The Truce (15 page)

This morning I opened one of the drawers of the small cupboard and a surprising amount of photographs, clippings, letters, receipts and notes fell and scattered all over the floor. Then I saw a piece of paper of unspecified colour (its original colour was probably green, but now it had a few dark stains and permanently dried running ink from long ago). Until that moment, I didn't remember at all that the letter existed, but once I saw it I recognized Isabel's letter. Isabel and I wrote very few letters to each other. Actually, there was never any reason to, as we were never apart for very long. The letter was dated
17 October 1935, Tacuarembó. I felt a little strange seeing those thin characters, with long and fine strokes, in which it was possible to identify a person and also an era. It was obvious the letter had not been written with a fountain pen, but with one of those little dipping quills that, no sooner did you force them to write, would complain silently and even spew almost invisible droplets of violet ink all around them. I have to transcribe that letter into this diary. I have to do it because it is a part of me, of my inexchangeable past. The letter was written to me under very special circumstances and its rereading has shaken me up a bit, made me doubt a few things, and I would even add that it has moved me. It says the following:

My dear: It's been three weeks since I arrived here. Translate this as: I've been sleeping alone for three weeks. Don't you think that's awful? You know that sometimes I wake up during the night and I have the absolute need to touch you, to feel you next to me. I don't know what it is about you that's so comforting, but knowing you're next to me makes me feel protected in my semi-sleep. Now I have terrible nightmares, but without monsters. They're only about dreaming in bed alone, without you. And when I wake up and drive the nightmare away, it turns out I really am in bed alone, without you. The only difference is that in the dream I can't cry, but when I wake up I do. Why is this happening to me? After all, I know you're in Montevideo, that you're taking care of yourself, that you're thinking of me. You do think of me, don't you? Esteban and Blanca are fine, although you must know that Aunt Zulma spoils them terribly. Be prepared, because when we get home Blanca isn't going to let us sleep for a few nights. My God, when are those nights going to arrive? By the way, I have some news. I'm pregnant again. It's terrible to tell you this and not have you kiss me. Or is it not too terrible for you? It's going to be a boy and we'll name him Jaime.
I like names that begin with a J. I don't know why, but this time I'm a little scared. I mean, what if I die? Please write to me immediately telling me that no, I'm not going to die. Have you already thought about what you would do if I died? Well, you're brave, you'll know how to defend yourself; besides, you'll find someone else right away; I'm dreadfully jealous of her already. You see how neurotic I am? It's that it's very painful not to have you here, or you not have me there, it's the same thing. Don't laugh; you always laugh at everything, even when there's nothing to laugh about. Don't laugh, don't be mean. Write to me saying I'm not going to die. Even as a lost soul, I couldn't stop missing you. Oh, before I forget: please call Maruja and remind her that Dora's birthday is on the 22nd. Tell her to say hello for both of us. Is the house very messy? Did the cleaning woman whom Celia recommended show up? Don't you look at her too much, all right? Aunt Zulma is happy to have the kids here. And as for Uncle Eduardo, what can I say … Both of them tell me long stories about when you were ten years old and spent your holidays here. It seems that you became famous for having an answer for everything. A terrific young man, says Uncle Eduardo. I think you're still a terrific young man, even when you come home tired from the office with a bit of resentment in your eyes and treat me indifferently, sometimes with hatred. But at night we have a good time, don't we? It's been raining for the last three days and I sit next to the living room balcony and look out into the street. But not a single soul passes by. When the kids are asleep I go to Uncle Eduardo's desk and entertain myself by reading the Hispanic–American Dictionary, patiently expanding my culture and increasing my boredom in the process. Will it be a boy or a girl? If it's a girl you can name her, provided that you don't name her Leonor. But no. It's going to be a boy and he'll be called Jaime. He'll have a long face like yours, be very ugly and be very successful with women. Look,
I like children, I love them very much, but what I like most is that they are your children. Now it's raining frantically on the cobblestone streets. I'm going to play five-stack solitaire; the game that Dora taught me, remember? If I win, it means I'm not going to die in labour. I love you, I love you, I love you, your Isabel. P. S. No cards left, I won! Hurray!

