The Truce (12 page)

But she's amazing. All of a sudden she became silent, put
aside her militancy, looked at herself in the mirror, not in a flirtatious manner but as if making fun of herself, sat on the bed and called me: ‘Come, sit here. I'm an idiot who's wasting time with such a speech. Anyway, I know you're not like the others. I know you understand me, you know why this is a real matter of conscience for me.' I had to lie and said: ‘Of course, I know.' But at that point she was in my arms and there were other things to think about, old plans to carry out, new caresses to attend to. Matters of conscience also have their tender side.

It's hard to believe, but I hadn't seen Aníbal since he returned from Brazil, at the beginning of May. I was glad he called yesterday. I needed to talk to someone, confide in someone. Only then did I realize that up to now I had kept my entire relationship with Avellaneda to myself, that I hadn't told anyone. And it makes sense. Who could I have discussed it with? My children? I get goosebumps just thinking about it. Vignale? I think about his mischievous wink, his pat on my shoulder, his abetting laugh, and I immediately become unwaveringly reserved. My co-workers? It would be a horrible misstep and, at the same time, make it an absolute certainty that Avellaneda would have to quit her job. But even if she didn't work at the office, I don't think I would have the strength to talk about myself that way. There are no friendships in the workplace; there are fellows who see each other every day, complain together or apart, tell jokes and laugh, exchange gripes and convey their grudges, mumble about the Directorate in general, and flatter every director in private. This is called coexistence, but only through a mirage can coexistence manage to look like friendship. After so many years in an office, I confess that Avellaneda is the first true
object of my affection. The others have the disadvantage of the unchosen relationship, of the bond imposed by the circumstances. After all, what do I have in common with Muñoz, Méndez and Robledo? Still, we laugh together sometimes, have a drink occasionally, and are pleasant to each other. Deep down, though, they're strangers to each other, because in this type of superficial relationship one talks about many things but never about the essentials, the truly important and decisive things. I think that work itself is what impedes another kind of trust from evolving; work, that kind of constant hammering, morphine or toxic gas. On occasion, one of them (Muñoz particularly) has approached me to initiate an actual conversation. He begins to talk, candidly outlining his self-portrait, and synthesizing the parts of his drama, that moderate, stationary, baffling drama which poisons everyone's life, regardless of how average one feels. But there is always someone who beckons from the counter. For half an hour Muñoz has to explain the inconvenience caused and the levy imposed for late payment to a delinquent client; he argues, shouts a bit, and surely feels degraded. When he returns to my desk, he looks at me and doesn't say anything. He makes a strenuous effort to smile, but the corners of his mouth fold downwards. Then he takes an old payroll document in his hands, carefully crumples it, and throws it in the waste basket. It's a simple substitute; that which is no longer useful, what he throws in the waste basket, is trust. Yes, work muzzles trust. But there's also derision. We're all derision specialists. The availability of interest towards our neighbour has to be utilized in some way, otherwise it becomes cystic, and then claustrophobia and neurasthenia, who knows, inevitably ensue. Since we don't have enough courage or honesty to interest ourselves amicably in our neighbour (not the nebulous, biblical, faceless neighbour but the neighbour with a first and last name, the nearest neighbour, the one who writes at the
desk in front of mine and hands me the calculation of the profit gains so I can review and initial it), since we voluntarily renounce friendship, well then, let's derisively interest ourselves in that neighbour who is always vulnerable for eight hours. Furthermore, derision provides a kind of solidarity. Today this is the target, tomorrow that one, and the day after it will be me. The one who is mocked curses silently, but quickly becomes resigned, knows it's only part of the game, and that in the near future, perhaps in an hour or two, he can choose the form of revenge which best coincides with his vocation. The mockers, for their part, feel united, enthusiastic and effervescent. Every time one of them adds an incisive element to their derision, the others celebrate, nod at each other, and feel lustful with complicity; all that's left is to embrace each other and shout hurrah. And what relief it is to laugh, even when one has to hold back laughter because the manager has appeared in the back, showing his watermelon face, and what retaliation against the routine, the paperwork, that sentence which entails being ensnared in something unimportant for eight hours, something which inflates the bank accounts of those useless people who sin by the mere fact of being alive, of allowing themselves to live, of the inane who believe in God only because they don't know God stopped believing in them a long time ago. Derision and work. After all, how are they different? And how much work derision is, how tiring! And what a mockery this job is, what a bad joke.

