The Truce

by Mario Benedetti

  Thursday 2 May

  I don’t want to talk to Avellaneda. First, because I don’t want to scare her; and second, because I really don’t know what to say to her. Before I do so, I have to know exactly what’s happening to me. It can’t be that, at my age, this young woman, who isn’t very pretty, could suddenly appear and become the focus of my attention. I feel like a nervous teenager, this much is true, but when I look at my flabby skin, the wrinkles under my eyes, the varicose veins on my ankles, when I cough like an old man in the morning – which is absolutely necessary in order for my bronchial tubes to begin their work day – then I no longer feel like a nervous teenager, but simply ridiculous.

  The entire machinery of my emotions came to a halt twenty years ago when Isabel died. First there was pain, then indifference, then, much later, freedom, and then, finally, tedium. Long, lonely, constant tedium. Oh, I remained sexually active during all these stages, but pick-ups were my technique. Today, an amorous passenger on the bus, tomorrow the accountant who audited us, and the next day, the cashier for Edgardo Lamas, S. A. Never twice with the same woman – a kind of unconscious resistance to committing myself, to pigeonholing the future in a normal and permanent relationship. But what is the point of all this? What was I protecting? Isabel’s image? I don’t think so. I haven’t felt like the victim of that tragic compromise, which I, on the other hand, have never agreed to. My freedom? Could be. My freedom is another name for my inertia. Sleep with one today, another tomorrow; well, this is merely a figure of speech, once a week is enough. Only what nature asks of us and nothing more; just like eating, washing and defecating. It was different with Isabel because there was a kind of communion between us and, when we made love, it was as if each of my hardened bones corresponded to a soft hollow in her, and every one of my impulses mathematically found its own receptive echo. We were made for each other. It’s like when you become accustomed to dancing with the same partner. In the beginning, there is a response to every move, and then, later, the response corresponds to every thought. Only one of them thinks, but it’s both bodies which cut a figure.

  Saturday 4 May

  Aníbal called. We’re going to meet tomorrow.

  Avellaneda didn’t come to work today. Jaime asked me for money. He had never asked for money before so I asked him what he needed it for. ‘I can’t, nor want, to tell you. Lend me the money if you want, otherwise keep it. It’s all the same to me,’ Jaime said. ‘All the same?’ I said. ‘Yes, it’s all the same,’ Jaime said. ‘Because if I have to pay the intrusive price of opening up my personal life, my heart, and spilling my guts, etc., I’d rather find the money elsewhere, where I will only be charged interest.’ I gave him the money, of course. But, why so violent? A mere question isn’t an intrusive price. Worst of all, what angers me the most, is that I usually ask such questions completely absentmindedly, because the last thing I want to do is meddle in the private lives of others, let alone in the lives of my children. But Jaime, as much as Esteban, is always in a state of near-conflict where I’m concerned. They’re not children any more; so let them fend for themselves any way they can.

  Sunday 5 May

  Aníbal has changed. I always had the secret impression he was going to stay young until eternity. But it looks like eternity has arrived because he doesn’t look young any more. He’s run-down physically (he’s skinny, his bones are more noticeable, his clothes are big on him, his moustache is somewhat ragged), but it’s not only that. From the tone of his voice, which sounds much gloomier than I remember, to the movement of his hands, which have lost their liveliness; from the look on his face, which at first seemed sluggish but then realized was merely disenchantment, to his topics of conversation, which used to be scintillating and are now incredibly dull – everything combines to form a single conclusion: Aníbal has lost his joy of living.

  He hardly talked about himself, that is to say, he only talked about himself superficially. Apparently, he raised some money and wants to start his own business, but is still undecided about what kind. And yes, he continues to be interested in politics.

  It’s not my forte. I became aware of this when he began to ask questions which were increasingly incisive, as if he were looking for explanations for things he can’t quite understand. I realized I didn’t have an actual opinion about those minor topics which one sometimes includes in office or coffee-shop chatter, or about which one vaguely thinks in passing while reading the newspaper during breakfast. Aníbal forced me to form an opinion and I think I started asserting myself as I responded. He asked me if I thought everything was better or worse than it was five years ago, when he left. ‘Worse,’ replied every cell in my body unanimously. But later I had to explain. Ugh, what a task.