How defenceless this enthusiasm seems after twenty-two years. Nevertheless, it was legitimate, honest and true. It's interesting how after rereading Isabel's letter I've found her face again, that face which, despite all my forgetfulness, was in my memory. And I found it by way of those ‘you's', ‘can's' and ‘have's', because Isabel never spoke to me in a familiar manner, not because of any conviction she might have had, but merely out of habit, or perhaps some mania. I read those ‘you's' and I could immediately conjure up the mouth that said them. And Isabel's mouth was the most important part of her face. The letter is like she was: a little chaotic, permanently vacillating between optimism and pessimism and vice versa, always talking about lovemaking in bed, apprehensive and unsteady. Poor Isabel. The child was a boy and was named Jaime, but she died from an eclamptic convulsion a few hours after giving birth. Jaime doesn't have a long face like me. He isn't ugly at all, but his success with women is temporary, and moreover, useless. Poor Isabel. She thought that, by winning at solitaire, she had won over destiny, but in fact she had only provoked it. Everything is so very, very remote. Even Isabel's husband, the recipient of that 1935 letter who was myself, even he is now remote, and I don't know whether it's good or bad. ‘Don't laugh,' she says and then repeats it. And it's true: I would always laugh back then, and she didn't like it. She didn't like the wrinkles that would form next to my eyes when I laughed, didn't find the cause of my laughter amusing, nor could she avoid feeling annoyed and
aggressive when I laughed. When we were with other people and I laughed, she would look at me with censoring eyes that anticipated the subsequent reproach when we were alone: ‘Please don't laugh, you look horrible.' When she died, laughter vacated my mouth. For a year I felt overwhelmed by three things: pain, work and the children. Later, my poise, self-confidence and composure returned. But laughter didn't. Well, of course, sometimes I laugh, but only for a special reason or because I consciously want to laugh, and this is very rare. On the other hand, that laugh which was practically a tic, a permanent gesture, didn't return. Sometimes I think it's a pity Isabel isn't around to see me so serious; she would have really enjoyed seeing how serious I am now. But, maybe if Isabel were here, with me, I wouldn't have been cured of my laughter. Poor Isabel. I realize now that I didn't speak to her very often. Sometimes I couldn't find anything to talk to her about; actually, we didn't have very much in common apart from the children, the creditors and sex. But it was never necessary to talk about this last topic. Our evenings were already quite eloquent. Was that love? I'm not sure. It's likely that if our marriage hadn't ended after five years, we would have realized much later on that sex was only one of its ingredients. And perhaps not too much later either. But during those five years it was an ingredient which managed to keep us together, firmly together. Now, with Avellaneda, sex is (at least for me) a less important ingredient, less vital; much more important and vital are our conversations and our natural affinities. But I don't get excited. I'm well aware that I'm forty-nine years old now, and when Isabel died I was twenty-eight. I'm absolutely certain that if Isabel were to appear now, the same Isabel of 1935 who wrote me a letter from Tacuarembó, an Isabel with black hair, probing eyes, firm hips and perfect legs, I'm sure I would say: ‘What a pity,' and would go looking for Avellaneda.

There's another factor to consider regarding the possibility of becoming Assistant Manager. If Avellaneda hadn't entered my life, perhaps I would have the right to hesitate. I understand that for some people retirement can be fatal; I know several pensioners who weren't able to survive that interruption of their routine. But these are people who have become hardened and stagnant, and who have virtually stopped thinking for themselves. I don't think that would be the case with me. I think for myself. But, even so, I'm still capable of mistrusting idleness, provided that idleness is a simple variant of solitude; as it could have been, in my future of a few months back, before Avellaneda appeared. But with her installed in my life, there will no longer be any solitude. That is to say: I hope there won't be. One has to be much more modest. But not in front of the others. What difference does that make? One has to be more modest when one faces and confesses to oneself, when one nears one's ultimate truth, which can become even more decisive than the voice of conscience, because one suffers from aphonia and unexpected hoarseness which often prevents it from being audible. I now know my solitude was a horrible ghost. I know the sheer presence of Avellaneda has been enough to scare it away, but I also know it hasn't died and that it will be gathering its forces in some filthy basement, in some slum of my routine. And that's the only reason why I get off my high horse and limit myself to say: I hope.

What a relief. I turned down the position. The manager smiled, self-satisfied, satisfied because he doesn't like me as a colleague,
and also because my rejection of his offer will help him qualify all the good reasons which he surely must have offered to oppose my promotion. ‘It's what I was saying: this is a man who's finished, a man who doesn't want to fight. What we need for this position is someone who is active, vital, ambitious, and not someone who is worn out.' I think I can see his filthy thumb print on this vulgar, boastful and egocentric little game. Case closed. What peace.

