The Truce

by Mario Benedetti

  Tuesday 9 April

  Blockhead Vignale called me this morning. I asked someone to tell him I wasn’t in the office, but when he called again in the afternoon I felt obliged to speak to him. Regarding this, I am categorical: if I have this relationship (I don’t dare call it a friendship), perhaps it’s because I deserve it.

  He wants to come to see me at home. ‘It’s a private matter, friend. I can’t discuss it over the phone, nor can I invite you over to my house to discuss it, either,’ said Vignale. We agreed to meet on Thursday night. He’ll come after dinner.

  Wednesday 10 April

  There is something about Avellaneda that attracts me. That’s obvious, but what is it?

  Thursday 11 April

  It’s half an hour before dinner. Vignale is coming over tonight, but only Blanca and I will be here. Jaime and Esteban disappeared as soon as they found out he was coming. I don’t blame them, though; I would have escaped, too.

  A change has come over Blanca. She has colour in her cheeks now. And it’s not makeup because she retains this colour even after she washes her face. Sometimes she forgets that I’m in the house and starts to sing. She doesn’t have much of a voice, but she uses it well. I like hearing her sing. I wonder what goes through my sons’ heads. Are they realizing a moment of high aspirations?

  Friday 12 April

  Last night, Vignale arrived at eleven and left at two o’clock in the morning. His problem is very simple: his sister-in-law is in love with him. It is worth transcribing, albeit roughly, Vignale’s version of the story: ‘Just look, they’ve been living with us for the past six years. Six years isn’t four days. I’m not going to tell you that up till now I’ve never noticed Elvira. You already know she’s very pretty. And if you were to see her in a bathing suit, you would be knocked speechless. But hey, looking is one thing, taking advantage is another. What do you expect? My wife is already middle-aged and, besides, doing the housework and taking care of the kids has exhausted her. You can imagine that after fifteen years of marriage, it’s not a matter of looking at her and ipso facto becoming aroused with passion. Furthermore, sometimes her periods last two weeks, so it’s very difficult for me to arrange my desires to coincide with her availability. The truth is I’m hungry for sex quite often, so I feast my eyes on calves of Elvira who, to make matters worse, always wears shorts in the house. The thing is that Elvira has misinterpreted the way I look at her; well, actually, she hasn’t, but there’s no need to make such a fuss. The fact of the matter is that if I had known Elvira was interested in me earlier, I wouldn’t have paid her any attention because the last thing I want is to create a scandal and disrupt my own home, which has always been sacred to me. First, there was the exchange of glances and me pretending not to notice. But the other day she was wearing those shorts when she simply crossed her legs and I had no other choice but to say to her: “Be careful.” She replied: “I don’t want to be careful,” and that was the last straw. Then she asked me if I was blind, said that I well knew that I wasn’t unresponsive towards her, etc., etc. Although I was sure it was a waste of time and effort, I reminded her about her husband, that is to say, my brother-in-law, and you know what she said? “Who? That moron?” And the worse thing is that she’s right, Francisco is a moron. That’s what mitigates my scruples a bit. What would you do in my place?’

  In his place I wouldn’t have any problems: first of all, I wouldn’t have married that idiot woman, and second, I wouldn’t be at all captivated by that other middle-aged woman’s soft flesh. But I couldn’t tell him anything beyond the commonplace: ‘Be careful because you won’t be able to get rid of her. If you want to break up your family, then go ahead, but if your family means more to you than anything, then don’t take the risk.’

  He left feeling remorseful, preoccupied and undecided. I think, however, that there is a chance that Francisco’s wife will cheat on him.

  Sunday 14 April

  This morning I took the bus and got off at Agraciada and 19 de Abril. It’s been years since I’d been around there and I pretended that I was visiting an unfamiliar city. Only now do I realize that I’ve become accustomed to living on streets without trees and how irremediably cold these streets can be.

  One of the most pleasant things in life is seeing how the sun filters through the leaves.

