The Truce (6 page)

Could I be dried up? Emotionally, I mean.

Some new confessions from Santini. Once again they were about his little seventeen-year-old sister. He says that when his parents are out, she comes into his room and dances almost naked in front of him. ‘She has one of those two-piece bathing suits, you know? Well, when she comes into my room to dance, she removes the top piece,' Santini said. ‘And what do you do?' I asked. ‘I … get nervous,' Santini replied. I told him that if the
only thing he did was get nervous, then there was no danger. ‘But, sir, that's immoral,' Santini said, rotating his wrist with the little chain and medal. ‘And her, what reason does she give for dancing in front of you almost naked?' I asked. ‘Just imagine, sir, she says that I don't like women and that she's going to cure me of that,' Santini replied. ‘And is that true?' I asked. ‘Well, even if it was true … she has no reason to do what she does … for her own sake … it seems to me,' Santini replied. Then I resigned myself to asking him the question he had been seeking of me for a long time: ‘And what about men, do you like them?' He rotated his wrist with the little chain and medal again and said: ‘But that's immoral, sir,' gave me a wink that was midway between mischievous and lewd, and, before I could add anything, asked: ‘Or don't you think so?' I angrily brushed him aside, and gave him one of those really tedious projects to work on. Now he has enough work to last him at least ten days without raising his head. That's all I needed: a queer in the section. It looks like he is the kind who ‘has scruples'. What a gem. Nevertheless, one thing is true: there's more to his sister than meets the eye.

Today, like every 24 April, we had dinner together. There is a good reason: Esteban's birthday. I think we all feel a bit forced to show our happiness. Esteban didn't even seem excited; he told a few jokes, and stoically endured our embraces.

The meal Blanca prepared was the high point of the evening. This naturally predisposes one to being in a good mood. It isn't completely absurd that Chicken à la Portugaise would make me feel more optimistic than a potato omelette. Hasn't it occurred to any sociologist to conduct a thorough analysis of the
influence of digestion on Uruguayan culture, economy and politics? My God, how we eat! In happiness, pain, fear and discouragement. Our sensibility is primordially digestive. Our innate democratic calling is based on an old assumption: ‘We all need to eat.' Our believers care only partly that God will forgive their doubts, but in turn get down on their knees with tears in their eyes, and pray they will not go without their daily bread. And that Daily Bread isn't – I'm sure – a mere symbol: it's a 2 lb German loaf.

Well, we ate well, drank a good claret and celebrated with Esteban. After dinner, while we were slowly stirring our coffee, Blanca made a sudden announcement: she has a boyfriend. Jaime gave her a strange, undefined look (What is Jaime? Who is Jaime? What does Jaime want?). Esteban cheerfully asked the name of the ‘unfortunate guy'. I think I felt happy for her and made it obvious. ‘And when are we going to meet this lovely man?' I asked. ‘Look, Dad, Diego isn't going to make the customary Monday, Wednesday and Friday visits. We meet anywhere; in town, at his house or here.' When she said ‘at his house' we must have all frowned, because she quickly added: ‘He lives with his mother in an apartment. Don't be afraid.' And does his mother ever go out?' Esteban asked, by now a bit disagreeable. ‘Don't be annoying,' said Blanca and she quickly threw a question at me: ‘Dad, I want to know if you trust me. Yours is the only opinion I care about. Do you trust me?' When I'm asked in this way, point-blank, there is only one answer I can give. And my daughter knows it. ‘Of course, I trust you,' I replied. Esteban limited himself to putting his scepticism on the record by clearing his throat loudly. Jaime remained silent.

