One Out of Two (10 page)

And they kept blissfully kissing each other. Caresses, turbulence, and currents that swell to accommodate this business of longing and that demand that hands pass along bodies, to know oneself as one, in two, in one: finally; hands that want to cling to the entirety of the pleasure. Legs and breasts. Robust rancher arms. Hidden florets and figurations, though placing grand romanticism above and beyond all: even to the extent of grasping at robust odors, she, in particular, because when her wandering hand playfully touched his hair, it got drenched in brilliantine, which she then proceeded to smear, perhaps unintentionally, all over his dark green suit.

She palmed off, for the moment, any evident return to her ancient agreement with her sister. That similitude, so prone to ripping apart, was at the mercy of a definitive
yes
. But their incomparable shared history, their orphanhood, their work: legacies that made their diligence the center of their life, that couldn’t be erased with a single stroke, but rather: the hope remained, today more than ever, of bringing home their dead parents. That specific and conceptual goal that just might make them prettier. And now, while she kissed the man with desperation, she thought of a grave problem that had not yet occurred to either of them. That is: connecting the dots, the
yes
started to teeter, because if they were really going to change, who would change first? And then Oscar might feel cheated, indirectly: if, let’s say, Constitución’s delicious mouth or brown eyes were to change. Here’s something they had not, unfortunately, foreseen.

So it was, between kisses and gropings, their trip to Múzquiz fell apart. Let’s remember that it was the now really lucky one who’d had the idea of bringing back their dead in order to start looking different; as opposed to Gloria, who’d demurred from the get-go because the whole thing had seemed insane to her, and who’d agreed only with the belief, somewhat incidental, that she’d then have a destiny different from her other half. So, more concretely, it wasn’t difficult to get Constitución to see their plan in a slightly different light, though it was bitter. And the idea that as a result of that sinister act, both of them would no longer be what they had been, come now! This had never been anything more than an illusion.

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 plenitude 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?