  It was a pleasant morning. But this afternoon I took a nap for four hours and woke up in a bad mood.

  Tuesday 16 April

  I still haven’t figured out why I’m attracted to Avellaneda. I was observing her today. She moves well, arranges her hair nicely, and has a light, peach-like fuzz on her cheeks. I wonder what she does with her boyfriend? Or, better yet, what does her boyfriend do with her? Do they play the decent couple or do they become sexually aroused just like anyone else? A key question for me: envious?

  Wednesday 17 April

  Esteban says if I want to retire by the end of the year we have to begin the process right away. He says he’s going to help me expedite the process, but, even so, it’s going to take time. This might mean greasing someone’s palm, and I wouldn’t like that. I know that the person accepting the bribe would be more contemptible than me, but I wouldn’t be innocent either. Esteban’s theory is that it’s necessary to behave in the manner which the environment demands. That which is simply honourable in one environment could be simply idiotic in another. There is some truth to this, but I’m dismayed that he is right.

  Thursday 18 April

  The auditor came today: amiable, moustached. No one would have thought he could be so annoying. He started by asking for some data from the last balance sheet and ended by requesting an itemized list which appears in the initial inventory. I spent the day, from morning until afternoon, carting old and shabby books. The auditor was a charming man; he smiled, begged your pardon and said: ‘Many thanks.’ He was a real delight. Why doesn’t he just die? In the beginning, I was seething with anger, mumbling and mentally cursing. Later, my anger turned into a different emotion. I started to feel old. It was I who had entered that data back in 1929; the entries and counter-entries that appeared in the rough draft of the daybook, and the transport figures written in pencil in the cash-book. Back then I was just an errand boy, but I was already being given important things to do, even though the moderate glory only went to the boss; in the same way I now attain my glory for the important things that Muñoz and Robledo do. I feel a little bit like the Herodotus of the company, its registrar and scribe, and the surviving witness to its history. Twenty-five years, five periods of five years, or a quarter of a century. But no, it’s much more startling to say, plainly and simply, twenty-five years. And how my handwriting has changed over these twenty-five years! In 1929, I had uneven penmanship: the lower-case ‘t’ did not slant in the same direction as the ‘d’, ‘b’, or ‘h’, as if the same wind had not blown for all of them. In 1939, the lower half of the letters ‘f’, ‘g’ and ‘j’, looked like types of faint fringes, without character or willpower. In 1945, the era of capital letters began and so did my great pleasure in embellishing them with ample curves, spectacular and useless. My ‘M’s’ and ‘H’s’ were big spiders, with cobwebs and all. Now my handwriting has become synthetic, level, disciplined and pure. Which only proves that I’m a pretender, since I myself have become complicated, odd, chaotic and impure. When the auditor suddenly asked me for data corresponding to 1930, I recognized my penmanship; that penmanship from a special period. With the same handwriting that I had written: ‘Detailed account of salaries paid to personnel in the month of August, 1930’, I had also written: ‘Dear Isabel’, twice a week. Isabel lived in Melo at the time and I wrote to her every Tuesday and Friday without fail. That had been, well, my handwriting as a boyfriend. I smiled, carried along by my memories, and the auditor smiled with me. Afterwards, he asked me for another list of headings.

  Saturday 20 April

  Could I be dried up? Emotionally, I mean.

