One Out of Two (9 page)

“Do you really think that he takes us seriously, I mean, takes me seriously?”

“There is something very refined and deep about him: his face glows with the nobility of a rancher but also with firm convictions. No, he’s not a playboy, and even if he’s never directly mentioned marriage, he insinuates it whenever he describes his plans for the future. Aren’t you sick of hearing about his restaurant? You know, he seems like a little kid who wants to fly like a bird … I think he wants to convince himself little by little of his love for his sweetheart and that’s how he’ll summon the courage.”

“Well, according to what you’re saying, the date is fast approaching when he’ll tell one of us that he wants to get married and that he’s already saved enough to cover the cost of the wedding, including the wedding dress; and so, if that happens, what’ll we say?”

“We’ll tell him the truth.”

“Oh, no, he’ll be so disappointed. He’ll feel like he’s been tricked in the worst possible way. He’ll tell us to get lost, if not something worse. Because: he couldn’t face society or his parents, or himself, if he agreed to marry both of us, and the law wouldn’t allow it, and even if we forget about marriage, because that’s a lot to ask for, even just if he lived with two who are the same. No, we’ll be sunk if we tell him the truth.”

“So, what do you propose?”

Herein lies the drama, the underbelly of the plot. The real girlfriend finally lowered her eyes, feeling sly as a fox for having guided the conversation to this convenient (for her) juncture; because this was her chance to reveal her plan: plotted out in her most recent dreams, and here it is: their chitter-chatter had reached a point where their certainties had to be divided in two, because there’s nothing else
to
do. That said, if the solution is within reach, some kind of order must be established, and the silence that fell—the conceit—suggested a possibly favorable outcome … After a brief pause, Gloria looked up, revealing an almost diabolical expression: without blinking: intense, so shimmery it was spooky, and that look evoked empathy, attentive inquiry, and:

“I’ve been thinking about what I’m about to say since we were little, and now we’ll see what you think … Look, the fact that we’re identical twins to the
n
th and highest degree fills me with joy on the one hand, and on the other, it doesn’t, and this ‘doesn’t’ worries me. Once we said that our likeness was a curse, and I think that God has been punishing us ever since our parents died, it can’t be just a fluke that after so many years, we still don’t look any different, not even a tiny little bit! I remember when Aunt Soledad brought us the news back in Lamadrid, and I also remember that we were starving to death. She rescued us, comforted us, but she also told us that our parents had been buried in a common grave somewhere near Múzquiz along with the others who’d died in that accident, and the families were supposed to go there one day and claim their bodies. We didn’t do that, who knows why, well—naturally! we were just kids, and it would have been too difficult for us, but our aunt never bothered and neither did her husband. But none of that matters. In the end, we’re to blame, and that’s why the Devil has cursed us, spit on us, our entire lives, yes, the curse is this sameness that now, because of love, is making us suffer.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yes, it is, so I’m proposing we go to the cemetery in Múzquiz as soon as possible, and we dig up their bodies, or, rather, we go to the authorities in charge to claim them. Though, come to think of it, I imagine that by now their bodies would be almost unrecognizable.”

“Are you nuts? How can we ever prove that we’re really the daughters of a couple of dead people buried along with a bunch of other dead people? Who’s going to believe us after thirty years? More likely, if we do what you suggest, they’ll send us straight to the loony bin in Piedras Negras.”

“But it’s our right, they’re our flesh and blood! What if we say that we didn’t know till now where they’d been buried?”

“Even so, we’d still need the necessary papers: our birth certificates or something like that, and we don’t have anything that proves that we’re the daughters of two of the cadavers in the pile.”

“And what if the pit no longer exists? What if other families have already claimed their bodies?”