Yesterday afternoon we were sitting together at the table. We weren't doing anything, not even talking. My hand was resting on an empty ashtray. We were sad: that's what we were, sad. But it was a sweet sadness, almost like a peacefulness. She was looking at me when she suddenly moved her lips to say three words. She said: ‘I love you.' Then I realized it was the first time she had said that to me, and, furthermore, that it was the first time she had said it to anyone. Isabel would have repeated it to me twenty times a night. For Isabel, repeating those words was like giving me another kiss; it was simply an aspect of the love game. Avellaneda, on the other hand, had said it once, the one necessary time. Perhaps she doesn't need to say it any more, because it's not a game: it's an essence. And then I felt a tremendous pressure on my chest, a pressure which didn't seem to affect any physical organ, but was almost asphyxiating, unbearable. There, in the chest, near the throat, is where the soul must be, curled up. ‘I hadn't said it to you until now,' Avellaneda mumbled, ‘but not because I didn't love you, but because I didn't know why I loved you. Now I know why.' I could breathe now, and it seemed the wave of hot air I was feeling was coming from my stomach. I can always breathe when someone explains
matters. Pleasure in the face of the mysterious and enjoyment in the face of the unexpected are sensations which my moderate powers can't tolerate sometimes. Fortunately, someone always explains matters. ‘Now I know,' said Avellaneda. ‘I don't love you for your face, for your years, for your words, or for your intentions. I love you because you are a good man.' No one had ever held such a moving, simple and life-giving opinion of me. I want to believe that it's true; I want to believe that I am a good man. Perhaps that moment had been exceptional, but still I felt alive. That pressure on my chest means being alive.

Next Monday I will start my last holiday. It will be a preview of the great Final Leisure. Jaime has not shown any signs of life.

A really uncomfortable situation. I had met Aníbal at seven-thirty, and, after chatting for a while in the café, we took the trolleybus. Even though he gets off before I do, it's convenient for him too. We talked about women, marriage, fidelity, etc. All in very broad and general terms. I spoke in a very low voice because I've always been suspicious of other people's roaming ears; but Aníbal, even when he wants to whisper, does so with a thundering blast which sweeps over his surroundings. I don't know what specific topic we were discussing, but, standing next to him, in the aisle, was an old woman with a square face and a round hat. I realized she was hanging on Aníbal's every word, but because what he was saying was very uplifting, very petit bourgeois, very moral without extenuating circumstances, I
wasn't too concerned. Nevertheless, when Aníbal got off and the old woman stepped by and took his seat next to me, the first thing she said to me was: ‘Don't listen to that wicked man.' And before I could articulate a stunned ‘What did you say?' the old woman was already continuing: ‘A really wicked man. Those are the kind who ruins homes. Oh, you men. How easily you condemn women! Look, I can assure you that when a woman goes astray, there always exists a villainous, foolish, denigrating man who first caused her to lose faith in herself.' The old woman was now shouting, which caused all the heads in the bus to turn in an effort to look at the recipient of such a scolding. I felt like an insect. And the old woman continued: ‘I'm a
batllista
,
*
*
but I'm opposed to divorce. Divorce is what has destroyed the family. Do you know what's going to happen to that wicked man who was giving you advice? Oh, you don't know? Well, I do. That man is going to end up in jail or committing suicide. And he would be right to do that, because I know men who should be burned alive.' I envisioned the unusual image of Aníbal being scorched in a bonfire. Only then did I have the courage to respond: ‘Tell me, lady, why don't you shut up? What do you know about it? What that man was saying is exactly the opposite of what you've understood …' And then the old woman, unaffected by my response, replied: ‘Just look at the families of long ago. Morality existed then. In the evenings, one could pass by and see the husband, the wife and the children; all of them sensible, decent and well-mannered, sitting outside in front of their homes. That's happiness, sir, and not allowing the woman to lose her way, to give herself to a life
of debauchery. Because deep down, no woman is bad, understand?' And as she shouted and pointed her index finger at me, her hat tilted a little to the left. I have to admit that that ideal image of happiness, with the entire family sitting outside in front of the house, didn't really move me very much. ‘Don't listen to him, sir. Laugh, what you have to do is laugh,' she said. ‘And why don't you laugh, instead of becoming so angry?' I said. Meanwhile, the people on the bus had started to make remarks. The old woman had her supporters, and I had mine. When I say ‘I', I'm referring to that hypothetical and ghostly enemy against whom she directed her insults. ‘And remember that I'm a
batllista
, but I'm opposed to divorce,' she repeated. And then, before she could begin her ominous cycle again, I excused myself and got off, ten blocks before my destination.