The Truce (16 page)

I talked to two members of the Board of Directors this morning. We talked about things of little importance, but, nonetheless, the conversation was enough to make me understand that they feel a kindly and comprehensive contempt for me. I imagine that when they stretch out in the soft-cushioned chairs in the director's lounge, they must feel almost omnipotent, or at least as close to Olympus as a sordid and dark soul can get. They've reached the top. For a soccer player, the top means to someday play for the national team; for a mystic, to communicate with their God at some point; and for a sentimental person, to find, at some point, the true echo of their own emotions in another person. For these poor people, on the other hand, the top is getting to sit in the directors' armchairs, experience the sensation (that for others would be so uncomfortable) that a few destinies
are in their hands, create the illusion they make decisions, make arrangements, and that they are Someone. Today, however, when I looked at them. I didn't see the faces of Someone, but of Something. They look like Things, not People. But, what do I look like to them: like an imbecile, an incompetent, the wretch who dared to turn down an offer from Olympus. Once, a long time ago, I heard one of the oldest members of the board say: ‘The biggest mistake that some businessmen make is to treat their employees as if they were human beings.' I never forgot, nor will I ever forget that phrase, simply because I can't forgive it. Not only on my own behalf, but also on behalf of all mankind. Now I feel a strong temptation to turn the phrase around and think: ‘The biggest mistake that some employees make is to treat their bosses as if they were people.' But I resist the temptation. They're people. They don't look like it, but they are. And they're people who are worthy of hateful pity of the most infamous kind, because the truth is that they develop a shell of pride, a repulsive veneer and a firm hypocrisy. But deep down, they're hollow. Filthy and hollow. And they suffer from the most horrible variant of solitude: the solitude of someone who doesn't even have himself.

‘Tell me about Isabel.' That's one good thing about Avellaneda: she makes you discover things about yourself, makes you get to know yourself better. When one spends a great amount of time alone, when many, many years go by without life-giving and exploratory dialogue encouraging one to deliver that modest civilization of the soul called lucidity to the most intricate zones of instinct; to those truly virginal lands, unexplored, of desire,
of emotion, of loathing, when that solitude becomes routine, one inexorably begins to lose the capacity to feel shaken, to feel alive. But then Avellaneda comes and asks questions, and in addition to her questions, I ask myself many more, and then yes, I feel alive and determined. ‘Tell me about Isabel' is an innocent, simple request, but still … Isabel's affairs are my affairs, or they were; they are the affairs of that man I was when Isabel was alive. My God, what immaturity. When I first met Isabel, I didn't know what I wanted, nor did I know what to expect from her or from myself. There were no modes of comparison, since there were no standards for identifying happiness or sorrow. The good moments were later shaping the definition of happiness, while the bad moments served to create the formula of sorrow. That's also called freshness, spontaneity; but how many abysses exist in the spontaneous. In the midst of everything, I was lucky. Isabel was a good woman, and I wasn't a fool. Our union was never complicated. But what would have happened if the passage of time had worn away that threatened attraction of sex? ‘Tell me about Isabel' was an invitation to be sincere. I knew the risk Avellaneda was taking. Retrospective jealousies (because of the resentment they foster, the impossibility of truly challenging them, their shaky foundations) are frightfully cruel. Nevertheless, I was sincere. I related the details about Isabel which were really hers. And mine. I didn't invent an Isabel who would allow me to show off in front of Avellaneda. Naturally, I had the impulse to do so. Because one always likes to make a good impression, and after making a good impression, one wants to make an even better impression for the person one loves, in front of whom we, in turn, try to distinguish ourselves in order to be loved. First of all, I didn't invent her because I think Avellaneda is worthy of the truth, and then because I too am worthy, because I'm tired (and in this case tiredness is almost
disgusting) with pretence, that pretence that one puts on like a mask over one's old, sensible face. That's why I'm not amazed that, as Avellaneda began to learn what kind of person Isabel had been, I too began to learn what kind of person I had been.

