The Truce

by Mario Benedetti

  Saturday 30 March

  Robledo is still angry with me because he had to work late this past Wednesday. Poor guy. From what Muñoz told me this morning, Robledo’s girlfriend is frightfully jealous. On Wednesday he was supposed to meet her at eight, but because I had chosen him to work late, he couldn’t go. He called her and explained, but it was no use. She didn’t believe him and told him that she never wanted to see him again. Muñoz says that he consoled Robledo by telling him that it’s always better to know about these drawbacks before getting married, but Robledo is still terribly angry. Today, I called him over and told him that I didn’t know about the situation with his girlfriend. I asked him why he hadn’t told me about it before, and he looked at me with sparks shooting from his eyes, and murmured: ‘You were quite aware of it. I’m sick of all your little jokes.’ He sneezed, out of pure nervousness, and quickly added, with an ample gesture of disappointment: ‘That they, who are terribly crass, can tell those jokes about me, I understand. But that you, who is every bit a serious man, would encourage them, honestly disappoints me a little. I’ve never told you, but I had a good opinion of you.’ I was feeling a bit awkward about having to defend his good opinion of me, so without a trace of irony I told him: ‘Look, believe me if you want to, and if you don’t, too bad. I didn’t know anything and that’s the end of it. Now get to work if you don’t want me to be disappointed too.’

  Sunday 31 March

  This afternoon, as I was coming out of the California cinema, I saw the woman from the bus, the ‘elbow woman’, from a distance. She was walking with a heavily built man, athletic, but not very bright. When the man laughed, it was as if he was reflecting the unexpected variants of human imbecility. She, too, would laugh, throwing her head back and pressing herself against him affectionately. They passed in front of me and although she saw me in the middle of a burst of laughter, she didn’t interrupt it. I couldn’t be sure that she had recognized me. In the meantime, though, she said to the centre-forward: ‘Oh, darling,’ and with a flirtatious and muscular move placed her head against his giraffe-patterned tie. Afterwards, they turned on Ejido Street. And now a big question: What does this woman have to do with the one who got undressed in record time the other afternoon?

  Monday 1 April

  Today I was sent to meet the ‘Jew who comes looking for work’. He comes around every two or three months and the manager doesn’t know how to get rid of him. He’s a tall man, freckled, about fifty years old, who speaks Spanish horribly and probably writes it even worse. In his same old speech, he always reminds us that his specialty is being able to correspond in three or four languages, write shorthand in German, and cost accounting. He extracts a badly deteriorated letter from his pocket in which the head of personnel from some institute in La Paz, Bolivia, certifies that Mr Franz Heinrich Wolff performed his job to their complete satisfaction and left of his own free will. However, the expression on the man’s face is as distant as it can be from his own will or that of anyone else’s. We already know all of his tics, lines of reasoning and his resigned attitude by heart. Still, he always insists on being tested. But when we put him to work using a typewriter, the letter always turns out poorly and then he responds to the few questions asked of him with a peaceful silence. I can’t imagine what he lives on. He seems clean and miserable at the same time. He seems to be inexorably convinced of his failings; he doesn’t envisage the least possibility of being successful, yet he accepts the obligation of being stubborn and cares little about the numerous shattering rejections he must face. I couldn’t say whether the spectacle was pathetic, repugnant or sublime, but I think I will never be able to forget the look on his face (serene? resentful?) with which he always receives the poor results of his test and the semi-reverence with which he says goodbye. Occasionally, I have seen him on the streets, walking slowly or simply observing the river of people who walk by and who perhaps might inspire him to reflect. I think he’ll never be able to smile. His gaze could be that of a lunatic or a scholar, or a con-artist or someone who has suffered a great deal. But the truth is that every time I see him, I feel uncomfortable. It’s as if I were partly to blame for his present condition, his misery and – worse of all – it’s as if he believed I am really to blame. I know it’s nonsense. I can’t get him a job in my office; besides, he isn’t any good.

