The Truce (5 page)

A wild dream. I had just walked through Aliados Park dressed in my pyjamas, when all of a sudden I saw Avellaneda standing on the pavement of a luxurious two-storey house. I approached without hesitating. She was wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, resting directly on her flesh. She was sitting on a little kitchen bench next to a eucalyptus tree, peeling potatoes. I suddenly realized it was already night-time and
I moved towards her and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.' Apparently, my reasoning was decisive, because I immediately became dedicated to possessing her, without any intervening resistance on her part.

This morning, when Avellaneda appeared wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, I couldn't restrain myself and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.' She looked at me in genuine panic, exactly the same way one looks at a lunatic or a drunk. To make matters worse, I tried to explain that I was talking to myself. I didn't convince her, and when she left at noon, she was still watching me with a certain wariness. Just further proof that it's possible to be more convincing in dreams than in reality.

Almost every Sunday, I eat lunch and dinner alone and inevitably become melancholic. ‘What have I done with my life?' is a question that is reminiscent of Gardel, the Women's Supplement of
La Mañana
, or an article from
Reader's Digest
. But it doesn't matter. Today, Sunday, I feel as if I'm beyond ridicule and can ask myself these kinds of questions. In my particular case, there have been no irrational changes or unusual and sudden turns. Isabel's death was most extraordinary. Does the real key to what I consider to be my frustration lie in Isabel's death? I don't think so. Furthermore, the more I inquire, the more I'm convinced that her untimely death was a case of misfortune with, let's say, luck. (Good God, how mean and coarse this sounds. I'm horrifying myself). I mean to say that when Isabel died I was twenty-eight years old and she was twenty-five. We were, then, at the very peak of desire. I think she was the inspiration for my most impassioned physical desire. Perhaps that's
why, although I'm incapable of reconstructing (with my own images, not with photographs or memories of memories) Isabel's face, I can, instead, once again feel in my hands, every time I need to, the particular contour of her waist, her stomach, her calves, her breasts. Why do the palms of my hands have a more faithful memory than I do? One conclusion that I can draw from all of this is that if Isabel had lived long enough for her body to sag (that was one good thing about her: smooth and taut skin) and therefore weigh down my capacity to desire her, I can't guarantee what would have happened to our exemplary bond. Because everything that was harmonious between us depended ultimately on what took place in the bedroom, our bedroom. I don't mean to say that during the day we got along like cat and dog; on the contrary, in our daily life we were largely on amicable terms. But what could impede the outbursts, the overflows? Simply, the enjoyment of our evenings, its protective presence in the midst of the displeasures of the day. If at any time we were tempted by hatred and started to become angry, the lure of past and future evenings would flash before our eyes, and then, inevitably, a wave of tenderness enveloped us, placating every outburst of anger. I'm not unhappy about this. My marriage was a good thing, and a happy time in my life.

But what about the rest? There is the opinion that one can have about oneself, which, incredibly, has very little to do with vanity. I refer to the opinion that is completely sincere, the opinion that one wouldn't dare to confess even to the mirror in front of which one shaves. I remember a time (between the ages of sixteen and twenty) during which I had a good, and I'd almost say excellent, opinion of myself. I felt the urge to accomplish ‘something great', to be useful to many, to rectify things. It can't be said I had a cretinous, egocentric attitude. Even though I would have liked to have received the praise and acceptance of others, I think my prime objective wasn't to make use of others,
but to be useful to them. I know this isn't pure and Christian charity; but then again I don't care too much about the Christian sense of charity. I remember I didn't pretend to help the needy, or the disabled, or the wretched (I have less and less faith in chaotically distributed aid). My intention was more modest; it was, simply, to be of use to my peers, who were more understandably entitled to my help.