  Monday 22 April

  Some
new confessions from Santini. Once again they were about his little seventeen-year-old sister. He says that when his parents are out, she comes into his room and dances almost naked in front of him. ‘She has one of those two-piece bathing suits, you know? Well, when she comes into my room to dance, she removes the top piece,’ Santini said. ‘And what do you do?’ I asked. ‘I … get nervous,’ Santini replied. I told him that if the only thing he did was get nervous, then there was no danger. ‘But, sir, that’s immoral,’ Santini said, rotating his wrist with the little chain and medal. ‘And her, what reason does she give for dancing in front of you almost naked?’ I asked. ‘Just imagine, sir, she says that I don’t like women and that she’s going to cure me of that,’ Santini replied. ‘And is that true?’ I asked. ‘Well, even if it was true … she has no reason to do what she does … for her own sake … it seems to me,’ Santini replied. Then I resigned myself to asking him the question he had been seeking of me for a long time: ‘And what about men, do you like them?’ He rotated his wrist with the little chain and medal again and said: ‘But that’s immoral, sir,’ gave me a wink that was midway between mischievous and lewd, and, before I could add anything, asked: ‘Or don’t you think so?’ I angrily brushed him aside, and gave him one of those really tedious projects to work on. Now he has enough work to last him at least ten days without raising his head. That’s all I needed: a queer in the section. It looks like he is the kind who ‘has scruples’. What a gem. Nevertheless, one thing is true: there’s more to his sister than meets the eye.

  Wednesday 24 April

  Today, like every 24 April, we had dinner together. There is a good reason: Esteban’s birthday. I think we all feel a bit forced to show our happiness. Esteban didn’t even seem excited; he told a few jokes, and stoically endured our embraces.

  The meal Blanca prepared was the high point of the evening. This naturally predisposes one to being in a good mood. It isn’t completely absurd that Chicken à la Portugaise would make me feel more optimistic than a potato omelette. Hasn’t it occurred to any sociologist to conduct a thorough analysis of the influence of digestion on Uruguayan culture, economy and politics? My God, how we eat! In happiness, pain, fear and discouragement. Our sensibility is primordially digestive. Our innate democratic calling is based on an old assumption: ‘We all need to eat.’ Our believers care only partly that God will forgive their doubts, but in turn get down on their knees with tears in their eyes, and pray they will not go without their daily bread. And that Daily Bread isn’t – I’m sure – a mere symbol: it’s a 2 lb German loaf.

  Well, we ate well, drank a good claret and celebrated with Esteban. After dinner, while we were slowly stirring our coffee, Blanca made a sudden announcement: she has a boyfriend. Jaime gave her a strange, undefined look (What is Jaime? Who is Jaime? What does Jaime want?). Esteban cheerfully asked the name of the ‘unfortunate guy’. I think I felt happy for her and made it obvious. ‘And when are we going to meet this lovely man?’ I asked. ‘Look, Dad, Diego isn’t going to make the customary Monday, Wednesday and Friday visits. We meet anywhere; in town, at his house or here.’ When she said ‘at his house’ we must have all frowned, because she quickly added: ‘He lives with his mother in an apartment. Don’t be afraid.’ And does his mother ever go out?’ Esteban asked, by now a bit disagreeable. ‘Don’t be annoying,’ said Blanca and she quickly threw a question at me: ‘Dad, I want to know if you trust me. Yours is the only opinion I care about. Do you trust me?’ When I’m asked in this way, point-blank, there is only one answer I can give. And my daughter knows it. ‘Of course, I trust you,’ I replied. Esteban limited himself to putting his scepticism on the record by clearing his throat loudly. Jaime remained silent.

  Friday 26 April

  The manager convened another meeting of section directors. Suárez didn’t attend; fortunately he has a cold. Martínez took advantage of the occasion to tell a few truths. And a good thing, too. I admire his energy. Deep down, I couldn’t care less about the office, the job titles, the hierarchies and other such presumptuousness. I’ve never felt attracted to hierarchies. My secret motto: ‘The fewer hierarchies, the less responsibility’. The truth is, one lives more comfortably without heavy burdens. As for Martínez, what he does is good. Of all the section directors, the only ones who could aspire to become Assistant Manager (a position to be filled at the end of the year) would be, in order of seniority: me, Martínez and Suárez. Martínez isn’t afraid of me because he knows I’m retiring. On the other hand, he’s afraid (and with reason) of Suárez, because since he began sleeping with Miss Valverde, he’s advanced remarkably: from Assistant Cashier to First Officer in the middle of last year, and from First Officer to Director of Shipping about four months ago. Martínez knows perfectly well that the only way to defend himself from Suárez is to discredit him completely. Martínez really doesn’t have to use his imagination too much to realize this, since Suárez is, when it comes to job performance, hopeless. He knows himself to be immune, and hated, but scruples have never been his forte.