The manager convened another meeting of section directors. Suárez didn't attend; fortunately he has a cold. Martínez took advantage of the occasion to tell a few truths. And a good thing, too. I admire his energy. Deep down, I couldn't care less about the office, the job titles, the hierarchies and other such presumptuousness. I've never felt attracted to hierarchies. My secret motto: ‘The fewer hierarchies, the less responsibility'. The truth is, one lives more comfortably without heavy burdens. As for Martínez, what he does is good. Of all the section directors, the only ones who could aspire to become Assistant Manager (a position to be filled at the end of the year) would be, in order of seniority: me, Martínez and Suárez. Martínez isn't afraid of me because he knows I'm retiring. On the other hand, he's afraid (and with reason) of Suárez, because since he began sleeping with Miss Valverde, he's advanced remarkably: from Assistant Cashier to First Officer in the middle of last year, and from First Officer to Director of Shipping about four months ago. Martínez knows perfectly well that the only way to defend himself from Suárez is to discredit him completely. Martínez really doesn't have to use his imagination too much to realize this, since Suárez is, when it comes to job performance, hopeless. He knows himself to be immune, and hated, but scruples have never been his forte.

You should have seen the manager's face when Martínez unleashed his concealed and embarrassing anger. Martínez asked him directly if ‘Mr Manager knew if any other member of the Board had a daughter available who would like to sleep with section directors', adding that he was ‘at your service'. The manager asked him what he meant by that remark, if he wanted
to be suspended. ‘Certainly not,' Martínez replied. ‘What I'm interested in is a promotion. I understand that sleeping with a board member's daughter is the procedure.' The manager was pathetic. He knows that Martínez is right, however, he knows he can't do anything about it. For now, at least, Suárez is untouchable.

Aníbal arrived. I went to pick him up at the airport. He's much skinnier, older and more worn out. Anyway, it was a joy to see him again. We spoke very little because his three sisters were there and I have never got along with those parrots. We agreed to meet one of these days; he'll call me at the office.

The section was deserted today. Three people were out. Furthermore, Muñoz was running an errand and Robledo had to review the files in the Sales section. Luckily, there isn't too much work at this time of the month. The chaos always begins after the first of the month, so I took advantage of the solitude and lack of work to chat with Avellaneda for a while. Over the last few days, I've noticed she's been very quiet, almost sad. Although, it is true, her unhappiness becomes her. It makes her face thin, her eyes melancholy, and she looks even younger. I like Avellaneda; I think I've already written this down at one time or another. I asked her what was wrong. She approached my desk, smiled (how well she smiles), but didn't say anything. ‘Over the last few days I've noticed that you've been very quiet, almost sad,' I said, and so that my remark would carry the same
weight as my thought, I added: ‘But sadness becomes you.' She didn't take it as a compliment, but her eyes brightened nevertheless, and she said: ‘You're very nice, Mr Santomé.' My God, why the ‘Mr Santomé'? The first part sounded so nice … The ‘Mr Santomé' bit reminded me of being almost fifty, inexorably took me down a peg, and left me with just enough strength to ask in a false, paternal tone: ‘And your boyfriend?' Poor Avellaneda's eyes filled with tears, she shook her head in what appeared to be an affirmation, mumbled ‘sorry', and then ran to the toilet. For a while I remain seated in front of my documents not knowing what to do; I think I was moved. I felt agitated, as I haven't felt in a long time. And it wasn't the instant nervousness of someone who sees a woman crying, or about to cry. I was agitated about myself, and only about myself. Witnessing my own emotional upheaval was what made me agitated. All of a sudden it became clear in my head: I'm not dried up! When Avellaneda returned, having finished crying already and looking a little embarrassed, I was still egotistically enjoying my new discovery. I'm not dried up, I'm not dried up. Then I looked at her with gratitude, and, because Muñoz and Robledo were returning at that moment, we both went back to work, as if complying with a secret accord.

Let's see, what's wrong with me? All day long just one sentence was passing through my head, like a recurring slogan: ‘So, she had a fight with her boyfriend.' And then, immediately, my breathing pattern would fluctuate excitedly. On the same day I discover that I'm not dried up, I feel, in turn, restlessly selfish. Well, I think that in spite of everything, this is a step forward.

The dullest International Workers' Day in world history. To make matters worse, it was a grey, rainy and prematurely wintry day. There were no people, buses or anything in the streets. Just me in my room, in my single bed, in this dark, heavy silence of seven-thirty. I wish it were nine o'clock in the morning and I were at my desk, looking to my left every now and then to find that sad, concentrating, defenceless little figure.