“The fact is, we don’t have the paperwork.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s impossible; just going there and making a claim would be enough, because it wouldn’t seem weird at all for two people to want two bodies that are buried there in a great big pit, though they might wonder why we would want them, what two living people are going to do with two dead bodies … The truth is, sister, I don’t see a downside. In any case, it’s our only salvation, plain and simple. If what we want is to not look alike anymore, I can’t think of a more efficient way to bring that about. And then it’s just a matter of burying them here in hallowed ground and bringing them flowers all the time, and the more often we visit their graves, the more our features will change. We have to believe it because that’s what’s best for us. We can carry their remains in a sack and place them way in the back of the luggage compartment under the bus. First, though, we’d douse them with perfume so the smell of decay doesn’t drift up into the bus where the passengers are sitting, or standing, or whatever. You’ll see, I’m sure it’ll work out. We’ll be different!”

“I don’t want to. It sounds really ghoulish to me. You should just go by yourself, if you want to.”

“No, it’d be better to go together; if our goal is to stop looking alike, we have to both go.”

The conversation continued, and continued to be disparaging, insidious, awful. Gloria resisted by raising objection after objection, but she finally ran out and had to give in. She wanted to convince herself that both of their destinies depended on this act. She wanted to believe in it the same way one believes in God and angels who live so very far away, in heaven, and come to visit only once in a while and then only in spirit. But people don’t live with doubts, on the contrary: they pray to what’s invisible or to some image X; words like
salvation
,
dissimilarity
,
success
sounded merely like faith to Gloria, and faith is either abstract or very simple, and on the strength of contrasts, the simple won out. If it was deceptive, well, it couldn’t be, because then what would remain?

At this point, Gloria, if only to hear more perfunctory confidences, let slip a question: And then we’ll separate? Well, the answer came later … Actually, right away. Yes, for love, that is: depending on the beau … New bonds … Looking different was not about splitting apart and with one snip of the scissors cutting the old sisterly knot, but rather loosening it, little by little.

A mixture of horror and hope started to seep into their minds, and that went on for weeks.

Weeks of tension in which both of them went with Oscar to the walnut grove as usual and received gifts and kisses and caresses without his mentioning a word about marriage or straight out asking—as they say—for one of their hands.

Unhappy weeks in which they made plans and discussed details, such as: the exact amount of time they would need to go to Múzquiz and get their parents and give them a Christian burial back here. No more than a week so they wouldn’t have to cancel any dates with their boyfriend. “It’s so complicated.” “No, we can arrange everything so that it works out just right.” “It seems impossible to do it in six days.” In any case: preparing for Sunday, though very fearful of hearing the grand proposal.

But no: everything proceeded peacefully.

And to top it off: every day for weeks now they’d been finding slipped under their door desperate letters from their aunt repeating the same annoying drivel, creeping toward the cynical: written hastily, with letters that were almost Chinese: worse than a doctor’s, though at the bottom—after the P.S. appeared this scoundrelly sentence written in all capital letters: GET MARRIED SOON, YOU IDIOTS. Letters they ripped up without even opening: weak rudiments of comfort. Later came the real mess: sublime dalliance. Because: so many baskets overflowing with shreds: the fruit of recurrent jitters: they decided to empty all that trash into the middle of the patio and light an unforgettable bonfire: where: as if it were really a ritual: a bunch of ashes took flight and when they danced in the air, they looked like vague ideas or black butterflies.

What fades away and fades away again: the charm of other days or their concerns.

But the missives kept arriving, like a litany.

Such a cruelly cheerful feeling: daily bonfires, almost at dawn: because there was no other time to do it. Baby butterflies with limber letters rather than colorful patterns!

This was the only chance they had to be idle and fascinated, for all their other lived moments—by night, gliding; by day, always the same—were spent trying to figure out the best way to go dig up their progenitors: calculating how much time it would take if everything went according to plan.