Today I started my last leave before retiring. It rained all day, so I spent the entire afternoon in the apartment. I changed two sockets, painted a little cabinet, and washed two nylon shirts. Avellaneda arrived at seven-thirty, but stayed only until eight o'clock. She had to go to an aunt's birthday. She says that Muñoz, as my substitute, is unbearably bossy and pedantic. There's already been an incident involving Robledo.

It's been a month since Jaime left home. Whether I think about it or not, the truth is that the problem is always on my mind. If only I had been able to talk to him at least once!

I stayed at home and read for I don't know how many hours, but only magazines. I don't want to do it again. It leaves me with a horrible sensation of time wasted, as if stupidity was anaesthetizing my brain.

I feel a little strange without the office. But perhaps I feel like that because I know this isn't really retirement, it's only a limited leave of absence, once again being threatened by the office.

I wanted to surprise her. I waited for her a block away from the office. At five past seven I saw her approaching. But she was walking with Robledo. I don't know what Robledo was telling her; but the truth is that she was laughing freely, very amused. Since when is Robledo so amusing? I went into a café, let them pass by and then started to follow them some thirty steps behind. When they reached Andes they said goodbye. Then she turned towards San José. She was going to the apartment, of course. I went into a grimy little café where I was served a
cortado
in a cup that still had lipstick on it. I didn't drink it, but I didn't complain to the waiter either. I was agitated, nervous and uneasy, but, most of all, annoyed with myself. Avellaneda laughing with Robledo. What was wrong with that? Avellaneda in a simple human relationship, not merely professional, with a man other than myself. Avellaneda walking along the street with a young man, someone from her generation, and not an old weakling like me. Avellaneda far away from me, Avellaneda living on her own. Of course, there was nothing wrong with any of that. But perhaps this horrible sensation stems from the fact that this is the first time I consciously foresee the possibility that Avellaneda could live, develop and laugh without my help (not to mention my love) being necessary. I knew that the conversation between her and Robledo had been innocent. Or maybe
not. Because Robledo has no way of knowing she's not available. How idiotic, how pretentious, how conventional I feel when I write: ‘She's not available.' Available for what? Perhaps the essence of my uneasiness is having verified the following, and nothing else: that she could feel very comfortable with young people, especially with a young man. And another thing: what I saw is nothing, but, on the other hand, what I glimpsed was quite a bit, and what I glimpsed was the risk of losing everything. Robledo doesn't interest her. Deep down, he's a frivolous man who would never interest her. Unless I don't know her at all. Well, do I know her? Robledo doesn't interest her. But what about the others, all the others in the world? If a young man makes her laugh, how many others could win her love? If one day she loses me (her only enemy could be death, the malicious death which has all our numbers), she will have her whole life, time on her hands, she would have her heart, which will always be new, generous and splendid. But if one day I lose her (my only enemy is the Man, the Man who is young and strong and holds promise), I will also be losing the last opportunity to live, the last respite of time; because if my heart now feels generous, happy and renewed, without her it would return to being an unquestionably old heart.

I paid for the
cortado
that I didn't drink and headed for the apartment. I was carrying a shameful fear of her silence, especially because I knew beforehand that even if she didn't say anything, I wasn't going to pry, ask or reproach. I was just simply going to swallow my bitterness, and, that was certain, begin a period of small storms without relief. I have a particular distrust for my grey periods. I think my hand was shaking when I turned the key in the lock. ‘Why are you home so late?' she shouted from the kitchen. ‘I was waiting for you to tell you about Robledo's latest crazy act, what a character! It's been years since I've laughed so much.' And she appeared in the living room with
her apron, her green skirt, her black jersey, her eyes clear, warm and sincere. She could never know how she was saving me with those words. I pulled her to me, and, as I hugged her, as I breathed in the tenderly natural scent of her shoulders through that other, universal, scent of wool, I felt the world was beginning to turn again, that I could once again relegate that real threat that had been called Avellaneda and the Others to a distant, still nameless future. ‘Avellaneda and I,' I said slowly. She didn't understand the reason for those three words at that particular moment, but some obscure intuition made her realize that something important was happening. She moved away from me a little, but still without letting go, and said: ‘Let's see, say it again.' ‘Avellaneda and I,' I repeated, obediently. Now I'm alone, here at home, and it's almost two o'clock in the morning. Every now and then, for no other reason than it gives me strength, uplifts me and anchors me, I keep repeating: ‘Avellaneda and I.'

