The Truce

by Mario Benedetti

  Thursday 16 May

  ‘I bet you don’t know who I bumped into,’ said Vignale on the telephone. My silence was, without a doubt, so provocative he couldn’t even wait three seconds to offer the answer: ‘Just imagine, Escayola.’ I thought about it. Escayola? It’s strange to hear that name again, the kind of old family name you just don’t hear any more. ‘You don’t say,’ I replied. ‘And how is he?’

  ‘He looks like a dolphin and weighs fifteen stone,’ Vignale replied. Well, it turns out that Escayola found out Vignale had bumped into me and, naturally, there is a dinner in the future.

  Escayola. He’s also from the Brandzen Street era. But him I remember. As a teenager, he was scrawny, tall and nervous; he was quick to make fun of everything and his chatter was usually hilarious. In the café owned by the gallego Alvarez, Escayola was the star. Apparently, we were all predisposed to laughter because Escayola would say just about anything (it didn’t necessarily have to be funny) and we were immediately tempted to laugh. I remember that sometimes we would hold our stomachs, screaming with laughter. I think the secret lay in that he would act funny, but with great seriousness: a kind of Buster Keaton. It will be good to see him again.

  Friday 17 May

  At last it happened. I was sitting in the café, next to the window. This time I wasn’t waiting for anything or watching out for anyone. I think I was adding numbers in the vain attempt to balance the expenses with the income of this slow month of May, truly autumnal and overflowing with debts. I lifted my head and there she was, like an apparition or a ghost or simply – and so much the better – like Avellaneda. ‘I’m here for that cup of coffee you offered me the other day,’ she said. I stood up, bumping into the chair, and the little coffee spoon slid off the table, causing a racket more akin to a ladle. The waiters stared; she sat down. I picked up the spoon, but before I could sit down my jacket got caught on that damned rim that’s on the back of all the chairs. In my dress rehearsal for this desired encounter, I hadn’t counted on such an agitated staging. ‘It looks like I scared you,’ she said, laughing candidly. ‘Well, yes, a little bit,’ I confessed, and that saved me. The casualness had been recovered. We talked about the office, fellow workers, and I related some anecdotes about the old times. She laughed. She was wearing a little dark-green jacket over a white blouse. Her hair was uncombed, but only the right side, as if a gale had blown against her only on that side. I told her about it and she took a little mirror out of her bag, gazed at herself, and for a while enjoyed seeing how ridiculous she appeared. I liked that her good sense of humour was such that she could make fun of herself. Then I said: ‘Do you know that you are responsible for one of the most important crises in my life?’ And, still laughing, she asked: ‘Economic?’ I replied: ‘No, emotional,’ and she became serious. ‘Good lord,’ she said, and waited for me to continue. And I did: ‘Look, Avellaneda, it’s possible that what I’m about to say sounds crazy. If it is, just say so. But I don’t want to beat around the bush: I think I’m in love with you.’ I waited a few moments, but she didn’t say a word and just stared at her handbag. I think she blushed a little, but I didn’t try to ascertain if she blushed from embarrassment or was just radiant. Then I continued: ‘In light of our respective ages, the most logical thing would have been to keep my mouth shut, however, I think it was a tribute that I owed you. I’m not going to demand anything. If you, now or tomorrow or whenever, tell me to stop, we won’t discuss the matter any more and we’ll remain friends. And don’t be afraid about your job or your peace of mind at the office; I know how to behave, don’t worry.’ Again I waited. There she was, defenceless, that is to say, being defended by me from myself. Whatever she might say, whatever attitude she might have, it was going to signify: ‘This is the colour of your future.’ Finally, I couldn’t wait any longer and said: ‘And?’ I forced a smile and added, with a trembling voice that refuted the joke I was trying to make: ‘Do you have anything to declare?’ She stopped staring at her handbag. When she raised her eyes I had a feeling the worst had passed. ‘I already knew,’ she said. ‘That’s why I came to have coffee.’