  In reality, there were always bribes, job arrangements via influence peddling as well as too much bureaucracy. So, what’s worse, then? After much brain-racking, I arrived at the belief that what is worse is the resignation. The rebels have become semi-rebels, and the semi-rebels have become resigned. I think that in this luminous Montevideo, the two categories which have progressed the most in recent times are the homosexuals and the resigned. ‘Nothing can be done,’ people say. Before, someone would only offer a bribe if they wanted to obtain something illicit. That’s one thing, but now someone who wants to obtain something that’s not illegal also offers a bribe. And this means total disorder.

  But resignation isn’t the complete picture. In the beginning it was resignation, then the abandonment of scruples; much later, that of joint participation. It was a man who had formerly resigned who delivered the famous phrase: ‘If the ones upstairs can do it, so can I.’ Naturally, this man has an excuse for his dishonesty: it’s the only way the others won’t take advantage of him. He says he was forced to play the game, because otherwise his money was worth less and less and there were more and more honest avenues being blocked off to him. He still maintains a vindictive, latent hatred towards those pioneers who forced him to follow that path. Perhaps he is, when all is said and done, the most hypocritical, because he doesn’t do anything to get out of his situation. Perhaps he’s also the biggest thief, because he knows perfectly well that no one dies of honesty.

  What it is like to be unaccustomed to thinking about all of this! Aníbal left at dawn and I felt so restless I didn’t want to think about Avellaneda.

  Tuesday 7 May

  There are two ways I can approach Avellaneda: a) candidly, essentially telling her: ‘I like you, let’s see what happens’; or b) dishonestly, essentially telling her: ‘Look here, girl, I’m experienced, I could be your father, take my advice.’ Although it seems incredible, perhaps the second option would be the best choice for me. With the first option I risk quite a bit, and besides, everything is still very new. I think that up to now she has seen me as a boss who is generally kind and nothing else. Nevertheless, she’s not a child. She’s twenty-four, not fourteen. She’s the kind middle-aged men prefer. But her boyfriend was a teenager, nevertheless. Well, look at what that got her. Perhaps now, in response, she’ll go to the other extreme. And I could be that other extreme; a middle-aged gentleman, experienced, grey-haired, relaxed, forty-nine years old, without any major ailments, and earning a good salary. I don’t include my three children in my dossier; they don’t help. Anyway, she knows about them.

  However (and in the words of the local gossip), what are my intentions? The truth is I’m not thinking about anything permanent, like ‘until death do us part’ (I wrote ‘death’ and Isabel quickly appeared, but Isabel was something else; in regards to Avellaneda, I think the sexual aspect is less important to me, or that is to say, that perhaps sex is less important at forty-nine than it is at twenty-eight), but I haven’t decided to be without Avellaneda either. I already know that the ideal situation would be to have Avellaneda without any obligation to permanency. But that would be too much to ask. Nevertheless, one could try.

  I can’t know anything until I talk to her. They’re all stories I tell myself. It’
s true that, at this late stage, I’m a little bored with rendezvous in the dark and hotel encounters. There’s always a tense atmosphere and a sense of immediacy, of something urgent which distorts any kind of dialogue I could have with any type of woman. Up until the moment I go to bed with her, regardless of who she is, the important thing is to go to bed with her; and after making love, the important things is to leave, each of us to our own bed, and ignore each other thereafter. Throughout the many, many years of playing this game, I haven’t remembered a single comforting conversation, or touching remark (mine or theirs), of the kind that are destined to reappear later, at who knows what awkward moment, to put an end to some hesitation so that we can decide to adopt a stance that requires a minimum amount of courage. Well, this isn’t entirely true. Six or seven years ago, in a hotel on Rivera Street, a woman made this memorable comment: ‘You make love with the look of a clerk.’

  Wednesday 8 May

  Vignale again. He was waiting for me outside the office so I had no other choice but to accept his offer to join him for a cup of coffee; an inevitable prologue to an hour of his confessions.

