One Out of Two (6 page)

Now he approaches, a bouquet of roses in hand, to walk again with his sweetheart to the walnut grove, after a flirtatious greeting; but then came an abrupt change, something not part of any plan: the loser brazenly sidled up to the rancher: who: he had no choice but to place his arm around her shoulder, hug her prettily and in the middle of the street: right there in plain view of the entire town: after which they continued on their way, pressed against each other while the other was pressing herself against walls: spidery: and from a distance also pressing her lips together and telling herself in a rage: “That blockhead already gave herself to him. I hope, at least, she keeps her virginity, that’s the least she can do.”

No way could she go yell at her; she had to bide and watch the scene scrupulously, follow them unflaggingly, because if her sister allowed him to grope her, so would she have to seven days hence and without any foolish haggling. To the chagrin of the observer, this Johnny-come-lately was painting the walls of her own scenario with wild and passionate hues splashed across the distance, cloud pompons dripping with ocher and deep red settling in between the hills. A perfect and unequaled backdrop for abandon, for those long, drawn-out kisses.

And: joy was had. Gloria and Oscar gave themselves to each other, surrendering to the undertow, their lips loose, large, labile: sudden soft and circular surfaces. Desire driving them on. Sitting on the tree trunk: Gloria let the man see the bouquet fall from her hands: intentionally and, what of it! she was spellbound. Triumphant or stupid. Over here, and on the other hand, the real sweetheart hiding behind a bush had to create her own illusions, as if she were experiencing in her own flesh that rancher’s tongue thrust between her teeth. “Stop!” she well-nigh cried out instinctively, but her voice didn’t carry, nothing was voiced. She thought about throwing a stick at them, forcing them to part, unlocking them from their bosom embrace, but from that distance she might fail to hit either on the back, or her missile might reach a bush, out of which would surely explode the ephemeral colors of many butterflies; so the poor thing gave up: resigned to her role that day: to watch with the composure of one who understands, or tries to.

Understand that her sister might be right, because if there rose between them a conflict over the man—a question of keeping a weather eye open—Gloria could boast that she had briefly but forevermore tasted affection, or at least amicable deception.

Anyway, Constitución walked away very carefully. She didn’t want to see more, suffer in vain, ergo, the last scene she caught was a switch: they were conversing, sitting, almost motionless, holding hands: both in profile and between them, like an emblem, the hue of the evening as everlasting glue.

She left: the so-called winner had to go straight home. Furtively: hugging the walls? No need, considering the plenitude of the other two.

Next time … It would have to be like now: this was the lesson she had learned from her other half: no more imbecilic abstinence: instead: candid and open verve, though not allowing the man, in the pursuit of his traitorous and horny adventure, to touch a leg or a breast, neither under or over the clothes … Anyway, she had her doubts. Lying there in bed, all alone, sunk in her uncertainties, she wanted her sister to get back already, not too late and not with her hair mussed from necking, that would be perdition, if … And as the minutes passed she pictured more and more excesses, or rather: the worst: that Gloria and Oscar had wandered to where the nopales grow, and that they hadn’t gone sooner because they were waiting for it to grow dark; she even thought they might climb over a rise, there to give of themselves freely and lasciviously, away from the stares and the whispers, and so … Then, finally, while hanging from the heights of her tenterhooks, to her great relief she heard the creak of the front door.

It was Gloria, no doubt about it … Yes, indeed: who else could it be? Her other half, who found the house in shadows and silence, dreadful nightfall, though a sliver of light, like a tightrope, insinuated contours. It seemed as if the surroundings were turning sepia, as if plastered with peach marmalade, as she switched on light after light to look for her sister; as she made her way forward, intrigued, with the bouquet of flowers in her hand toward the bedroom the two of them shared; as she saw her twin under the covers—phew! at least she hadn’t run off—with her eyes wide open, staring hard at her with a touch of terror in her pupils, or maybe intimidation; she didn’t know whether to express her joy or ask if they were going to have dinner.

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 …