  Well then? Perhaps I know of other ways to help a fellow man. But what are they? Advice, for example? I don’t even want to think about the expression with which he would accept any advice from me. So today, after I told him no for the tenth time, I felt a wave of pity come over me and felt inclined to extend my hand with a ten-peso bill. He left me with my hand outstretched, stared at me (a very complicated look, although I think the main ingredient of it was, in turn, pity) and in that disagreeable accent of ‘r’s’ that sound like ‘g’s’ said to me: ‘You don’t understand.’ Which is absolutely true. I don’t understand and that’s the end of it. I don’t want to think about any of this any more.

  Tuesday 2 April

  I don’t see my children very often. Especially Jaime. It’s curious, because it’s precisely Jaime whom I would like to see more often. Of the three, he’s the only one with a sense of humour. I don’t know how valid affection is in the relationship between fathers and sons, but the truth is that, among the three, Jaime is the nicest. But, in counterpart, he is also the least transparent.

  I saw him today, but he didn’t see me. It was an interesting experience. I was at Convención and Colonia saying goodbye to Muñoz, who had accompanied me that far. I saw him walk by on the pavement in front of me with two others, who had something disagreeable in their demeanour or their attire; I don’t remember exactly which, because I was especially focused on Jaime. I don’t know what he was saying to them, but they were laughing wildly. Jaime was serious, but his expression was of satisfaction, or maybe not, maybe it stemmed from his belief in his superiority, of the clear dominance which at that moment he was exerting on his friends.

  Later that evening I told him: ‘I saw you near Colonia today. You were with two others.’ Perhaps I was mistaken, but it looked like he was blushing. ‘A friend from the office and his cousin,’ he said. ‘It looked like you were really amusing them,’ I added. ‘Ugh, those two laugh at any nonsense,’ Jaime replied.

  Then, I think that for the first time in his life, he asked me a personal question, a question that addressed my own worries: ‘So … when do you think you’ll be able to retire?’ Jaime asking me about my retirement! I told him that Esteban had talked to a friend about expediting the process. But he can only do so much. And besides, before anything, I inevitably have to turn fifty. ‘And how do you feel?’ Jaime asked. I laughed and limited myself to a shrug. I didn’t say anything for two reasons. First, I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I retire, and second, I was moved by Jaime’s sudden interest. Today was a good day.

  Thursday 4 April

  Today we had to stay late again. This time it was our fault: we had to look for a discrepancy. And there was a big problem in choosing those who would have to stay. Poor Robledo was looking at me defiantly, but I didn’t choose him; I prefer to let him think he has authority over me. Santini had a birthday party to attend, Muñoz has an ingrown toenail that has him in a bad mood, and Sierra hasn’t been to work in two days. In the end, Méndez and Avellaneda stayed. At a quarter to eight, Méndez approached me very mysteriously and asked how much longer we would have to stay. I told him at least until nine o’clock. Then, acting even more mysteriously and taking every possible precaution so that Avellaneda wouldn’t overhear, he told me he had a date at nine o’clock and that first he wanted to go home to shower, shave, change, etc. Still, I made him suffer a little and asked: ‘Is she pretty?’ ‘She’s beautiful, boss,’ he replied. They well know that the only weapon that can conquer me is honesty. And they overdo it. Naturally, I gave him permission to leave.