In truth, that excellent opinion of me has decayed quite a bit. Today I feel common, and in some respects defenceless. I could tolerate my lifestyle better if I weren't aware that I am (on an intellectual level at least) above that commonness. To know that I have, or had, within me, the tools sufficient to scale another possibility, to know that I'm superior somewhat, at my outdated job, my few hobbies, my rhythm of speech; knowing all of this, of course, doesn't give me peace of mind, but rather makes me feel more frustrated, more incapable of overcoming circumstances. Worst of all is that no terrible things occurred to besiege me (well, Isabel's death is hard, but I can't call it terrible; after all, is there anything more natural than leaving this world?), halt my best impulses, impede my development, or tie me to a lethargic routine. I have devised my own routine, but in the simplest way: accumulation. The security of knowing that I'm capable of something better has allowed me to procrastinate, which, when all is said and done, is a terrible and suicidal weapon. Hence, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, always represented a precarious route, to be followed only as long as my procrastination lasted, and only to endure the onus of the work day during that period of preparation I apparently considered indispensable before finally launching into my destiny. What nonsense, huh? Now it so happens I don't have significant vices (I hardly smoke, and drink a shot of rum from time to time, but only out of boredom), yet I think that I couldn't stop procrastinating: this is my
vice, which is, moreover, incurable. Because if at this moment I was to decide to reassure myself, in a kind of belated oath: ‘I'm going to be exactly what I wanted to be', everything would end up being pointless. First, because I feel I have limited strength, to gamble it on a change of life, and second, because, how valid is what I wanted to be back then to me now? It would almost be like consciously rushing into a premature senility. What I desire now is much more modest than what I desired thirty years ago and, above all, it matters much less if I get it. Retirement, for example. Naturally, it's an aspiration, but it's a downgraded aspiration. I know that it's going to happen, that it's going to happen on its own, and that it won't be necessary for me to do anything. It's easy this way; then it is worthwhile to surrender and make decisions.

Blockhead Vignale called me this morning. I asked someone to tell him I wasn't in the office, but when he called again in the afternoon I felt obliged to speak to him. Regarding this, I am categorical: if I have this relationship (I don't dare call it a friendship), perhaps it's because I deserve it.

He wants to come to see me at home. ‘It's a private matter, friend. I can't discuss it over the phone, nor can I invite you over to my house to discuss it, either,' said Vignale. We agreed to meet on Thursday night. He'll come after dinner.

There is something about Avellaneda that attracts me. That's obvious, but what is it?

It's half an hour before dinner. Vignale is coming over tonight, but only Blanca and I will be here. Jaime and Esteban disappeared as soon as they found out he was coming. I don't blame them, though; I would have escaped, too.

A change has come over Blanca. She has colour in her cheeks now. And it's not makeup because she retains this colour even after she washes her face. Sometimes she forgets that I'm in the house and starts to sing. She doesn't have much of a voice, but she uses it well. I like hearing her sing. I wonder what goes through my sons' heads. Are they realizing a moment of high aspirations?

Last night, Vignale arrived at eleven and left at two o'clock in the morning. His problem is very simple: his sister-in-law is in love with him. It is worth transcribing, albeit roughly, Vignale's version of the story: ‘Just look, they've been living with us for the past six years. Six years isn't four days. I'm not going to tell you that up till now I've never noticed Elvira. You already know she's very pretty. And if you were to see her in a bathing suit, you would be knocked speechless. But hey, looking is one thing, taking advantage is another. What do you expect? My wife is already middle-aged and, besides, doing the housework and taking care of the kids has exhausted her. You can imagine that after fifteen years of marriage, it's not a matter of looking at her and ipso facto becoming aroused with passion. Furthermore, sometimes her periods last two weeks, so it's very difficult for me to arrange my desires to coincide with her availability. The
truth is I'm hungry for sex quite often, so I feast my eyes on calves of Elvira who, to make matters worse, always wears shorts in the house. The thing is that Elvira has misinterpreted the way I look at her; well, actually, she hasn't, but there's no need to make such a fuss. The fact of the matter is that if I had known Elvira was interested in me earlier, I wouldn't have paid her any attention because the last thing I want is to create a scandal and disrupt my own home, which has always been sacred to me. First, there was the exchange of glances and me pretending not to notice. But the other day she was wearing those shorts when she simply crossed her legs and I had no other choice but to say to her: “Be careful.” She replied: “I don't want to be careful,” and that was the last straw. Then she asked me if I was blind, said that I well knew that I wasn't unresponsive towards her, etc., etc. Although I was sure it was a waste of time and effort, I reminded her about her husband, that is to say, my brother-in-law, and you know what she said? “Who? That moron?” And the worse thing is that she's right, Francisco is a moron. That's what mitigates my scruples a bit. What would you do in my place?'