I spoke to Aníbal for a long time. It's the first time I mentioned Avellaneda's name to someone, that is to say, the first time I mentioned her name together with the sincere feelings I have
for it. At some moment, while I was telling him, it looked as if he were observing the situation from the outside, like a profoundly interested spectator. Aníbal listened to me with religious attention. ‘And why don't you get married?' he asked. ‘I don't quite understand the meaning of your hesitation.' It was hard to believe but he didn't understand, it was so clear. I went back to the explanation, the stereotypical explanation I've been giving myself since the beginning: my age, her age, me in ten years, her in ten years, my desire not to hurt her, the other desire not to look ridiculous, the enjoyment of the present, my three children, etc., etc. ‘And you think this way you're not hurting her?' he asked. ‘Of course I am, that's inevitable, but, in any case, I'm hurting her less than I would be by shackling her,' I replied. ‘And what does she say? Does she agree?' he continued. That's called an awkward question. I don't know if she agrees. When she had the chance, she said yes, but the truth is I don't know whether she agrees or not. Could it be that she would prefer a stable situation, officially stable and sacred? Could I be telling myself I do it for her, but in reality be doing it for myself? ‘Are you afraid of looking ridiculous, or is it something else?' he asked. Apparently, the guy was determined to put his finger on the sore spot. ‘What do you mean by that?' I said. ‘You asked me to be candid, didn't you?' he replied. ‘I mean, the entire problem seems clear to me: you're afraid that in ten years she's going to be unfaithful to you.' How ugly it is to be told the truth, especially if it's one of those truths one has avoided telling oneself even during one's morning soliloquies, when one is just awakening and mumbling bitter and profoundly nasty nonsense, full of self-rancour, which must be dispelled before completely waking up and putting on the mask that, for the rest of the day, others will see, and that will see others. So, I'm afraid that in ten years she'll be unfaithful to me? I answered Aníbal with a curse word, which is the traditional manly reaction to being treated like a
cuckold, even if it is from a long distance and postdated. But the doubt continued to spin around in my head and at the moment of writing this I can't avoid feeling a little less generous, a little less poised, and a little more vulgar and surly.

It rained buckets during the afternoon. For twenty minutes we waited on a corner for the rain to subside and looked discouragingly at the people running by. But we were inevitably getting cold and I started to sneeze with menacing regularity. Finding a taxi was virtually impossible. Since we were only two blocks from the apartment we decided to walk. Actually, we, too, ran like crazy and reached the apartment in three soaked minutes. For a while I remained very fatigued and lay useless on the bed. Before that, however, I had the strength to find a blanket and wrap it around her. She had taken off her dripping jacket and her skirt, which was in a pitiful condition. Little by little, I regained my composure and half an hour later began to feel warm. I went to the kitchen, lit the kerosene stove, and started to boil water. She called me from the bedroom. She had got out of bed, just like that, wrapped in the blanket, and was standing near the window watching the rain. I approached, also looking at the rain, and we didn't say anything for a while. All of a sudden, I realized that that moment, that slice of everyday life, was the highest degree of well-being, it was Happiness. Never before had I been so completely happy than at that moment, but still I had the cutting sensation I would never feel that way again, at least at that level, with that intensity. The pinnacle of happiness is like that, surely it's like that. Furthermore, I'm sure the pinnacle is only a second long, a brief second, a flashing instant, and there's no right to an extension. Down below, a dog
wearing a muzzle was slowly trotting along, hopelessly resigned. All of a sudden, the dog stopped, and, obeying an odd impulse, raised one of its legs and then very peacefully continued his trot. Actually, it looked like the dog had stopped to make sure it was still raining. We looked at each other simultaneously and started to laugh. I assumed the spell had been broken, that the arrival at the famous pinnacle had passed. But she was still with me; I could hear her, feel her, kiss her. I could simply say: ‘Avellaneda'. ‘Avellaneda' is, furthermore, a world of words. I'm learning how to inject it with hundreds of meanings and she's learning to remember them. It's a game. In the morning, I say: ‘Avellaneda', and it means: ‘Good morning'. (There is an ‘Avellaneda' that is a reproach, another that is a warning, and yet another that is an apology.) But she purposely misunderstands me to make me fume. When I say the ‘Avellaneda' which means: ‘Let's make love', she, very cheerfully, replies: ‘You think I should leave now? But it's so early!' Oh, the old days when Avellaneda was just a surname, the surname of the new assistant (just five months ago I wrote: ‘The girl doesn't seem too interested in work, but at least she understands what is explained to her'), the label with which to identify that small person with the wide forehead and the large mouth who looked at me with enormous respect. And there she was now, in front of me, wrapped in her blanket. I don't remember what she was like when she seemed insignificant to me, inhibited, nothing more than pleasant. I only remember what she's like now: a delicious young woman who captivates me, makes my heart absurdly excited, and conquers me. I blinked intentionally, so that nothing would impede us afterwards. Then she was wrapped in my gaze, which was much better than her blanket; actually, it wasn't independent of my voice, which had already started to say: ‘Avellaneda'. And this time she understood me perfectly.

