Daniel Sada - One Out of Two

“Why did they bury them there, so far away?” asked the chatterbox.

“Well, probably because that’s where the accident happened. The highway authorities gave the order to bury all of them in a pile in a huge pit, and on top they planted a cross for each of the dead, their names written in big white letters so if family members want to claim a corpse, men will come with picks and shovels and identify them, then they can take them wherever they want.”

“They buried them without coffins?” asked the quiet one.

“So it seems …”

Why ask more questions? A dreadful silence ensued. They all caught a glimpse of the gloomy image of filing such a claim, so the girls, not to mention the aunt, never mentioned the subject again … It would be so irksome … The mere thought of seeing their loved ones stiff and decayed and having to bring them all the way to Lamadrid silenced them. They kept to themselves any impulse to act.

Though this deliberate repression made sprout within each a seedling of guilt that would with time grow and become conscious. Let us, however, stay put in the moment:

“What I want to tell you is that I’ve decided what we’re going to do: the two of you will come with me to Nadadores. You’ll live with us until you get married. You’ll have to do some kind of work and find a husband fast, or, if you choose to be spinsters, you’ll have to save enough money so that you can eventually be independent. I won’t ask you for a single peso from your earnings, I’ll leave that up to you, and the reason I’m taking you with me is that it’s a way I can return all the favors your parents did for me. As for the house: we’ll put it up for sale today, so: go pack your things and we’ll lock it up! I promise to give you the money from the sale, minus a small percentage as a fee for carrying out the transaction. So, let’s go!”

The Gamal sisters, like two broad-tailed doves, listened to their aunt’s reckoning; from them: nary a peep, alive but dumbstruck statues. Resigned and poker-faced: what choice did they have? They understood that despite the tragedy, the news had come to them via their most beloved and indulgent aunt, the only person who thought the two of them extraordinary, the person who had visited them most since they were born. She adored them: she made the FOR SALE sign with ineffable care, and hung it on the door, and …

Let’s move swiftly to Nadadores, to their new and now bustling life wholly devoid of any thrills or sense of fulfillment; their dear aunt was mother to eleven: mostly brats; her husband: a plump grocer who smoked and always went shirtless, carried an air of uncertainty, and indulged in extravagantly long naps. The quarters assigned to the twins were cramped. They slept in a small room with seven of the other children, who pulled their hair and lifted their dresses. Unbearable. But, because it was a favor, the girls didn’t dare complain.

Since they were still adolescents, the image of this period can be described in simple terms: someone is trying to reach for something high up and gets annoyed because she doesn’t think to remove the blindfold that’s preventing her from seeing, moreover: why should she? Still, she stretches, she gropes, she sets her sights on beauty, longs for it. But in this case, no; Gloria and Constitución developed in the opposite direction: cute little girls, though not even that, and unsightly young women. All that’s left from the difficult years they spent in Nadadores is a fairly rotten stigma.

Stretching and groping, that’s all.

Fantasies destined to develop only so far lest they provoke the most mundane of fears. The time they spent in that town could be summed up in three words: “They found work.” They learned to sew in a small garment factory: yes: there was skill and there was excellence, but never originality, working only from premade patterns, complying only to others’ tastes, without any personal flair; their compensation was a comfortable salary and defective minds. Alas, if only deep down they harbored a few superficial ideas, but not even there. What young women they were! And old ladies, as well!

Locked in their daily drudgery and vain alienation, locked in a plausible equilibrium; to bear up because one must and bemoan one’s fate in silence, sullying the soul. But: it had to happen: a door finally opened a crack. Several years later, when they were already legal adults, they decided to escape from that gouged labyrinth; they’d known for a long time that the house in Lamadrid had been sold, but Soledad Guadarrama, maybe a miser and maybe a crook, had held on to their share. One rainy night — at the dinner table while eating scrambled eggs with onion and garlic — between ahems and ahas and a few dodgy turns of phrase, she told them about the transaction:

“Someone else now owns your house; I made a good sale, and here’s my plan: I’ll give you your money when you come of age. Until then, assume you have nothing. It’s my moral duty not to give any of it to you now.”

And her excuse stretched on: she plumped it up with opportunistic themes, while, under the table, each counted on her fingers the years and months that had to pass before she’d have her share. Only Constitución had the wherewithal to ask for clarification:

“But you’re definitely going to give it to us, right?”

“Of course. What, do you think I’m a scoundrel? I always go to Mass, and I pray a lot.”

“How much is there?” Gloria asked.

The husband, and uncle, but only by name: a huisache bush, far far away, without a say and never in the way, smoothed down his mustache: here was his chance to make himself scarce. The children scurried off to bed. Alone, the three women turned to the serious matter at hand. The breakthrough scenario: a bare bulb overhead — incubus — in otherwise shadowy surroundings. With sober self-importance, Soledad pulled out a pencil and paper; she could, if she wanted to, fiddle with the numbers, but those few extra bills would be like poisoned darts in her heart.

Hence, in the act, the magic of numbers pulsated. Division and subtraction, the rule of threes, and: the phantom sum shimmered when named, turning into an object of longing because it was so wholly unsuspected. Like a tree of possibilities. Dreaming of the future through long and sleepless nights, so long, in fact, that they sometimes nodded off at work; their output as seamstresses decreased, and that’s why they made an enormous effort — the unwholesome athleticism of maintaining a more or less cheerful countenance in the bosom of that large family, especially while also: working brutally long hours — and recovered their determination, aware that their imagination had cut them off from the world. For two long years, until they reached adulthood, they were stuck, as the saying goes, between a rock and a hard place. A margin not worth remembering. One day they would flee, but with dignity. The time finally came for the transfer of funds and some decisions.

“We want to leave.”

“But …”

“We want to live on our own. Give us our share of the money … And, yes, we are grateful to you for everything.”

“Can I at least know where you’re going?”

“Not too far, but to a different town,” Gloria replied immediately.

“For heaven’s sake, just tell me where!”

“No, we won’t,” Constitución cried out. “Didn’t you hear, not far? Somewhere in the desert, yes, where it’s hot.”

Sacramento, Castaños, Cuatro Ciénegas, or a bit beyond: Australia and Finisterre, et cetera: which one? The aunt, after shuffling through names and guessing wrong, said, now finally resigned:

“Okay, I understand, but you must never forget that we’re family. I’m here for you, whether you need me or not; come visit us whenever you want. I’ll send you off with one final piece of advice: get married soon and have loads of children! Children are life’s gift to women. Without any more fuss, I’ll ask one small favor: send me your address so I can write to you!”