The Truce (11 page)

It was seven o'clock in the evening, and the sun, almost setting, made the cream-coloured wallpaper look orange. I sat down next to her and she stiffened. She hadn't even put her handbag down. I asked her to give it to me. ‘Don't you remember that you're not a visitor but the lady of the house?' I remarked. Then, making an effort, she let her hair down a bit, took off her jacket, nervously stretched her legs. ‘What's wrong?' I asked. ‘Are you scared?' ‘Do I look like it?' she responded. ‘Frankly, yes,' I replied. ‘You could be right,' she said. ‘But not of you or myself.' ‘I know, you're just scared of the Moment,' I said. It seemed to me she was starting to relax. But one thing was true, she wasn't pretending. Her paleness meant she was truly scared. Her attitude wasn't the same as that of those female cashiers who agree to go a motel, but who, the very moment the taxi comes to a stop, suddenly become hysterical and scream for their mothers. No, there's nothing theatrical about her. She was confused and I didn't want – perhaps it didn't suit me – to inquire too much about the causes of her confusion. ‘It's just that I have to get used to the idea,' she said, perhaps to satisfy me. She realized I was a bit discouraged. ‘One always imagines these things a bit differently than they turn out to be,' she said. ‘But there is something I have to recognize and be grateful to you for. What you have prepared isn't too different from what I had in mind,' she said. ‘Since when?' I asked.
‘Since high school when I was in love with my maths teacher,' she replied. The table was set, with those plain yellow plates the saleswoman at the department store had picked out for me. (It's not completely true, I like them too.) I served a cold dish of meat and vegetables and performed the role of host with dignity. She liked everything, but the tension didn't allow her to enjoy anything. When the moment to uncork the champagne arrived, she was no longer pale. ‘Until what time can you stay?' I asked. ‘Until late,' she replied. ‘And what about your mother?' I asked. ‘My mother knows about us,' she replied.

Obviously, a low blow. That's not fair. I felt naked, with that desperate bareness of dreams, when one walks around in one's underwear along Sarandí and the people celebrate this public display from pavement to pavement. ‘And why is that?' I dared to ask. ‘My mother knows everything about me,' she replied. ‘And your father?' I asked. ‘My father lives in another world,' she replied. ‘He's a tailor. Awful. Never ask him to tailor a suit for you. He uses the same mannequin for the size of every suit. In addition, he's a theosophist. And an anarchist. He never asks anything. On Mondays he meets with his theosophist friends and they discuss Blavatsky until dawn; on Thursdays his anarchist friends come to the house and they argue about Kropotkin of Russia, at the top of their lungs. Apart from this, he's a tender, peaceful man, who sometimes looks at me with such sweet patience and tells me very useful things, the most useful things I have ever heard.' I like it very much when she talks about her family, but I especially liked it today. It seemed like a good omen for the inauguration of our brand-new intimacy. ‘And what does your mother say about me?' I asked. My mental distress stems from Isabel's mother. ‘About you? Nothing. She talks about me.' She finished drinking the rest of the champagne in her glass and wiped her mouth with the little paper napkin. There was
nothing left of her lipstick. ‘My mother says I'm dramatic, that I don't have serenity,' she said. ‘With respect to us or everything in general?' I asked. ‘Regarding everything,' she replied. ‘Her theory, the great theory of her life, the one that keeps her invigorated, is that happiness, true happiness, is a condition much less angelic and less pleasant than one always tends to dream it is. She says people generally end up feeling miserable only because they believed that happiness was a permanent sensation of undefinable well-being, joyful ecstasy and perpetual festivity. No, she says, happiness is much less (or perhaps much more, but in that case it is something different), and certainly many of those allegedly miserable people are actually happy, but they don't realize it or admit it, because they think they're quite distant from the highest state of well-being. It's similar to what happens to those people who are disillusioned with the Blue Grotto in Capri. What they imagined was a cave of fairies; they didn't know exactly what it was, but they were sure it was a cave of fairies. But when they arrive they realize that the entire miracle consists of dipping one's hands in the water and seeing them appear slightly blue and luminous.' Apparently, it pleases her to relate her mother's thoughts. I think she relays them as if they were an unattainable conviction, but also a conviction she would fervently like to possess. ‘And you, how do you feel?' I asked. ‘As if your hands were light blue and luminous?' The interruption brought her down to earth, to the special moment that was this Today. And she replied: ‘I haven't placed them in the water yet,' and quickly blushed. Because, naturally, her response could be interpreted as an invitation, or even as a pressing need she had not wanted to express. It wasn't my fault, but there lay my sudden disadvantage. She stood up, leaned against the wall, and asked in a low tone of voice that she intended to sound pleasant but was actually glaringly inhibited: ‘Can I ask you a favour for the first time?' ‘You may,' I replied,
and now I was worried. ‘Would you let me leave, without a fuss?' she asked. ‘Today, only for today. I promise everything will be fine tomorrow.' I felt disappointed, stupid, understanding. ‘Of course I'll let you leave. And that's the end of it,' I replied. But it isn't the end of it. How could it be?'

