The Truce (20 page)

I won't go to number 368 any more. Actually, I can't go any more.

It's been a while since I've seen Aníbal. I haven't heard from Jaime. Esteban limits himself to talking to me about general topics. Vignale calls me at the office and I have them say I'm not there. I want to be alone. Or, at most, talk to my daughter. And talk about Avellaneda, of course.

Today, for the first time in four months, I was in the apartment. I opened the wardrobe. I could smell her perfume. What does that matter? What matters is her absence. Sometimes, I can't discern the nuances which separate inertia from desperation.

It's obvious that God granted me a dark destiny. Not even cruel. Simply dark. It's obvious that He granted me a truce. In the beginning, I was unwilling to believe that this could be happiness. I resisted with all my might, but I eventually gave in, and I believed. But it wasn't happiness, it was only a truce. Now I'm inside my destiny again. And it's much darker than before, much darker.

From 1 March, I will no longer write in this diary. The world is no longer interesting. But it won't be me who will record that fact. There's only one subject I could write about. But I don't want to.

How I need her. God had been my most significant deficiency. But I need her more than God.

The office wanted to throw a farewell party for me, but I said no. So as not to be rude, I concocted a very credible excuse based on family problems. The truth is I can't imagine myself as the inspired reason for a happy and noisy dinner party, with mounds of bread and spilled wine.

My last day of work. But I didn't do anything, of course. I spent the day shaking hands, and receiving embraces. I think the manager was bursting with satisfaction and Muñoz was really touched. My desk remained there. I never thought it would matter so little to me to have to give up my routine. The drawers were now empty. In one of them I found an identification card belonging to Avellaneda. She had left it so we could record the number on her personnel file. I put it in my pocket and here it is. The photograph must be five years old, but she was prettier four months ago. Another matter has become clear, and that is that her mother was wrong: I don't feel happy about feeling miserable. I simply feel miserable. No more office. Starting tomorrow and to the day I die, time will be at my disposal. After so much waiting, this is leisure. What will I do with it?

Montevideo, January to May 1959

With love and gratitude to

Pablo Andres Pérez, who first introduced me to Mario Benedetti's work

Barbara Tanzman, a wonderful woman

Cronopios de primera clase
, Gregory Rabassa and Clementine Rabassa, my mentors and surrogate
padrinos

Jeff Rothstein, my everlasting and spareless best friend Catherine Rendón, generous and illuminating and

Donald Breckenridge of
The Brooklyn Rail,
where this novel appeared in a different form

this translation is dedicated

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First published as
La Tregua
in 1960

This translation first published in Penguin Classics 2015

Text copyright © Mario Benedetti 1960
Translation copyright © Harry Morales 2015

Cover image © Getty Images

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

ISBN: 978-0-141-39686-6