A splendidly sunny day, almost autumnal. We went to Carrasco. The beach was deserted, perhaps because it's the middle of July, and people don't have the courage to believe in good weather. We sat on the sand. When the beach is empty like this the waves become imposing; only they rule the landscape. In that way I admit I'm regrettably docile, malleable. I see that relentless and desolate sea, so proud of its foam and power, barely blemished by almost unreal ingenuous seagulls, and I immediately take refuge in irresponsible admiration. But afterwards, almost right away, the admiration disintegrates, and I start to feel as defenceless as a clam, or a pebble. That sea is a kind of eternity. When I was a child, that sea surged and surged, but it also surged when my grandfather was a child, and when my grandfather's grandfather was a child. A mobile but lifeless presence. A presence of dark, unfeeling waves. A witness of history, useless because it doesn't know anything about history. And what if God was the sea? Also an unfeeling witness? A mobile, but lifeless presence? Avellaneda was also looking at the sea, with the wind in her hair, and almost without blinking. ‘And you, do you believe in God?' she asked, continuing the dialogue which I, in my thoughts, had initiated. ‘I don't know, I would like God to exist, but I'm not sure,' I replied. ‘I'm also not sure that God, if He exists, is going to be satisfied with our gullibility, which is based on a few pieces of scattered and incomplete data.' ‘But it's so obvious,' she replied. ‘You make it complicated for yourself because you want God to have a face, hands and a heart. God is a common denominator, but we could also call Him the Totality. God is this rock, my shoe, that seagull, your trousers, that cloud, everything.' ‘And you're drawn to that? That satisfies you?' I asked. ‘At least it inspires respect,' she replied. ‘I'm
not inspired,' I replied. ‘I can't imagine God being a big corporation.'

Esteban is up already. His illness has profited us both. We've had two or three truly healthy and candid conversations, and, on occasion, have even discussed generalities, but in a natural way, without letting our mutual irritation dictate the responses.

So, I'm afraid that in ten years she'll be unfaithful to me?

Vignale. I bumped into him along Sarandí. I didn't have any choice but to stop and listen to him. He didn't sound happy. I was in a hurry, so we drank a cup of coffee at the counter. There, in a loud voice, in that thundering style of confidence he cultivates, he related the latest chapter of his romance: ‘What terrible luck. My wife caught us, understand? She caught us in the act. We were just kissing. But you can imagine the commotion she caused. For such a thing to occur in her own house, under her own roof, while we were eating her own bread. I, her own husband, felt like a cockroach. Elvira, on the other hand, took it quite calmly and stated the theory of the century: that she and I had always been like brother and sister and what my wife had seen was just that, a brotherly kiss. I felt very incestuous and my wife caused a huge scene. You're being naïve, she
said, if you think I'm going to remain passive like that idiot Francisco. She spoke to my mother-in-law, the neighbours, the grocer. Two hours later the entire neighbourhood knew that Elvira, that slut, had tried to steal her husband. For her part, Elvira had a strong words with Francisco, and told him that she was being insulted, and that she wouldn't stay in that house for one more minute. But she stayed for about three hours, during which time she did something very nasty to me; and I mean really very nasty. Just think, Francisco believed everything she said, he wasn't dangerous at all. But Fatso was going on and on, screaming, and two or three times tried to attack Elvira. And then Elvira, in one of those moments of terror, said … Well, I bet you don't know what she told her. She said, who would ever think that she'd notice rubbish like me. Understand? And worst of all is that, by saying this, she convinced Fatso and she calmed down. Do you understand? I swear I'm not going to forgive Elvira for this. Her and her little cuckold of a husband should just leave. She's not as good-looking as I thought anyway. Besides, now that I'm no longer a faithful husband, I've arrived at the conclusion that I can have affairs with much younger, fresher women, who, above all, have no connection to my family, which for me was always sacred. That way, poor fatty doesn't have to worry.'