  He’s radiant. Apparently, his sister-in-law was successful in her amorous offensive, so much so that they are now in the middle of a romance. ‘She’s so taken with me that it hardly seems possible,’ said Vignale as he caressed his very jaunty tie, cream-coloured with little blue diamonds, which really shows a striking evolution from the dark, very wrinkled brown ties he used to wear when he was just a plain, faithful husband. ‘Every bit a woman, and with a hunger accumulated over a long time.’

  I think about robust Elvira’s unfulfilled longing, and I don’t even want to think about what will become of poor Vignale six months from now. But at the moment, happiness radiates through all of his pores. He sincerely believes she was seduced by his masculinity. But he doesn’t realize that as far as Elvira’s ‘accumulated hunger’ is concerned (poor Francisco surely can’t refute his beatific capon face), Vignale merely represented the closest man at hand, an opportunity to bring herself up to date.

  ‘And your wife?’ I asked him, with an air of vigilant conscientiousness. ‘Just taking it easy,’ Vignale replied. ‘Do you know what she said to me the other day? That lately I’ve had a much better disposition. And she’s right. Even my liver is working properly now.’

  Thursday 9 May

  I can’t talk to her in the office. It has to be somewhere else. I’m studying her schedule. She often prefers to eat in town. She has lunch with a friend, a fat woman who works for the London- Paris department store. But afterwards, they part company and she goes to a café at 25th and Misiones for a drink. It has to be a chance encounter. It’s the best way.

  Friday 10 May

  I met Diego, my future son-in-law. My first impression:

  I like him. He has a determined look, and speaks with the kind of pride that (it appears to me) isn’t gratuitous, that is to say, which relies on some portion of his attributes. He treated me with respect, but without flattering me. There was something I liked about his overall attitude, and I think my vanity appreciated it, too. He was very biased in my favour, that was obvious. And from what other source could that bias have come from if not from his conversations with Blanca? I would be really happy about this detail at least, if I knew my daughter has a good impression of me. It’s interesting; for example, I don’t care about Esteban’s opinion of me. On the other hand, I really do care about Jaime and Blanca’s opinions. Perhaps the overly elaborate reason is in that, despite the fact that the three of them mean quite a bit to me, despite seeing many of my impulses and inhibitions reflected in all three, in Esteban I’ve also noticed a kind of discreet hostility, a variation on hatred that he doesn’t dare confess even to himself. I don’t know which occurred first, his rejection or mine, but the truth is I don’t love him as much as I love the others. I’ve always felt distant from this son who is never at home, talks to me as if it were an obligation, and makes all of us feel like ‘strangers’ in ‘his family’, which consists of him and only him. Jaime also doesn’t feel very inclined to talk to me, but in his case I don’t notice that kind of irrepressible rejection. Jaime is, by nature, a hopeless loner, and everyone else eventually pays the price.

  Getting back to Diego: it pleases me that the young man has character; it will be good for Blanca. He’s a year younger than she is, but he looks four or five years older. The main thing is that she feels protected; as far as Blanca is concerned, she’s faithful and won’t disappoint him. I like the fact they go out alone together, without a cousin or little sister tagging along as chaperone. Camaraderie is a beautiful stage; irreplaceable and irretrievable. I’ll never forgive Isabel’s mother for her behaviour during our courtship; she would always stick to us like glue and would watch us so closely and zealously that even if one was the epitome of purity, one would still feel forced to summon all of one’s available sinful thoughts. Even on those truly rare occasions when she wasn’t present, we didn’t feel we were alone; we were sure that some kind of ghost with a shawl on its head was watching every move we made. If on some occasion we kissed, we were so nervous and so concerned that she’d appear at any of the cardinal points of the living room that the kiss always ended up being merely instantaneous contact, with little sexuality and even less tenderness, but with a good deal of fear, short circuitry and damaged nerves. She’s still alive; I saw her near Sarandí the other afternoon, tall, determined, ageless, accompanying the youngest of her six daughters and a pitiful man who looked like a suitor who was in custody. The young girl and the suitor weren’t walking arm-in-arm: there was at least eight inches of light between them. You could see the old woman still hadn’t budged from her famous motto: ‘The arm, when you get married.’

  But again, I stray from the Diego topic. He says he works in an office, but that it’s only temporary. ‘I can’t be satisfied with the prospect of seeing myself always there, locked in, breathing in the smell of old books. I’m sure that I’m going to be and do something else. I don’t know if it will be better or worse than what I’m doing now, but it will be something else.’ There was a time when I also thought like that. Nevertheless, nevertheless … This fellow looks more determined than I did.

