The Truce (10 page)

But what does all of this mean? Oh, yes. The middle ground I now search for has to do with (is there anything in my life just now that doesn't have to do with her?) Avellaneda. I don't want
to hurt her, nor to hurt myself (first middle ground); I don't want our bond to drag along with it the absurd situation of a betrothal headed towards matrimony, nor that it acquire the semblance of a common and vulgar
affair
(second middle ground); I don't want the future to condemn me to be an old man disdained by a woman in full use of her senses, nor do I want, through fear of that future, to remain on the margin of a present time such as this, so attractive and inexchangeable (third middle ground); I don't want (fourth and final middle ground) to roam from motel to motel, nor do I want us to create a home, with a capital H.

Solutions? First: rent a little apartment, but without abandoning my house, of course. Well, first and done. There are no other solutions.

Cold and windy. How foul. To think that when I was fifteen years old I liked the winter. Now I start to sneeze and lose count. I often have the feeling that instead of a nose, I have a ripe tomato, with that ripeness tomatoes have ten seconds before they begin to rot. As I sneeze for the thirty-fifth time, I can't avoid feeling inferior to the rest of mankind. I admire the noses of saints, for example, those thin and unencumbered noses of, for example, the saints of El Greco. I admire the noses of saints because they (it's evident) never had a cold, nor were incapacitated by a series of sneezes. Never. If they had sneezed in sequences of twenty or thirty consecutive outbursts, they wouldn't have been able to avoid completely surrendering to cursing out loud or to themselves. And whoever curses – even during the simplest of their bad thoughts – is closing off their path to Glory.

I didn't tell her anything, but I threw myself into the search for an apartment. I've got one in mind that's ideal. Unfortunately, there are no bargains available on ideals, they're always expensive.

It must be about a month since I last had more than a five-minute conversation with Jaime or Esteban. They come home grumbling, lock themselves in their rooms, eat in silence while reading the newspaper, they leave cursing, and then return at dawn. Blanca, on the other hand, is kind, chatty and happy. I don't see Diego very often, but I recognize his presence in Blanca's face. Indeed, I was not mistaken: he's a good man. I know that Esteban has a second job. Someone at the club found it for him. I have the impression, nevertheless, that he's starting to regret letting himself become completely ensnared. Someday he'll lose his temper, I can see it already, and he'll tell everyone to go to hell. I hope it's soon. I don't like to see him involved in an enterprise that apparently contradicts his old convictions. I wouldn't like him to become cynical, one of those fake cynics who, when the time for reproaches comes, makes excuses for himself, saying: ‘It's the only way to make progress, to be someone.' Jaime, on the other hand, does work, and is good at his job. Also, they love him there. But Jaime's problem is something else, and what's worse is that I don't know what it is. He's always nervous and unsatisfied. Apparently, he has character, but sometimes I'm not too sure whether it's character or a passing fancy. I don't like his friends either. There's something posh about
them. They're from the upper-class Pocitos area and perhaps deep down in their hearts they despise him. They take advantage of Jaime because he's clever, clever with his hands, and he's always doing something they've entrusted to him. And for free, too, as it should be. None of them work; they're all daddy's boys. Sometimes I hear them complaining: ‘Hey, too bad you've got to work. We can't count on you.' They say ‘job' like someone who is performing a heroic deed, like a Salvationist who approaches a drunken beggar and, transfixed with disgust and pity, touches him with the tip of his shoe; they say ‘job' as if after having said it, they would have to disinfect themselves.

I found an apartment. It's very close to what I had in mind and incredibly cheap. Still, I'll have to tighten my budget and hope I can afford it. It's five blocks away from 18th and Andes, near the Plaza Independencia, and has the advantage furnished for forty cents. But that's just a figure of speech. Actually, I won't have any other choice but to use my remaining balance of $2,465.79 at the Hipotecario bank.

Tonight I'll go out with her. I'm not planning to tell her anything.