  Poor Avellaneda. Once we were alone in that enormous office, she be
came even more nervous than usual. When she handed me a payroll document and I saw that her hand was trembling, I asked her point-blank: ‘Is there something threatening about me? Please don’t be nervous, Avellaneda.’ She laughed, and from that moment she worked more calmly. Talking to her is a real problem. I always have to be midway between strictness and trustfulness. I’ve looked at her out of the corner of my eye three or four times and one can see she’s a good woman. She has the defined features of a loyal person. When she is a little confused with the work, her hair inevitably becomes dishevelled and she looks good like that. It was ten minutes after nine before we finally found the discrepancy. I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her home. ‘No, Mr Santomé, certainly not.’ But while we were walking towards the Plaza, we talked about work. She also turned down a cup of coffee. I asked her where she lived and with whom. With her mother and father, she replied. Did she have a boyfriend? Apparently, outside the office I inspire less respect, as she answered affirmatively and in a normal tone of voice. ‘And when do we take up a collection for your wedding gift?’ I asked, as is customary in these situations. ‘Oh, we’ve only been dating for a year,’ she replied. I think that after having told me she had a boyfriend, she felt more secure and began to interpret my questions as being rooted in an almost paternal interest on my part. She summoned all of her courage to inquire whether I was married, had children, etc. She became very serious upon learning that I was a widower and I think she was struggling over whether or not to quickly change the subject or share my sense of loss twenty years later. Common sense prevailed and she went on to talk about her boyfriend. She had just told me he worked for City Hall, when her trolleybus appeared. She shook my hand and everything; good Lord.

  Friday 5 April

  A letter from Aníbal. He became bored in San Pablo and is returning at the end of the month. For me, that’s good news. I only have a few friends and Aníbal is the closest. Or at least he’s the only friend I can talk to about certain topics without feeling foolish. Someday we’ll have to explore just what our relationship is based on. He is Catholic and I’m not religious at all. He is a womanizer, and I limit myself to the essential. He is active, creative, emphatic; and I’m unimaginative and indecisive. The truth is, often, he pushes me to make a decision; and at other times, it is I who curbs him with my doubts. When my mother died – it will be fifteen years in August – I was a wreck. Only a fervent hatred of God, relatives and fellow man sustained me during that period. Every time I remember the interminable wake, I feel disgust. Those who attended were divided into two classes: those who started to cry as soon as they walked through the door, and then grasped me in a quivering embrace, and those who came out of courtesy, shook my hand with wearying regret and ten minutes later were telling dirty jokes. And then Aníbal arrived. He approached, didn’t even shake my hand, and started to talk in a natural, unaffected way about me, himself, his family and even my mother. His natural manner was a kind of balm, a real consolation; I interpreted it as the finest homage that anyone could pay to my mother and me during my grief. It was merely a gesture, an almost insignificant episode, this I well understand. But it occurred during one of those moments in which the pain of loss makes one exaggeratedly receptive.

  Saturday 6 April

  A wild dream. I had just walked through Aliados Park dressed in my pyjamas, when all of a sudden I saw Avellaneda standing on the pavement of a luxurious two-storey house. I approached without hesitating. She was wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, resting directly on her flesh. She was sitting on a little kitchen bench next to a eucalyptus tree, peeling potatoes. I suddenly realized it was already night-time and I moved towards her and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.’ Apparently, my reasoning was decisive, because I immediately became dedicated to possessing her, without any intervening resistance on her part.

  This morning, when Avellaneda appeared wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, I couldn’t restrain myself and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.’ She looked at me in genuine panic, exactly the same way one looks at a lunatic or a drunk. To make matters worse, I tried to explain that I was talking to myself. I didn’t convince her, and when she left at noon, she was still watching me with a certain wariness. Just further proof that it’s possible to be more convincing in dreams than in reality.