  Saturday 11 May

  At some point I heard her say that at noon on Saturdays she meets a cousin at 18th and Paraguay. I have to talk to her. I waited at that corner for an hour, but she didn’t show up. I don’t want to make a date with her; it has to be a chance encounter.

  Sunday 12 May

  I also heard her say she goes to the street fair on Sundays. I have to talk to her, so I went to the fair. I thought I saw her two or three times, suddenly spotting part of a neck, hairdo or shoulder that looked like hers among the many heads in the crowd. But then, the figure came into full view, and even those familiar body parts would blend with the whole and the similarity would be lost. Every now and then a woman I saw from behind had the same walk, hips and nape. But then she’d suddenly turn around, and the resemblance would become absurd. The only thing that doesn’t deceive (as a single trait) is the gaze. I didn’t find her eyes anywhere. However (I’ve only just thought about this), I don’t know what they look like, what colour they are. I returned home tired, confused, annoyed and bored. Although, there is a more accurate word to describe it: I returned home alone.

  Monday 13 May

  They’re green. Sometimes grey. I was looking at her, perhaps for too long, when she asked me: ‘What is it, sir?’ It is ridiculous for her to call me ‘sir’. ‘You have a smudge on your face,’ I replied, like a coward. She wiped off her cheek with her index finger (one of her very characteristic gestures, which stretches her eye downwards and looks unattractive) and asked: ‘What about now?’ ‘Now it looks impeccable,’ I replied, with a little less cowardice. She blushed, and I was able to add: ‘Now you’re no longer impeccable, now you’re pretty.’ I think she noticed. I think now she knows that something is happening. Or had she interpreted what I s
aid as paternal flattery? It disgusts me to feel paternal.

  Wednesday 15 May

  I was in the café at 25th and Misiones from twelve-thirty to two o’clock in the afternoon. It was an experiment. ‘I have to talk to her,’ I thought, ‘so she has to show up.’ I started to ‘see’ her in every woman who came by 25th. Now I didn’t really care if there wasn’t a single detail about this or that figure which would remind me of her. I was still ‘seeing’ her all the same; it was a sort of magical game (or idiotic, depending on one’s point of view) I played. It was only when the woman was a few steps away that I would experience a hasty mental retreat and stop seeing her, substituting the desired image for the undesirable reality. Until, all of a sudden, the miracle occurred. A young woman appeared at the corner and I immediately saw Avellaneda in her, the image of Avellaneda. But wanted to undergo the already familiar mental reversal, it turned out that reality was also Avellaneda. My God, what a shock. I thought my heart had become lodged in my temples. She was two steps away, next to my window. I said: ‘Hello, how are you? What are you up to?’ The tone was natural, almost routine. She looked surprised, pleasantly surprised I think, I hope. ‘Oh, Mr Santomé, you scared me.’ Without any emphasis and an indifferent gesture of my right hand I extended an invitation to her: ‘A cup of coffee?’ ‘No, I can’t, what a pity. My father is waiting for me at the bank to make a transaction.’ It’s the second invitation for a cup of coffee she has turned down, but this time she said: ‘What a pity.’ If she hadn’t said that, I think I would have either shattered a glass on the floor, bitten my lower lip, or driven my nails into my fingertips. But no, nonsense, that’s just not true; I wouldn’t have done anything. At most, I would have been left discouraged and empty, with my legs crossed, grinding my teeth, and my eyes hurting from looking at the same cup of coffee for so long. But she said: ‘What a pity,’ and, moreover, before she left, she asked: ‘Are you always here at this hour?’ ‘Sure,’ I replied, lying. ‘Then let’s postpone the invitation for another day.’ ‘Well, don’t forget,’ I stressed, and then she left. The waiter appeared about five minutes later with another cup of coffee and said, looking out into the street: ‘What lovely sunshine, huh? One feels renewed. Makes you want to sing and everything.’ Only then did I hear myself. Unconsciously, like an old gramophone on which a record is placed and forgotten, I had arrived, without realizing it, at the second stanza of ‘Mi Bandera’.