  Saturday 18 May

  Yesterday, when I finished writing what she had told me, I stopped. I stopped because I wanted the day to end that way, even a day written by me, with that hopeful heartbeat. She didn’t say: ‘Stop.’ But not only did she not say: ‘Stop,’ but she said: ‘That’s why I came to have coffee.’ Afterwards she asked me to give her a day, or at least a few hours, to think. ‘I already knew and still it’s a surprise; I have to collect myself.’ Tomorrow, Sunday, we’ll have lunch in town. And now what? Actually, my prepared speech included a long explanation I didn’t even have the opportunity to give. It’s true I wasn’t quite sure that giving a speech was the most advisable thing to do. I had also considered the possibility of offering to counsel her, to place my years of experience at her disposal. However, when I came down from the clouds and saw her in front of me, and started making all those clumsy and uncontrollable gestures, I managed to surmise that the only way of fruitfully escaping ridicule was to say what the inspiration of the moment dictated and nothing else, forgetting the prepared speeches and the previous ambushes. I’m not sorry I followed that impulse. The speech was short and – overall – simple, and I think that simplicity could be an adequate trump card when I face her. She wants to think about it, and that’s fine. But I say to myself: if she already knew I felt the way I do, why didn’t she already have a formed opinion? How can she waver about which attitude to adopt? There could be various explanations, for example: that she actually intended to utter the terrible word ‘stop’, but had thought it terribly cruel to say it like that, point-blank. Another explanation: that she had already known (having already known, in this case, means she had sensed it) what I felt, what I feel, but, in spite of that, still hadn’t believed that I would ever express it in words, in a concrete proposition. Hence the hesitation. But she said: ‘that’s why’ she came for coffee. What did she mean? Did she want me to pose the question and, therefore, have doubts? When one desires to be asked this kind of question, it’s common to answer in the affirmative. But she could have also wanted me to finally pose the question so she could stop waiting, tense and uncomfortable, and be prepared, once and for all, to say no and regain her poise. And, besides, there’s the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend. What’s happening with him? Not in regards to the facts (the facts, evidently, indicate the end of that relationship), but in regards to Avellaneda. Am I, finally, the impetus that was missing, the little push her misgivings were waiting for, to convince her to go back to him? Furthermore, there is the difference in our ages, the fact that I’m a widower, have three children, etc., and having to decide what kind of relationship I really want to have with her. This last item is more complicated than it looks. If the reader of this diary were someone other than me I would have to close out this day in the style of serialized novels: ‘If you want to know the answers to these very pressing questions, read our next instalment.’

  Sunday 19 May

  I waited for her at Mercedes and Río Branco. She was only ten minutes late. Her tailored Sunday suit improved her looks quite a bit, although I was probably especially predisposed to find her looking better and better every time we meet. Today she was nervous. Her little suit was a good omen (she wanted to make a good impression); but her nerves weren’t. I had the feeling that beneath her rouge, her cheeks and lips were pale. In the restaurant she chose an almost hidden table in the back. ‘She doesn’t want to be seen with me. This is a bad omen,’ I thought. No sooner did she sit down than she opened her handbag, took out her little mirror and looked at herself. ‘She is careful about her looks. That’s a good sign,’ I thought. This time we talked about generalities for fifteen minutes (during which time we ordered a cold dish of meat and vegetables, wine, and spread butter on the black bread). All of a sudden, she said: ‘Please, don’t shoot me those looks of expectation.’ ‘I don’t have any other kind,’ I replied, li
ke an idiot. ‘You want to know my answer,’ she continued, ‘and my answer is another question.’ ‘Then ask it,’ I said. ‘What does it mean that you’re in love with me?’ It had never occurred to me that such a question existed, but there it was, within my reach. ‘Please, Avellaneda, don’t make me look even more ridiculous than I already am,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to specify like an adolescent what it means to be in love?’ ‘No, certainly not,’ she replied. ‘Well then?’ I continued. Actually, I was pretending to be naïve; deep down I knew quite well what she was trying to tell me. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to look ridiculous, but, on the other hand, you don’t mind if I look ridiculous. You know what I’m trying to tell you. Being in love could mean, especially in the male jargon, many different things.’ ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Then let’s say it’s the best of all those things. Because that’s what I was referring to yesterday when I told you I was in love with you.’ It wasn’t a dialogue of love, don’t I wish. The rhythm of our voices sounded like a conversation between merchants, or professors, or politicians, or anyone poised and restrained. ‘Look,’ I continued, a bit more animated, ‘there is what is called reality and what is called appearances.’ ‘Aha,’ she said, without appearing to scoff at my remark. ‘I love you in what is called reality, but the problems arise when I think about that which is called appearances,’ I said. ‘What problems?’ she asked, this time sounding truly intrigued. ‘Don’t make me say I could be your father, or that you’re the same age as one of my children,’ I replied. ‘Don’t make me say it, because that is the key to all the problems, and, besides, then I’m really going to feel a bit miserable.’ She didn’t say anything, which was good. There was less risk this way. ‘Do you understand?’ I asked, without waiting for a reply. ‘My aim, apart from the very understandable desire to be happy, or as close to that as possible, is for you to be happy too. And that’s what is difficult. You have all the traits to share my happiness, but I have very few with which to share yours. And don’t think I’m acting important. Under different circumstances (I mean, actually, in a different age) the proper thing for me to do would be to offer you a serious courtship, very serious, perhaps too serious, with a clear prospect of marriage within arm’s reach. But if I were to offer you something similar now, I think it would be selfish of me, because I would only be thinking of myself, and what I most want now is not to think of myself but to think of you. I can’t forget – and you can’t either – that in ten years I’ll be sixty years old. “Hardly an old man”, an optimist or a toady might say, but the adverb matters very little. I want my honesty to be taken for granted when I say that, not now, nor in a few months, will I be able to muster enough strength to talk about marriage. But – there’s always a but – what to talk about, then? I know that, however much you understand this, it’s still difficult to accept another option. Although it’s obvious that another option does exist. There is room for love in that other option, albeit no room for marriage.’ She raised her eyes, but didn’t question me. She probably just wanted to see the look on my face when I made that last remark. But, at this late stage, I was determined not to hold back, so I continued: ‘In regards to that other option, the public imagination, which is usually poor at designations, calls it a “fling” or an “arrangement” and so it’s quite logical for you to feel a little frightened. To tell the truth, I’m afraid that you think that I’m proposing we have an affair. Perhaps, I would not be even the slightest bit insincere if I told you that what I’m boldly seeking is an understanding, a kind of agreement between my love and your freedom. I know, I know. You’re thinking that the reality is exactly the opposite; that what I’m looking for is precisely your love and my freedom. You have every right to think this, but realize that, at the same time, I have every right to wager everything on this one card. And that one card is the trust you can have in me.’ By then, we were waiting for dessert. When the waiter finally brought the heavenly dishes, I took the opportunity to ask for the bill. Immediately after the last bite, Avellaneda wiped her mouth vigorously with her napkin and looked at me, smiling. Her smile was forming little creases at the corners of her lips. ‘I like you,’ she said.