In his place I wouldn't have any problems: first of all, I wouldn't have married that idiot woman, and second, I wouldn't be at all captivated by that other middle-aged woman's soft flesh. But I couldn't tell him anything beyond the commonplace: ‘Be careful because you won't be able to get rid of her. If you want to break up your family, then go ahead, but if your family means more to you than anything, then don't take the risk.'

He left feeling remorseful, preoccupied and undecided. I think, however, that there is a chance that Francisco's wife will cheat on him.

This morning I took the bus and got off at Agraciada and 19 de Abril. It's been years since I'd been around there and I pretended that I was visiting an unfamiliar city. Only now do I realize that I've become accustomed to living on streets without trees and how irremediably cold these streets can be.

One of the most pleasant things in life is seeing how the sun filters through the leaves.

It was a pleasant morning. But this afternoon I took a nap for four hours and woke up in a bad mood.

I still haven't figured out why I'm attracted to Avellaneda. I was observing her today. She moves well, arranges her hair nicely, and has a light, peach-like fuzz on her cheeks. I wonder what she does with her boyfriend? Or, better yet, what does her boyfriend do with her? Do they play the decent couple or do they become sexually aroused just like anyone else? A key question for me: envious?

Esteban says if I want to retire by the end of the year we have to begin the process right away. He says he's going to help me expedite the process, but, even so, it's going to take time. This might mean greasing someone's palm, and I wouldn't like that. I know that the person accepting the bribe would be more contemptible than me, but I wouldn't be innocent either. Esteban's
theory is that it's necessary to behave in the manner which the environment demands. That which is simply honourable in one environment could be simply idiotic in another. There is some truth to this, but I'm dismayed that he is right.

The auditor came today: amiable, moustached. No one would have thought he could be so annoying. He started by asking for some data from the last balance sheet and ended by requesting an itemized list which appears in the initial inventory. I spent the day, from morning until afternoon, carting old and shabby books. The auditor was a charming man; he smiled, begged your pardon and said: ‘Many thanks.' He was a real delight. Why doesn't he just die? In the beginning, I was seething with anger, mumbling and mentally cursing. Later, my anger turned into a different emotion. I started to feel old. It was I who had entered that data back in 1929; the entries and counter-entries that appeared in the rough draft of the daybook, and the transport figures written in pencil in the cash-book. Back then I was just an errand boy, but I was already being given important things to do, even though the moderate glory only went to the boss; in the same way I now attain my glory for the important things that Muñoz and Robledo do. I feel a little bit like the Herodotus of the company, its registrar and scribe, and the surviving witness to its history. Twenty-five years, five periods of five years, or a quarter of a century. But no, it's much more startling to say, plainly and simply, twenty-five years. And how my handwriting has changed over these twenty-five years! In 1929, I had uneven penmanship: the lower-case ‘t' did not slant in the same direction as the ‘d', ‘b', or ‘h', as if the same wind had not blown for all of them. In 1939, the lower half of the
letters ‘f', ‘g' and ‘j', looked like types of faint fringes, without character or willpower. In 1945, the era of capital letters began and so did my great pleasure in embellishing them with ample curves, spectacular and useless. My ‘M's' and ‘H's' were big spiders, with cobwebs and all. Now my handwriting has become synthetic, level, disciplined and pure. Which only proves that I'm a pretender, since I myself have become complicated, odd, chaotic and impure. When the auditor suddenly asked me for data corresponding to 1930, I recognized my penmanship; that penmanship from a special period. With the same handwriting that I had written: ‘Detailed account of salaries paid to personnel in the month of August, 1930', I had also written: ‘Dear Isabel', twice a week. Isabel lived in Melo at the time and I wrote to her every Tuesday and Friday without fail. That had been, well, my handwriting as a boyfriend. I smiled, carried along by my memories, and the auditor smiled with me. Afterwards, he asked me for another list of headings.