One Out of Two (11 page)

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.”

“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 …

/

The bus arrived in Ocampo at a quarter to three in the afternoon: a little earlier than usual: on Sundays, it normally arrives at three on the dot. The beau was riding up front: perfumed to a noxious extent and decked out in green, with his hair parted down the middle, to perfection: in his own way, he called attention to himself. He descended like a king, flowers in his left hand and a gift decorated with a curlicue bow with spikes in his right. He looked from side to side with his bullish eyes as if to say to anyone who dared deride him: “I bet you wish you were me.” Today, his ambition: to walk through those dusty streets as if treading on clouds, and yes: he briefly gave that impression, even if despite himself: he couldn’t hide his cowboy stride no matter how he spiffed himself up.

Usually, to fortify himself, he had a couple of sodas at a small grocery store, whose owner he knew and who, without being too forthcoming, always conveyed a warm welcome. This time was different:

“Welcome! You look so elegant today. What a surprise.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Without waiting for his customer to order, the chubby grocer placed two grape sodas on the counter.

“Why the suit, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I’m going to wed a local belle. You must know her, none other than Constitución Gamal, the seamstress. Anyway, just to be clear, we’re not getting married today, even though that’d be my preference, no, I’ve still got to bide my time, chew on my cud for a stretch, that is, what I mean is, there’ll be no wedding for several months … The important thing is, she gave me her word last week, and today is a special day for the two of us … There was, you know, a verbal commitment.” The perfumed man took a huge gulp of his soda and continued enthusiastically. “We’ve been courting for some time now, a little over a year, and to be perfectly frank with you, it was mighty hard for me to decide to ask for her hand, well, you know how it is, you have to figure out the best way to win her over. That’s why I went all the way to Monterrey to buy this suit. I want my woman to see me at my very best. Maybe next week I won’t wear it, because with all this dust it’ll get dirty.”

“Did you say it was Constitución?”

“That’s right, the one and only. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just that between the twins, I never can tell which one is which.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“What, didn’t you know that Constitución has an identical twin?”

“No! She never told me that.”

“You don’t say! … There are two, exactly the same.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart. And I’m telling you, everybody around here, no matter how hard we try, we still can’t tell them apart.”

Oscar, speechless, downed his soda in one gulp, then started coughing. Apparently, he couldn’t believe his ears. The initial surprise over, and gulping down air while shutting his nostrils—he used all the fingers on his left hand—as a cure, he looked at his watch: it was still early. In the meantime, the instructive grocer saw how upset Oscar was—he went over to the door to look outside at what was going on, then not: what good did it do? No, not at the roof, either (whence he returned with tottering steps): what about that thatch? The walls, even less: cracked and peeling, or the gift (for the moment: absurd) or the bunch of flowers that he’d left on the counter; or those disgusting cans, one still full, and the other now empty, dripping only with saliva. The grocer had no option but to close his eyes for a moment so his thoughts could settle—and feel pangs of compunction and try to find another angle: “Poor man, and there I went: really sticking my foot in it!”
—
whereat with a sorrowful voice that seemed to come from elsewhere, he gently uttered these words:

“I’m really surprised she didn’t tell you.”

How could Oscar possibly reply? He again consulted his watch. About thirty minutes before he would see his beloved, who … Yes, a sinister idea crossed his mind: that at some point his beloved could have been the other: and he unaware of the deception … No! Impossible! His fiancée would never do such a vile thing, and it was wrong for him to even toy with the idea. What folly! He knocked on wood, finally: the counter’s: which made the disagreeable shopkeeper prick up his ears, but anyway that dump of a store was beginning to get on our beau’s nerves.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Just two pesos.”

He paid and rushed out, as if in a hurry to collect his inheritance, or something worse, because he’d mussed his hair while scratching his pompadour parted right down the middle, all because of the unnerving as well as pithy nature of the information he’d heard. He left without saying good-bye and, in addition, without taking the flowers or the gift. He chose to ignore the shouts of the grocer behind him: “Forgive me, sir, I didn’t know you didn’t know …” Then, in a lower voice, almost braying: “Look, they must have just forgotten …!” Wretched wind, and street festivities: people who stepped out every Sunday: and whistles: anonymous, and he: like an automaton, looking constantly at his watch as he walked, though not toward the shop, but rather … Alas, it would be a new-found pleasure to sit for a few moments on one of the benches in the town square and observe the comings and goings, but calming himself down, trying to see his fiancée’s harsh reserve in a positive light.

Why?

He held on to tender hope. Her motives could not be that wicked, that perverse. He sat down without combing his hair—amid the chirping voices of the many passersby: there, as was said, by his own free will: distracted, sullen, but with just enough time to buoy up his illusions, set them on a favorable course: this wasn’t difficult though it was somewhat self-deceptive.

Maybe his fiancée—this is how he chose to understand it—had failed to mention that she had a twin sister out of fear of disappointing him, because for him to see two who are the same could create a dilemma as daft as it would be marvelous. To have and to love, magically, two identical sweethearts, and to not be able to marry either because he wouldn’t know who the real one was.

This was the reason for her great reserve, but: there was so much racket, he finally got distracted. He looked at the young and beautiful women passing jauntily by and tossing flirtatious smiles his way. Babes everywhere! But his love had alighted. Constitución, splendid and primed, waiting to stand beside him at the altar. Constitución, there, at the door as usual … And the beau consulted his watch one last time: ten minutes to four, so now he’d have to rush.

He stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, and started walking. He had the bad habit or the good fortune of always being punctual, even to a perverse extent, especially when it came to matters of love, and this time, well, don’t even mention it.

Once he was on his way, he remembered the flowers, and the gift—a handkerchief with little drawings of red hearts—: which he’d stupidly left at the grocer’s, what with his plight, his dazed state had led him here: where he needed to be to collect himself, and there was no time to return for his forgotten offerings. What a pity! But now, and focusing on restraint, he could not put aside the most obvious question. His fiancée would have to respond without ifs, ands, or buts about her sister, her twin, the one at least other people confused her with.

As he approached his destination, he saw two women standing at the door, though they still appeared blurry in the evening glare. Now facing the horror, he, too, stopped in his tracks. His eyes alone, switching back and forth, saw two women rather than one, or two sweethearts that were a dreadful optical illusion. The well-groomed man was rendered speechless, for he saw the truth of what moments before the grocer had revealed. Bloodcurdling copies!, in front of him. The nerve! Why was the secret kept from him till now? Because of his proposal? What he’d thought in the square was now visible, the sister who is not and who is, and, which one was which? So he asked with drab diffidence:

“Who is Constitución?”