  Monday 20 May

  The devised plan is for absolute freedom. Get to know each other and see what happens, let time pass, and then review the situation. There are no shackles or obligations. She’s splendid.

  Tuesday 21 May

  ‘The tonic is good for you,’ Blanca told me at noon today. ‘You’re animated, much happier.’

  Friday 24 May

  It’s a kind of game now at the office. The game of the Boss and the Assistant. The rules are: don’t fall out of rhythm, behave differently, or change the routine. At nine o’clock in the morning I distribute the work to Muñoz, Robledo, Avellaneda and Santini. Avellaneda is one name on the list, just another one of those who extend their hand in front of my desk so I can give them the payroll accounts. There’s Muñoz’s hand: large, wrinkled, with claw-like nails; Robledo’s hand: small, almost square; Santini’s hand: thin fingers, two rings; and nearby, Avellaneda’s hand, with fingers that look like Santini’s, only feminine instead of effeminate. I’ve already told her that every time she approaches my desk with the others and extends her hand, I place (mentally, of course) a gentlemanly kiss on her sharp, sensible knuckles. She says it’s not obvious from the look on my stony face. Sometimes she’s tempted, and tries to infect me with an irrepressible desire to laugh, but I remain firm. So firm that this afternoon Muñoz approached me and asked if something was wrong; he noticed I had been looking a little preoccupied over the last few days. ‘Are you worried about the forthcoming balance sheet?’ he asked. ‘Relax, boss. We’ll update the books quickly. In the past we’ve been much further behind.’ What do I care about the balance sheet? I almost laughed right in his face, but one has to pretend. ‘Muñoz, do you think that we’ll ever finish? Be aware the excess profit entries are next, and those pests reject the sworn declarations three or four times, and then, of course, we start to choke on the work. We have to hurry, Muñoz, this is my last balance sheet and I want it to turn out just right. Tell the others, ok?’

  Sunday 26 May

  Today I dined with Vignale and Escayola. I’m still in shock. I have never felt the passage of time as rigorously as I did today when I faced Escayola for the first time after not having seen or heard from him in thirty years. The tall, nervous, joking adolescent has turned into a potbellied monster, with an impressive neck, soft and full lips, a bald spot with blemishes that resemble coffee drippings, and horrible bags under his eyes which shake when he laughs. Because now Escayola laughs. When he lived on Brandzen Street, the effectiveness of his jokes resided precisely in the fact that he told them in a serious manner. We would all die of laughter, but he remained unmoved. During dinner he told a few jokes, a dirty story I had known since college, and some supposedly off-colour anecdote drawn from his experience as a stockbroker. The most he could accomplish was to get me to smile moderately and Vignale (a fellow who is always quite willing to please) to release a loud laugh so artificial that it sounded more like he was clearing his throat. I couldn’t contain myself and told him: ‘Aside from gaining a little weight, the thing I now find most peculiar about you is that you laugh loudly. Before, you would tell the funniest jokes with a sensationally sad look on your face.’ A flash of rage or perhaps impotence passed before Escayola’s eyes, and he quickly started to explain: ‘You know what happened? I always told jokes with a great deal of seriousness, you’re right, how well you remember! But one day I realized I was running out of topics. I didn’t like telling someone else’s jokes. You know, I was a creative person and the jokes I told had never been heard before by anyone. I would make them up and would sometimes attempt an actual series of jokes with a central character, as in short stories, and would get the most out of them for two or three weeks. Well then, when I realized I couldn’t think of any more topics (I don’t know what could have happened to me
, perhaps my brain emptied out), and, like a good sportsman, didn’t want to retire early, I started telling other people’s jokes. At first I was selective, but then I quickly used up my selection, and began to add anything whatsoever to my repertoire. And the people, the fellows (I always had my circle of friends) started not to laugh, and not to find anything I said funny. They were right, but I didn’t retire then either; instead, I thought of another recourse: I would laugh myself, in proportion to how much it mattered, in order to impress my listeners and convince them that my jokes were indeed quite hilarious. At first they would join me in the laughter, but they quickly started to feel deceived, to know my laughter wasn’t exactly an omen of true humour. In this they were also right, but I could no longer stop laughing. And here I am, as you can see, transformed into a pest. Do you want some advice? If you want to keep my friendship, talk to me about tragic things.’