  You should have seen the manager’s face when Martínez unleashed his concealed and embarrassing anger. Martínez asked him directly if ‘Mr Manager knew if any other member of the Board had a daughter available who would like to sleep with section directors’, adding that he was ‘at your service’. The manager asked him what he meant by that remark, if he wanted to be suspended. ‘Certainly not,’ Martínez replied. ‘What I’m interested in is a promotion. I understand that sleeping with a board member’s daughter is the procedure.’ The manager was pathetic. He knows that Martínez is right, however, he knows he can’t do anything about it. For now, at least, Suárez is untouchable.

  Sunday 28 April

  Aníbal arrived. I went to pick him up at the airport. He’s much skinnier, older and more worn out. Anyway, it was a joy to see him again. We spoke very little because his three sisters were there and I have never got along with those parrots. We agreed to meet one of these days; he’ll call me at the office.

  Monday 29 April

  The section was deserted today. Three people were out. Furthermore, Muñoz was running an errand and Robledo had to review the files in the Sales section. Luckily, there isn’t too much work at this time of the month. The chaos always begins after the first of the month, so I took advantage of the solitude and lack of work to chat with Avellaneda for a while. Over the last few days, I’ve noticed she’s been very quiet, almost sad. Although, it is true, her unhappiness becomes her. It makes her face thin, her eyes melancholy, and she looks even younger. I like Avellaneda; I think I’ve already written this down at one time or another. I asked her what was wrong. She approached my desk, smiled (how well she smiles), but didn’t say anything. ‘Over the last few days I’ve noticed that you’ve been very quiet, almost sad,’ I said, and so that my remark would carry the same weight as my thought, I added: ‘But sadness becomes you.’ She didn’t take it as a compliment, but her eyes brightened nevertheless, and she said: ‘You’re very nice, Mr Santomé.’ My God, why the ‘Mr Santomé’? The first part sounded so nice … The ‘Mr Santomé’ bit reminded me of being almost fifty, inexorably took me down a peg, and left me with just enough strength to ask in a false, paternal tone: ‘And your boyfriend?’ Poor Avellaneda’s eyes filled with tears, she shook her head in what appeared to be an affirmation, mumbled ‘sorry’, and then ran to the toilet. For a while I remain seated in front of my documents not knowing what to do; I think I was moved. I felt agitated, as I haven’t felt in a long time. And it wasn’t the instant nervousness of someone who sees a woman crying, or about to cry. I was agitated about myself, and only about myself. Witnessing my own emotional upheaval was what made me agitated. All of a sudden it became clear in my head: I’m not dried up! When Avellaneda returned, having finished crying already and looking a little embarrassed, I was still egotistically enjoying my new discovery. I’m not dried up, I’m not dried up. Then I looked at her with gratitude, and, because Muñoz and Robledo were return
ing at that moment, we both went back to work, as if complying with a secret accord.

  Tuesday 30 April

  Let’s see, what’s wrong with me? All day long just one sentence was passing through my head, like a recurring slogan: ‘So, she had a fight with her boyfriend.’ And then, immediately, my breathing pattern would fluctuate excitedly. On the same day I discover that I’m not dried up, I feel, in turn, restlessly selfish. Well, I think that in spite of everything, this is a step forward.

  Wednesday 1 May

  The dullest International Workers’ Day in world history. To make matters worse, it was a grey, rainy and prematurely wintry day. There were no people, buses or anything in the streets. Just me in my room, in my single bed, in this dark, heavy silence of seven-thirty. I wish it were nine o’clock in the morning and I were at my desk, looking to my left every now and then to find that sad, concentrating, defenceless little figure.