I rarely think about God. Nevertheless, I have a religious background, a yearning for religion. I would like to convince myself that I truly have a definition of God, a concept of God. But I don't have anything like that. I rarely think about God, simply because the concept exceeds me so amply and eminently that it provokes a kind of panic, a general dissipation of my clarity and rationality. ‘God is the Totality,' Avellaneda often says. ‘God is the Essence of Everything,' says Aníbal, ‘that which keeps everything in balance, in harmony; God is the Great Coherence.' I'm capable of understanding both definitions, but neither is
my definition
. It's likely that they're right, but that's not the God I need. I need a God I can talk to, a God I can turn to for refuge, a God
that will answer to me when I question Him, when I strafe Him with my misgivings. If God is the Totality, the Great Coherence, if God is only the energy that keeps the Universe alive, if He's something so immeasurably infinite, why would He care about me; an atom crudely perched on an insignificant louse of His Kingdom? I don't mind being an atom of the last louse of His Kingdom, but I do care that God be within my reach, I care about grabbing hold of Him, not with my hands, of course, not even with my reasoning. I care about holding Him with my heart.

She brought me pictures of her childhood, of her family, of her world. It's proof of love, isn't it? She was a skinny child, with somewhat frightened eyes, and long, dark hair. An only child. I too was an only child. And it's not easy. One ends up feeling helpless. There is a delightful photograph in which she appears with an enormous police dog, and the dog is looking at her with an air of protection. I guess that everyone always must have wanted to protect her at one time or another. She isn't so defenceless, however, she is quite sure of what she wants. And besides, I like that she's sure. She's sure that her job suffocates her, that she'll never commit suicide, that Marxism is a serious mistake, that she likes me, that death isn't the end of everything, that her parents are splendid, that God exists, and that the people she trusts will never let her down. I could never be that categorical. But the best thing is that she's not wrong. Her certainty even helps her to intimidate fate. There is a photograph of her and her parents when she was twelve years old. Based on that photograph, I also dare to form an impression of that singular, harmonious and different marriage. Her mother has soft
features, a delicate nose, black hair and very light skin, with two moles on her left cheek. Her eyes are serene, possibly too much so; perhaps they're of no use to completely commit to the spectacle they're witnessing, to what they see existing, but they seem capable of understanding everything. Her father is a tall man, with rather narrow shoulders, a baldness which has already begun to spread, very thin lips, and a very sharp but not aggressive chin. I worry quite a bit about people's eyes. His are a little unbalanced. But certainly not because they're alienated, but because they're strange. They are the eyes of a man who is surprised by the world, by the mere act of finding himself in it. They're both (you can see it in their faces) good people, but I like her kindness better than his. The father is an excellent man, but he isn't capable of communicating with the world, so that one can't possibly know what would happen on the day he finally manages to establish that communication. ‘They love each other, I'm sure about that,' says Avellaneda, ‘but I don't know if that's the kind of love that I like.' She shakes her head to accompany her doubt, and then is inspired to add: ‘In relation to feelings, there are a series of neighbouring, similar areas which are easy to confuse. Love, trust, pity, camaraderie, tenderness; I never know in which one of these areas my parents' relationship exists. It's something which is very hard to define and I don't think they themselves have defined it. On occasion, Mum and I have briefly discussed the topic. She believes there is too much serenity in her union with my father; too much balance for love to really exist. That serenity, that balance, which could also be called lack of passion, perhaps might have been unbearable if they had something to blame each other for. But there is nothing to blame each other for, nor any reasons for reproach. They know themselves to be good, honest, generous. They also know that all of that, magnificent as it is, still doesn't
signify love, nor does it signify that they burn in that fire. They don't burn, and that which unites them lasts even longer.' ‘And what about you and me? Are we burning?' I asked. But at that precise moment she was distracted, and the look in her eyes was also like that of someone surprised by the world, by the mere fact of finding herself in it.

