One Out of Two (8 page)

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?”

“I don’t imagine so. I want to think not.”

“You’re sure optimistic.”

“The issue is simple. If what you say were true, one of our customers would have already said something. As you know, the people of Ocampo aren’t famous for their discretion. Everybody, even the children, are big blabbermouths; there’s always somebody ready to spill the beans, even if it does harm. No, for sure neither Oscar nor anybody else knows about our trick; and what’s more: sometimes I think that God or the Devil has arranged everything so that it will stay between the two of us.”

Listening in amazement to her sister’s fresh deductions: Constitución: still sitting: began to scold her rashly, spewing forth a harangue: “Ssh! Stop it! Get a grip on yourself!” just like a mother who sees her daughter about to pour honey on her beans or sprinkle red-hot chili peppers in her watermelon juice, and again, she shouted at her in a commanding voice:

“Come over here! Sit down! Stop all this nonsense! We have to talk about what’s been bothering us and making us so dreary for the past three weeks, and we’ve got to figure out how to prevent things from happening that we don’t want to happen.”

Gloria, bewildered, ceased her soaping and rinsing and strode valiantly back to the table. Then, defiantly, she unexpectedly dropped into a chair while bringing the palm of her right hand to her slightly greasy chin, in a show of interest. Disgusting mule! Constitución, however, ignoring this affront, continued:

“The way I see it, our dear boyfriend already suspects that we’re up to something fishy, don’t think he’s so dumb that he doesn’t realize that his Constitución is sometimes swapped out for someone who looks just like her, but he plays the fool to avoid a confrontation or maybe just for the fun of it; to tell you the truth, I think he sees this whole thing as a game, and that’s why he’s never mentioned marriage.”

“I’m not so convinced,” Gloria said coldly. “If he were a fortune hunter, he’d have suggested we have sexual relations long ago, and he’d have done so with his arms akimbo. Because I don’t think that a man of that ilk would accept the monotony of kissing and caressing. It would be way too boring for him. He’d be so horny, he’d always be demanding more.”