However, I told her. We were walking the three blocks from 8 de Octubre to her house, this time without a blackout. I think I was stuttering as I invoked our plan of absolute freedom, of getting to know each other and seeing what happens, of letting time pass, and then reviewing the situation. I'm sure I stuttered.
It was a month ago she appeared at 25th and Misiones to claim that cup of coffee. ‘I want to propose something,' I said. I've been on familiar terms with her since Friday the 7th, but she hasn't been with me. I thought she was going to reply: ‘I know', which would have been a great relief. But no. She let me carry the entire weight of my proposition. This time she didn't guess or didn't want to guess. I've never been an expert at preliminaries, so I opted for what was necessary: ‘I rented an apartment for us.' It was a pity there wasn't a blackout just then, because in that case I wouldn't have seen the look on her face. Perhaps it was a sad look, what do I know? I am never too sure about what women mean when they look at me. Sometimes I think they're interrogating me, and after a while I realize they were actually responding to me. For a moment, stationed between us, there was a word, like a cloud, like a cloud that began to move. We both thought of the word matrimony, and both understood that the cloud was moving away and that tomorrow the sky would be clear. ‘Without consulting me?' she asked. I nodded yes. The truth was I had a lump in my throat. ‘It's all right,' she said, trying to smile. ‘This is how I have to be treated, through prepared scenarios.' We were standing in the entrance hall. The door was open because it was much earlier than the other day. There were lights here and there. There was no room for mystery, only for that other thing called silence. I began to realize my proposition wasn't a complete success. But at the age of fifty, one can no longer aspire to complete successes. And what if she had said no? I was paying a price for that absence of a negative, and that price was the uncomfortable situation; the unpleasant, almost grievous moment when I see her, silent, in front of me, somewhat bent in her dark jacket, her expression saying goodbye to various things. She didn't kiss me, nor did I take the initiative. Her face was tense, hard. All of a sudden, without prior warning, it was as if all of her reflexes slackened,
as if she had renounced an unbearable mask, and, like that, looking upwards, with her head leaning against the door, she began to cry. And this wasn't the so-called famous tears of happiness. It was that weeping which occurs when one feels darkly miserable. When someone feels miserable, then yes it's worth crying, with the accompanying trembling and convulsions, especially in front of an audience. But when, in addition to feeling miserable, one feels gloomy, when there is no room for rebellion, sacrifice or heroism, then one has to cry silently, because no one can help and because one is aware that such things happen and that, in the end, one will retains one's balance and normalcy. That's what her crying was like. No one can fool me when it comes to this topic. ‘Can I help you?' I asked, even so. ‘Can I remedy this somehow?' Foolish questions. Still, I asked another one, from the very bottom of my misgivings: ‘What's wrong? Do you want us to get married?' But the cloud was now far away. ‘No,' she replied. ‘I'm crying because it's a pity.' And it's so true. Everything is a pity: that there wasn't a blackout, that I'm fifty years old, that she's a good woman, my three children, her old boyfriend, the apartment … I took out my handkerchief and dried her eyes. ‘Is it all over now?' I asked. ‘Yes, it's all over now,' she replied. It was a lie, but we both understood that she did well in lying. With a still convalescing look, she added: ‘Don't think I'm always so foolish.'
Don't think
, she said; I'm sure she said
don't think
. She expressed her familiarity with me just then.

I haven't written anything in four days. Between the process of renting the apartment, drawing up the security agreement, the withdrawal of the $2,465.79 and the purchasing of some
furniture, I've been tremendously stressed. I can move in tomorrow. My furniture will be delivered on Saturday.

Suárez was fired, it's unbelievable, but he was fired. The staff happily spread the rumour that the Valverde woman had urged that he be fired. But what's most surprising is that he couldn't have been fired for a less important reason. The Shipping Department sent two packages to the wrong address. Suárez didn't even know about those two packages, which were surely shipped by one of those inexperienced and absent-minded fellows who are in charge of packaging. In the not-too-distant past, Suárez had made a great number of terrible mistakes and no one had said anything. Apparently, for the last three or four days, the manager had been on the brink of discharging the disgraced lover; but Suárez, who sensed he was going to be fired, had been behaving like an exemplary child. He would arrive on time and there were even days when he would work an extra hour or so. He was also kind, humble and disciplined. But it still didn't do him any good because even if that shipping error hadn't occurred, I'm sure he still would have been fired; either for smoking too much or for not having his shoes shined. On the other hand, some sharp individual maintains the packages were sent to the wrong address under the confidential and direct orders of management. Nothing would surprise me.