The days also flew by and they failed to reach any agreement, until one night Gloria said:

“Let’s decide on a date … I propose next Monday. There’s a bus that leaves here around six in the morning, that’s the one we should take because it arrives in Múzquiz around four in the afternoon, maybe even earlier, if it doesn’t stop at every ranch along the way. Then, if you want, we can check into a second- or even a third-class hotel, if there is one, or we can sleep in the seats at the bus station to save money. But really, we can also see this little trip as a vacation, we can stroll around the square and through the streets of the town and buy food from street vendors. Then we can spend all of Tuesday taking care of our business, let’s hope one day is enough … Then …”

“Wait a second, we still haven’t picked out and paid for a plot in the cemetery here in Ocampo.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. We can store the sack with their remains in our house for the time being. The important thing is to bring it back … How about we put it in the middle of the patio, right where we make our bonfires, maybe that would bring about better results? And what’s more, it won’t matter if it gets wet if it rains …”

Alas, she said it with such aplomb, as if she’d studied this reasoning.

They’d switched roles.

No matter how much they wanted to be different, there was clear symbiosis in their psychological makeup. Hence, she who had at first had reservations—obviously she now wanted to take the lead—removed her mask to shake off any anxiety that would show her to be weak; this one: today she was the sinister sister, who brought things to a head, and they agreed to go on Monday.

However …

Sunday arrived. The afternoon. The proud sweetheart all gussied up and waiting in the usual place. The beau—oh, dear!—arrived without the usual gift, and decked out in a suit and tie! in spite of the heat, and hatless to boot! Bah … Hair slicked back with thick brilliantine, in an impeccable and old-fashioned do. Constitución—it was her turn—greeted him with a peck on the cheek: such delightful proximity! The nectar of love, about to be enveloped. A rancher who changes clothes for no apparent reason: excessive amicability, and: close-up smiles: what a penetrating woodland perfume! Might something special be brewing?

Yes.

In the meantime they held hands: and: slowly strolling: a gentle breeze: toward the walnut grove: as if happily on their way to paradise, down a long ramp. Along the way, and accompanying many glances, there was a laconic exchange of words:

“I love you.” “So do I.” “I adore you.” “Me, too” … Who, me? And other honeyed magmas.

The color of evening was yellow—our lovers finally sitting on one of many fallen tree trunks—and spread itself across the sown fields: whence came the augury of dissipation. Oscar pulled out of his jacket’s inside pocket a card on which was written in rather stylized lettering the name of his sweetheart, and below, in purple, the splendid drawing of a flower. It had meaning, the hint of a riddle. If flower, then Constitución … The petals were alive, did each hold a … secret? And though her blushing spoke volumes, she expressed her gratitude like this:

“I love your gift, it’s so imaginative.”

“Please, open it.”

The grateful woman did so and discovered these words:
My love, would you agree to marry your very own Oscar? I am asking for your hand in marriage, for you to stand beside me at the altar. Do you accept?
She felt an unusual fire inside her, and wanted to say
yes!
but her sister, her parents’ remains, the lie, the truth.

“What’s your answer?” Oscar asked.

Constitución didn’t know, or … Well. Though … She gazed at him lovingly, and there were sparks in her eyes and blushes on her cheeks. Her mouth-heart longed to speak, but no, no impulsiveness now. How unfortunate that this bombshell dropped precisely the day before they were taking off for Múzquiz, or rather, there was still a week to go before she’d be different from her twin. Oh, dear! But she gave an answer because her suitor required one:

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask, and I’m proud and excited that you would want me to be your wife … Right now, I won’t say yes or no, but I’ll answer you in my own way.”

And she embraces him and, what nerve!: she gives him a kiss, and it went on and on. Mouths open, tongues and bliss, and that forty-something-year-old inevitably shed a tear, which wet the cheek of her beau, who stopped in the act when he felt it.

“Why are you crying, my love?”

“Because what you have asked me is incredible, I’m thrilled. I’m crying from happiness.”

“Hey, that’s no way to celebrate!”

“Oh, forgive me.”

“No, it’s okay. Let me wipe away those tears.”

Oscar pulled out of his suit a foreign-colored handkerchief: pellucid yellow, and proceeded to wipe her off from top to bottom. It was quick, it was very gentle.

“So, you accept?”

“You can interpret it yourself. You’re a smart man.”

“Yes, yes, yes! You’ve made me so happy! I love you!”

“Just kiss me.”