Esteban is ill. The doctor says it could be serious. We hope not. It's pleuritis or some other pulmonary disease. He doesn't know. When will the doctors know? After I had lunch, I went to his room to check on him. He was reading, with the radio playing loudly. When he saw me enter, he folded the upper corner of the page he was reading, and closed the book. He turned off the radio, as if to say: ‘Well, my private life is over.' I pretended not to notice. I didn't know what to talk about. I never know what to talk about with Esteban. Regardless of the subject we inevitably end up arguing. He asked how my retirement plans were progressing. I think it's going well. Actually, it can't be terribly complicated. I arranged my schedule, paid the pledged contributions, and organized my office record card a while back. ‘According to your friend, the matter shouldn't take long,' I said. My retirement is one of the subjects Esteban and I discuss the most. There's a kind of silent agreement between us about having it at our disposal. Even so, today I made an effort: ‘Well, tell me a bit about your affairs. We never talk.' ‘It's true,' he replied. ‘It must be that we're both always so busy.' ‘Must be,' I said. ‘But do you really have so much work to do at your office?' A stupid, thoughtless question. His response was predictable, but I hadn't foreseen it: ‘What are you trying to say? That all city employees are lazy? Is that what you're trying to say? Sure, only you, the outstanding private sector employee,
have the privilege of being efficient and hardworking.' I felt doubly furious, because it was my own fault, and said: ‘Look, don't be an idiot. That's not what I meant to say nor did I even think it. You're as touchy as an old maid. Or you have a guilty conscience as big as a house.' Surprisingly, he didn't say anything offensive in reply. The fever must have weakened him. Furthermore, he even apologized: ‘You could be right. I'm always in a bad mood. What do I know? It's as if I feel uncomfortable with myself.' As a secret, and coming from Esteban, it was almost an exaggeration. But as self-criticism, I think it's very close to the truth. For a while I've had the impression that Esteban's path doesn't follow that of his conscience. ‘What would you say if I left my city job?' he asked. ‘Now?' I replied. ‘Well, not now,' he said. ‘When I recover, if I recover. The doctor said it would probably be a few months.' ‘And where does this sudden inspiration come from?' I asked. ‘Don't ask me too much,' he replied. ‘Isn't it enough that I want to change?' ‘Of course it's enough. You've made me very happy. The only thing I'm worried about is if you need a leave of absence due to illness, it's much easier to secure it from your present job.' ‘When you had typhus,' he said, ‘did they fire you? They didn't, did they? And you were off for six months.' Actually, I was contradicting him for the pure pleasure of hearing him assert himself. ‘The main thing now is that you recover,' I said. ‘We'll see afterwards.' Then he launched into a long description of himself, his limitations and his hopes. It was so long I didn't get to the office until three-fifteen, and had to apologize to the manager. I was impatient, but I didn't feel I had the right to interrupt him. It was the first time Esteban had confided in me and I couldn't disappoint him. I spoke afterwards. I gave him some advice, but very broadly, without boundaries. I didn't want to scare him and I don't think I did. As I was leaving the room, I squeezed his knee, which was protruding underneath the blanket, and he
smiled at me in return. My God, it looked like the face of a stranger. Could it be possible? On the other hand, it's a stranger's face filled with affection. And it's my son. How wonderful.

I had to stay late at the office and, consequently, had to postpone the beginning of my ‘honeymoon'.

A tremendously big assignment. It will have to be done tomorrow.

I had to work until ten o'clock at night. I'm utterly exhausted.

I think that today must have been the most hectic day at the office ever. I've never seen a more complicated and useless request for reports. And the balance sheet is already due.

Esteban did not develop a fever. Fortunately.

I finally left the office at seven-thirty and went to the apartment. She had arrived earlier, opened with her key, and had settled in. When I arrived, she greeted me happily, without any inhibitions, and once again with a kiss. We ate, talked, laughed and
made love. Everything went so well, it's not worth writing it down. I'm praying: ‘May it last', and to put pressure on God I'm going to knock on wood, on any wooden object without legs, for good luck.

It looks like Esteban's illness isn't that serious. The X-ray and the tests contradicted the doctor's poor diagnosis. That doctor likes to terrify his patients by announcing the likelihood of at least serious complications and undefined and relentless dangers. Afterwards, if the reality isn't too dreadful, suddenly there is a great sense of relief, and it's this relief felt by the family that usually provides the best scenario for paying an abusively high bill without a fuss, and even with gratitude. When one humbly asks, almost embarrassed, and clearly feeling the shame of bringing up such a trivial and coarse subject in front of someone who sacrifices his life and time for the welfare of fellow human beings: ‘How much is it, doctor?' he always says, his words accompanied by a generous and understanding gesture of discomfort: ‘Please, my friend, there will be plenty of time to talk about that. And don't worry, you're never going to have a problem with me.' And, in order to redeem the human dignity of this sordid pause, he immediately changes the subject and launches into a lecture about the broth the convalescent will be eating tomorrow. Then, when the time finally comes to talk about the doctor's fee, the inflated bill arrives, on its own, by mail, and one is somewhat stunned by the amount, perhaps because, at that moment, the pleasant, paternal, Franciscan smile of that austere martyr of science isn't present.