I don't want to talk to Avellaneda. First, because I don't want to scare her; and second, because I really don't know what to say to her. Before I do so, I have to know exactly what's happening to me. It can't be that, at my age, this young woman, who isn't very pretty, could suddenly appear and become the focus of my attention. I feel like a nervous teenager, this much is true, but when I look at my flabby skin, the wrinkles under my eyes, the varicose veins on my ankles, when I cough like an old man in the morning – which is absolutely necessary in order for my bronchial tubes to begin their work day – then I no longer feel like a nervous teenager, but simply ridiculous.

The entire machinery of my emotions came to a halt twenty years ago when Isabel died. First there was pain, then indifference, then, much later, freedom, and then, finally, tedium. Long, lonely, constant tedium. Oh, I remained sexually active during all these stages, but pick-ups were my technique. Today, an amorous passenger on the bus, tomorrow the accountant who audited us, and the next day, the cashier for Edgardo Lamas, S. A. Never twice with the same woman – a kind of
unconscious resistance to committing myself, to pigeonholing the future in a normal and permanent relationship. But what is the point of all this? What was I protecting? Isabel's image? I don't think so. I haven't felt like the victim of that tragic compromise, which I, on the other hand, have never agreed to. My freedom? Could be. My freedom is another name for my inertia. Sleep with one today, another tomorrow; well, this is merely a figure of speech, once a week is enough. Only what nature asks of us and nothing more; just like eating, washing and defecating. It was different with Isabel because there was a kind of communion between us and, when we made love, it was as if each of my hardened bones corresponded to a soft hollow in her, and every one of my impulses mathematically found its own receptive echo. We were made for each other. It's like when you become accustomed to dancing with the same partner. In the beginning, there is a response to every move, and then, later, the response corresponds to every thought. Only one of them thinks, but it's both bodies which cut a figure.

Aníbal called. We're going to meet tomorrow.

Avellaneda didn't come to work today. Jaime asked me for money. He had never asked for money before so I asked him what he needed it for. ‘I can't, nor want, to tell you. Lend me the money if you want, otherwise keep it. It's all the same to me,' Jaime said. ‘All the same?' I said. ‘Yes, it's all the same,' Jaime said. ‘Because if I have to pay the intrusive price of opening up my personal life, my heart, and spilling my guts, etc., I'd rather find the money elsewhere, where I will only be charged interest.' I gave him the money, of course. But, why so violent? A mere question isn't an intrusive price. Worst of all, what angers
me the most, is that I usually ask such questions completely absentmindedly, because the last thing I want to do is meddle in the private lives of others, let alone in the lives of my children. But Jaime, as much as Esteban, is always in a state of near-conflict where I'm concerned. They're not children any more; so let them fend for themselves any way they can.

Aníbal has changed. I always had the secret impression he was going to stay young until eternity. But it looks like eternity has arrived because he doesn't look young any more. He's run-down physically (he's skinny, his bones are more noticeable, his clothes are big on him, his moustache is somewhat ragged), but it's not only that. From the tone of his voice, which sounds much gloomier than I remember, to the movement of his hands, which have lost their liveliness; from the look on his face, which at first seemed sluggish but then realized was merely disenchantment, to his topics of conversation, which used to be scintillating and are now incredibly dull – everything combines to form a single conclusion: Aníbal has lost his joy of living.

He hardly talked about himself, that is to say, he only talked about himself superficially. Apparently, he raised some money and wants to start his own business, but is still undecided about what kind. And yes, he continues to be interested in politics.

It's not my forte. I became aware of this when he began to ask questions which were increasingly incisive, as if he were looking for explanations for things he can't quite understand. I realized I didn't have an actual opinion about those minor topics which one sometimes includes in office or coffee-shop chatter, or about which one vaguely thinks in passing while reading the newspaper during breakfast. Aníbal forced me to form an
opinion and I think I started asserting myself as I responded. He asked me if I thought everything was better or worse than it was five years ago, when he left. ‘Worse,' replied every cell in my body unanimously. But later I had to explain. Ugh, what a task.