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.”
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 alclass="underline" 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.”