It was a pity to watch Suárez after he received the news. He went to the Payroll Department, collected his severance pay, and then returned to his desk and started to empty the drawers. He did this in silence, without anyone approaching him to ask what was wrong, give him advice, or offer to help. In just half an hour he had become an undesirable. I haven't spoken to him in years
(since the day I realized he would lift confidential data from Accounting, pass it on to one of the Directors, and then turn him against the others), but I swear that today I felt like approaching him to offer words of sympathy, comfort. But I didn't, because he's a filthy pig and doesn't deserve it. I couldn't help feeling a little disgusted about that sudden and complete change of attitude (in which everyone participated, from the Chairman of the Board to the kitchen servants) based purely and exclusively on the suspension of relations between Suárez and Valverde's daughter. It might seem strange, but the atmosphere in this business firm depends, to a great extent, on a private orgasm.

I didn't go to the office. I took advantage of yesterday's joyful chaos and asked the manager for the proper authorization to take the morning off. It was granted with a smile and even with a pleasant and stimulating comment about how they didn't know how they would manage without the key man of the office. Is it that they want to force Valverde's daughter on me? Bah.

I accepted delivery of the furniture in the apartment and worked like a slave. The furniture looks good. Nothing vehemently modern. I don't like those functional chairs with ridiculously unstable legs that collapse when you merely look at them angrily, or those chair-backs seemingly always made to someone else's size. I don't like those lamps that always illuminate things no one has any interest in seeing or displaying, for example: spider webs, cockroaches, power points.

I think that it's the first time I've decorated an apartment to my liking. When I got married, my family gave us the bedroom furniture, and Isabel's family contributed the dining room set. They weren't compatible at all, but it doesn't matter. Later, my
mother-in-law would arrive and dictate: ‘You two need a painting for the living room.' No need to say it twice. The next morning there would appear a still life with sausages, hard cheese, a melon, homemade bread, bottles of beer; in short, a sight that could ruin my appetite for six months. At other times, usually on the occasion of some anniversary, a certain uncle would send us seagulls to hang up on the bedroom wall, or two pieces of Italian pottery decorated with odd-looking little figures of servants that were utterly repugnant. After Isabel died, and as time, distractions and the servants finished disposing of the paintings, seagulls and pottery, Jaime proceeded to fill the house with those grotesque ornaments that need a periodic explanation. I see them sometimes, Jaime and his friends, reeling in ecstasy in front of a jar with wings, newspaper clippings, a door and testicles, and hear them say: ‘What a great reproduction!' I don't understand, nor do I want to, because the truth is their admiration seems hypocritical! One day I asked them: ‘Why don't you ever bring home a print of Gauguin, Monet or Renoir? Are they terrible, perhaps?' Then, Danielito Gómez Ferrando, a good-for-nothing who goes to bed every day at five o'clock in the morning because ‘the evening hours are the most authentic', a weakling who doesn't set foot in a restaurant if he sees someone in there using a toothpick, he, precisely he, replied: ‘But, sir, we're interested in the Abstract.' He, on the other hand, isn't abstract at all, with his little face without eyebrows, and his eternal expression of a little pregnant cat.

I opened the door and stepped aside so she could walk in. She entered with short steps, looking all around with extreme attention, as if she wanted to slowly absorb the light, the atmosphere,
the smell. She passed her hand over the bookcase and then over the sofa's upholstery. She didn't even look towards the bedroom. She sat down, wanted to smile, and couldn't. It seemed that her legs were shaking as she looked at the reproductions on the wall and said: ‘Botticelli'. She was mistaken, it was Filippo Lippi. There will be time to correct her later. She started to ask about quality, prices and furniture stores. ‘I like it,' she said, three or four times.