  Sunday 7 April

  Almost every Sunday, I eat lunch and dinner alone and inevitably become melancholic. ‘What have I done with my life?’ is a question that is reminiscent of Gardel, the Women’s Supplement of La Mañana, or an article from Reader’s Digest. But it doesn’t matter. Today, Sunday, I feel as if I’m beyond ridicule and can ask myself these kinds of questions. In my particular case, there have been no irrational changes or unusual and sudden turns. Isabel’s death was most extraordinary. Does the real key to what I consider to be my frustration lie in Isabel’s death? I don’t think so. Furthermore, the more I inquire, the more I’m convinced that her untimely death was a case of misfortune with, let’s say, luck. (Good God, how mean and coarse this sounds. I’m horrifying myself). I mean to say that when Isabel died I was twenty-eight years old and she was twenty-five. We were, then, at the very peak of desire. I think she was the inspiration for my most impassioned physical desire. Perhaps that’s why, although I’m incapable of reconstructing (with my own images, not with photographs or memories of memories) Isabel’s face, I can, instead, once again feel in my hands, every time I need to, the particular contour of her waist, her stomach, her calves, her breasts. Why do the palms of my hands have a more faithful memory than I do? One conclusion that I can draw from all of this is that if Isabel had lived long enough for her body to sag (that was one good thing about her: smooth and taut skin) and therefore weigh down my capacity to desire her, I can’t guarantee what would have happened to our exemplary bond. Because everything that was harmonious between us depended ultimately on what took place in the bedroom, our bedroom. I don’t mean to say that during the day we got along like cat and dog; on the contrary, in our daily life we were largely on amicable terms. But what could impede the outbursts, the overflows? Simply, the enjoyment of our evenings, its protective presence in the midst of the displeasures of the day. If at any time we were tempted by hatred and started to become angry, the lure of past and future evenings would flash before our eyes, and then, inevitably, a wave of tenderness enveloped us, placating every outburst of anger. I’m not unhappy about this. My marriage was a good thing, and a happy time in my life.

  But what about the rest? There is the opinion that one can have about oneself, which, incredibly, has very little to do with vanity. I refer to the opinion that is completely sincere, the opinion that one wouldn’t dare to confess even to the mirror in front of which one shaves. I remember a time (between the ages of sixteen and twenty) during which I had a good, and I’d almost say excellent, opinion of myself. I felt the urge to accomplish ‘something great’, to be useful to many, to rectify things. It can’t be said I had a cretinous, egocentric attitude. Even though I would have liked to have received the praise and acceptance of others, I think my prime objective wasn’t to make use of others, but to be useful to them. I know this isn’t pure and Christian charity; but then again I don’t care too much about the Christian sense of charity. I remember I didn’t pretend to help the needy, or the disabled, or the wretched (I have less and less faith in chaotically distributed aid). My intention was more modest; it was, simply, to be of use to my peers, who were more understandably entitled to my help.

  In truth, that excellent opinion of me has decayed quite a bit. Today I feel common, and in some respects defenceless. I could tolerate my lifestyle better if I weren’t aware that I am (on an intellectual level at least) above that commonness. To know that I have, or had, within me, the tools sufficient to scale another possibility, to know that I’m superior somewhat, at my outdated job, my few hobbies, my rhythm of speech; knowing all of this, of course, doe
sn’t give me peace of mind, but rather makes me feel more frustrated, more incapable of overcoming circumstances. Worst of all is that no terrible things occurred to besiege me (well, Isabel’s death is hard, but I can’t call it terrible; after all, is there anything more natural than leaving this world?), halt my best impulses, impede my development, or tie me to a lethargic routine. I have devised my own routine, but in the simplest way: accumulation. The security of knowing that I’m capable of something better has allowed me to procrastinate, which, when all is said and done, is a terrible and suicidal weapon. Hence, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, always represented a precarious route, to be followed only as long as my procrastination lasted, and only to endure the onus of the work day during that period of preparation I apparently considered indispensable before finally launching into my destiny. What nonsense, huh? Now it so happens I don’t have significant vices (I hardly smoke, and drink a shot of rum from time to time, but only out of boredom), yet I think that I couldn’t stop procrastinating: this is my vice, which is, moreover, incurable. Because if at this moment I was to decide to reassure myself, in a kind of belated oath: ‘I’m going to be exactly what I wanted to be’, everything would end up being pointless. First, because I feel I have limited strength, to gamble it on a change of life, and second, because, how valid is what I wanted to be back then to me now? It would almost be like consciously rushing into a premature senility. What I desire now is much more modest than what I desired thirty years ago and, above all, it matters much less if I get it. Retirement, for example. Naturally, it’s an aspiration, but it’s a downgraded aspiration. I know that it’s going to happen, that it’s going to happen on its own, and that it won’t be necessary for me to do anything. It’s easy this way; then it is worthwhile to surrender and make decisions.