“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 wilclass="underline" 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?”
“That would be me,” said one.
“Not so, I’m Constitución.”
“Lies! You wish you were, but I’m the real one.”
“Don’t start in with your jokes. I am Oscar’s fiancée.”
“But last week he proposed to me.”
“Anyway, he asked both of us.”
“Don’t you get it? He asked me.”
“That’s what you think, but I’m the one he asked.”
And there they were, rattling on and on to each other, throwing poisoned darts back and forth, while Dapper Dan turned ashen with anticipation and fear. Their coarse barbs nurtured his silence, his face turned more green than yellow, then red, as they continued with their: “That’s a lie, you are not.” “I’m Constitución.” “My God, you are such a liar.” And when his choler had reached its peak: his pallor turned purplish, like an overripe fig that bursts when it falls from the tree:
“Enough! … You’re disgusting. You pair of old hags!”
And Oscar turned on his heels and stomped away in a huff, clenching his fists, and he still heard behind him the twins’ pitiless giggles. He tried to understand the hoax or the rejection as an awkward business venture gone bad. He happened to hear a question, who knows if caustic or hopefuclass="underline"
“But you’ll come next Sunday, won’t you?”
A paradox if ever there was one! but for him: to turn and look back meant to see himself petrified in memory, or rather: to see in a trance all that’s twisted turned to salt: the saltiness of love set adrift, though the man was pretty darn tough, being a real rancher and all, despite the suit. What a mistake it would be to turn around! Not even tears made sense, and getting drunk in order to cry his eyes out, even less. Nor was it the right moment to let out a self-congratulatory whoop for having escaped the clutches of that traitorous pair. The good part was the opposite and absolutely cold-blooded: he could now say to himself: “The fight was well fought, but was for naught.” Yes, a range of inferences would restore his precious feelings, which were already beginning to point in new directions. And his figure was shrinking, his ridiculed figure, while behind him, the two watched him depart, feeling somehow or other — now that they’d had their fun — a certain pity, especially the real sweetheart, who, driven perhaps by perfidy or sentimentality, took two steps forward, as if still seeking some kind of communion. But no, he kept walking away: a fluke: as he’d come. Constitución trembled: a sigh escaped her and opened a path through the clouds, then thundered beyond … Gloria took her arm and pulled gently, as if with a restrained caress.