make room for more pressing concerns of money and work, of hardships and obligations, such as: the goats hanging from the roof grating, and the pigs, too: the stakebed truck, the huge restaurant, and then love would become inferred. In fact, and here’s the worst part: it would no longer be possible to sew: to consider it a business: good heavens, no! because it would be unbecoming for the so-called better halves to compete with each other.
Love with a man of his ilk would at first be cheerfully single-minded and at last, the same old servitude …
No!
An about-face!
While her twin was explaining: Gloria shuddered, but not from emotion: from disbelief; she had already been planning in her now grubby mind an ironic outcome, a tremendous hoax: engulfing and refined, but she waited till the other had used up all her reserves and been rendered too weak to make a single insipid remark about salvaging their broken harmony: that ancient unity—and what a unity it was—tainted by the Devil.
Constitución, weary of disclosing her motives, was trying to be very prudent when she said:
“I hope you agree that we should go on living as we did before …”
Gloria broke out laughing and said sarcastically:
“No way, not that!”
“What? … You don’t … ? Why not?”
“Of course I do, woman! but let it be said that with ranchers we never shall wed.”
“Never? … Well, I suppose you’re right.”
“Only with Prince Charmings.”
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br /> “Where do they come from? Where are they?”
“Seems they do exist … No, they couldn’t.”
Magnificent and similar roars of laughter erupted under the electric light—in the small hours of the morning—which they both decided to switch off so they could light candles: the usual toast?
Of course! To a sensible solution! To pure—and miraculous—joy!
Instant recovery by cleansing with alcohol the toxic sludge they’d been carrying around inside their souls. They looked eagerly for the Club 45, but, bad luck, there wasn’t a single drop left, they’d polished it off the last time, when they’d brutishly agreed to share the rancher: that delirious drunken bout with bloodshot oculi; and at that time of night, no way, they’d never find even grain alcohol; but, wait, they had bottles of perfume in the bathroom: dense effluvia and aromatic substances made of crushed flowers and eucalyptus bark, yes, that’s it, why not!?, all they had to do was dilute it a little, and they’d get tipsy just imagining what was in store for them, though:
“No, it’ll be bad for us. Our happiness doesn’t have to come so cheap.”
“That’s fine, I’m okay with just putting on some music and dancing.”
So it was—pipe dreams, half-closed eyes to match the flame-lit ambience, like two mischievous girls, they took out every candle they could find, and—cumbia music: weaving and heaving: one record after another—both of them, winged, trying new steps, which didn’t work so well because the rhythm was different, until they collapsed at dawn, and lying there on the floor they planned next Sunday’s final episode. In essence, it consisted of telling the doomed man the truth, and when the supposed fiancée remembered how he was dressed when he asked for her hand: she burst out laughing and prodded the other to do likewise. The truth, above all, in a single stroke—that they were two rather than one—but with a particular twist … It didn’t take them long to figure out how, and once they had, they fell asleep where they lay … As we shall soon see, they didn’t need to make plans, because …