From breakfast time on, it was a busy day for us. When I arrived I was anxious to check and verify everything. What happened on Friday was a unique but overwhelming occurrence. Everything happened so quickly, so naturally, so happily, that I couldn't even make a single mental note. When one is in the very centre of life, it is impossible to reflect upon it. And I want to reflect, to take the most approximate measure possible of this strange thing which is happening to me, to recognize my own signals, and compensate for my lack of youth with an excess of conscience. And among the details I want to verify is the tone of her voice, its nuances, from extreme sincerity to ingenuous pretence; her body, which I virtually didn't see, couldn't discover, because I preferred to deliberately pay that price provided there would be less tension that way, so that her nerves would yield space to her senses. I preferred that the darkness really be impenetrable, light-proof against any illuminated crack, provided that her trembling embarrassment, fear, what do I know, would gradually change into other warmer, normal and natural forms of trembling submission. Today she told me: ‘I'm happy that everything is behind us,' and appeared, judging by the force of her words and the light of her eyes, to be referring to an exam, childbirth, an attack, or anything of a more major risk and responsibility than the simple, ordinary prosaic act of a man and his woman going to bed together, much more simple, ordinary and prosaic than the act of a man and a woman going to bed. ‘I would even say I don't feel guilty, that I'm free of sin.' I must have made an impatient gesture because she quickly elaborated: ‘I know you can't understand it, that it's something which is beyond the grasp of the masculine mind. For you men, making love is a kind of normal transaction, a
hygienic obligation, rarely a matter of conscience. It's enviable how you can separate that detail called sex from everything else that's essential, from all other areas of life. It was you men who invented the theory that sex means everything to a woman. You invented the theory and then you distorted it, converting it into a caricature of what it really means. When men say this, they think of women as being vocational revellers, unrepentant. Sex means everything to a woman: her entire life, her cosmetics – her art of deception, her burnishing of culture, her quick tears, and all her tools of seduction – is dedicated to trapping her man and turning him into the keeper of her sexual life, sexual demands and sexual rituals, is dedicated to sex.' She was excited and even appeared annoyed with me. She was looking at me with such an assured irony that she looked like the provider of all the feminine dignity of this world. ‘And none of that is true?' I asked, just to provoke her, because she looked so pretty with her aggressive attitude. ‘Some of that is true, sometimes,' she replied. ‘I know there are women who are like that and nothing else. But there are others, the majority, who aren't like that, and still others, who, even if they are, are more than that; they are complicated human beings, egocentric and extremely sensitive. Perhaps it's true that the feminine ego is synonymous with sex, but one has to understand that a woman identifies sex with conscience. That's where the most guilt, the greatest happiness and the hardest problem might lay. It's so different for you men. Compare, if you like, the case of an old maid and that of an old bachelor, who on the surface might appear to be kindred human beings, like two frustrated parallels. What are the reactions of one and the other?' She took a breath and continued: ‘While the old maid becomes irritable, less and less feminine, fussier, and more hysterical and unfulfilled, the old bachelor, on the other hand, turns to his outward appearance, and becomes exciting, loud and obscene. Both of them suffer from loneliness: for the
old bachelor it's only a problem of domestic help, of a single bed, but for the old maid loneliness is a heavy blow to the back of the neck.' It was very inopportune of me, but at that moment I laughed. She halted her speech and looked at me inquisitively. ‘I find it amusing to hear you defend old maids,' I said. ‘It pleases and surprises me to see you so preoccupied with formulating your theory. You must inherit this from your mother. She has her theory about happiness, and you have your own; one that could perhaps be defined as “of the bond between sex and conscience in the average woman”. But now tell me, where did you get the idea that men think that way, that it was men who invented that wholesome nonsense about sex meaning everything to a woman?' She became embarrassed, knowing she was cornered, and said: ‘What do I know? Someone told me. I'm not a scholar. But if a man didn't invent it, then he deserves to have invented it.' Now I was really beginning to recognize her again, in that posture of a little girl who is found out and resorts to a twist of seeming naiveté just to absolve herself. After all, I don't much care for her feminist outbursts. In short, she had said all of this in order to explain why she had stopped feeling guilty. Well, that was the important thing, that she should believe that she was not culpable, that the tension should ease that she should feel comfortable in my arms. The rest is embellishment, justification; whether it's there or not, it's all the same to me. If she likes to feel justified, if she turns all of this into a serious problem of conscience, and wants to talk about it, wants me to understand, to hear her say it, well, then let her speak and I'll listen. She looks very pretty with her cheeks flushed with excitement. Furthermore, it's not true that this wouldn't be a matter of conscience for me. I don't know which day I wrote it, but I'm sure I placed my uncertainties on the record, and what is vacillation if not an evasion of one's conscience?