I told Esteban. Blanca had left to have lunch with Diego, so he and I were alone at midday. It was a great relief to learn that he already knew. Jaime had told him. ‘Look, Dad, I can't completely understand it, nor do I think that getting involved with a woman who is much younger than you is the best answer. But one thing is true: I don't dare judge you. I know that when one sees matters objectively, when one is not involved in them, it's very easy to proclaim what's good and what's bad. But when one is up to one's neck in the problem (and I've been in that position many times), things change, the intensity is different, and deep convictions, inevitable sacrifices and renouncements appear, which can seem inexplicable to the mere observer. I hope you have a nice time, not superficially, but in a deeper sense. I hope you feel like the protector and the protected at the same time, which is one of the most pleasant feelings human beings can allow themselves to have. I remember very little about Mum. Actually, she's a true image on to which the images and memories of others have been superimposed. I no longer know which one of those memories is exclusively mine. Well, perhaps just one: her in the bathroom, combing her hair, her long, dark tresses falling down her back. You can see that there's not very much I remember about her. But over the years I've become accustomed to
thinking of her as something ideal, unreachable, almost ethereal. She was so pretty, wasn't she? I realize that maybe my portrayal of her has little to do with what she was truly like. Nevertheless, that's how she exists for me. That's why I was a bit shocked when Jaime told me that you were involved with a young woman. It shocked me, but I accept it, because I know you were very lonely. And I realize it even more now, because I've followed your progress and I've seen you become renewed. So I don't judge you, I can't judge you; and, furthermore, I would very much like it if you've made the right choice and get as close as possible to good luck.'

Cold and sunny. Winter sun, which is the most affectionate, the most benevolent. I went to Plaza Matriz, found a bench, spread a newspaper over the bird droppings, and sat down. In front of me a city worker was raking the lawn. He did it very slowly, as if it were a function that was above all impulses. How would I feel if I were a city worker raking the lawn? No, that's not my calling. If I could choose a profession other than the one I have, a routine other than the one that has worn me out for the last thirty years, then I would choose to be a waiter in a café. And I would be an active waiter with a great memory, an exemplary waiter. I would use mental tricks so that I wouldn't forget anyone's order. It must be wonderful to always work with new faces, to talk freely with a man who walks into the café today, asks for a cup of coffee, and never returns. People are terrific, entertaining and energetic. It must be great to work with people instead of numbers, books and payroll accounts. Even if I were to travel, even if I were to leave here and have the opportunity to marvel at landscapes, monuments, roads and works of art,
nothing would fascinate me as much as People, seeing People pass by and scrutinizing their faces, recognizing, here and there, signs of happiness and bitterness, seeing how they rush headlong towards their destinies, in insatiated turbulence, with splendid haste, and how they move along, unaware of their brevity, their insignificance, their life without reserves never feeling cornered, never admitting they are cornered. Until now I don't think I've ever been aware of the existence of Plaza Matriz. I must have crossed it a thousand times, and perhaps on many occasions I even cursed all the detours one has to make to circle the fountain. I've seen it before, of course I've seen it, but I had never stopped to observe it, to hear it, to draw out its character and examine it. I spent a good while contemplating the aggressively solid soul of the Cabildo, the hypocritically scrubbed face of the cathedral, and the discouraged swaying of the trees. I think that at that moment one of my convictions was definitely affirmed: I am from this place, this city. In this (and probably in nothing else) I think I'm a fatalist. Each one of us IS from only one place on earth and it's there that one should pay one's dues. I am from here. I pay my dues here. That man passing by (the one with the long overcoat, the protruding ear, the terrible limp), he is my fellow man. He still ignores that I exist, but one day he'll see me from the front, from the side or from the rear, and he'll have the feeling there's something secret between us, a hidden bond that unites us, that gives us the strength to understand each other. Or perhaps that day will never arrive, perhaps he'll never notice this plaza, this air that makes us fellow men, pairs us off, connects us. But it doesn't matter; at any rate, he's my fellow man.