The Truce

  Mario Benedetti

  * * *

  THE TRUCE

  The Diary of Martín Santomé

  Translated by Harry Morales

  Contents

  Monday 11 February

  Friday 15 February

  Monday 18 February

  Tuesday 19 February

  Thursday 21 February

  Friday 22 February

  Saturday 23 February

  Sunday 24 February

  Monday 25 February

  Wednesday 27 February

  Thursday 28 February

  Friday 1 March

  Saturday 2 March

  Tuesday 12 March

  Wednesday 13 March

  Friday 15 March

  Saturday 16 March

  Sunday 17 March

  Monday 18 March

  Tuesday 19 March

  Thursday 21 March

  Friday 22 March

  Sunday 24 March

  Monday 25 March

  Wednesday 27 March

  Thursday 28 March

  Friday 29 March

  Saturday 30 March

  Sunday 31 March

  Monday 1 April

  Tuesday 2 April

  Thursday 4 April

  Friday 5 April

  Saturday 6 April

  Sunday 7 April

  Tuesday 9 April

  Wednesday 10 April

  Thursday 11 April

  Friday 12 April

  Sunday 14 April

  Tuesday 16 April

  Wednesday 17 April

  Thursday 18 April

  Saturday 20 April

  Monday 22 April

  Wednesday 24 April

  Friday 26 April

  Sunday 28 April

  Monday 29 April

  Tuesday 30 April

  Wednesday 1 May

  Thursday 2 May

  Saturday 4 May

  Sunday 5 May

  Tuesday 7 May

  Wednesday 8 May

  Thursday 9 May

  Friday 10 May

  Saturday 11 May

  Sunday 12 May

  Monday 13 May

  Wednesday 15 May

  Thursday 16 May

  Friday 17 May

  Saturday 18 May

  Sunday 19 May

  Monday 20 May

  Tuesday 21 May

  Friday 24 May

  Sunday 26 May

  Tuesday 28 May

  Thursday 30 May

  Friday 31 May

  Sunday 2 June

  Tuesday 4 June

  Friday 7 June

  Sunday 9 June

  Monday 10 June

  Tuesday 11 June

  Friday 14 June

  Saturday 15 June

  Sunday 16 June

  Thursday 20 June

  Friday 21 June

  Saturday 22 June

  Sunday 23 June

  Monday 24 June

  Tuesday 25 June

  Wednesday 26 June

  Thursday 27 June

  Friday 28 June

  Saturday 29 June

  Sunday 30 June

  Wednesday 3 July

  Thursday 4 July

  Saturday 6 July

  Sunday 7 July

  Monday 8 July

  Tuesday 9 July

  Wednesday 10 July

  Saturday 13 July

  Monday 15 July

  Wednesday 17 July

  Thursday 18 July

  Friday 19 July

  Saturday 20 July

  Sunday 21 July

  Monday 22 July

  Tuesday 23 July

  Friday 26 July

  Saturday 27 July

  Tuesday 30 July

  Thursday 1 August

  Saturday 3 August

  Sunday 4 August

  Wednesday 7 August

  Thursday 8 August

  Monday 12 August

  Thursday 15 August

  Friday 16 August

  Saturday 17 August

  Sunday 18 August

  Monday 19 August

  Tuesday 20 August

  Wednesday 21 August

  Thursday 22 August

  Friday 23 August

  Saturday 24 August

  Sunday 25 August

  Monday 26 August

  Tuesday 27 August

  Wednesday 28 August

  Thursday 29 August

  Friday 30 August

  Saturday 31 August

  Sunday 1 September

  Monday 2 September

  Tuesday 3 September

  Wednesday 4 September

  Thursday 5 September

  Friday 6 September

  Saturday 7 September

  Sunday 8 September

  Monday 9 September

  Tuesday 10 September

  Wednesday 11 September

  Thursday 12 September

  Friday 13 September

  Saturday 14 September

  Sunday 15 September

  Monday 16 September

  Tuesday 17 September

  Wednesday 18 September

  Thursday 19 September

  Friday 20 September

  Saturday 21 September

  Sunday 22 September

  Monday 23 September

  Friday 17 January

  Wednesday 22 January

  Friday 24 January

  Sunday 26 January

  Tuesday 28 January

  Friday 31 January

  Monday 3 February

  Thursday 6 February

  Thursday 13 February

  Friday 14 February

  Saturday 15 February

  Sunday 16 February

  Tuesday 18 February

  Thursday 20 February

  Sunday 23 February

  Monday 24 February

  Tuesday 25 February

  Wednesday 26 February

  Thursday 27 February

  Friday 28 February

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS

  THE TRUCE

  Mario Benedetti (1920–2009) was a Uruguayan novelist, poet and journalist and is considered to be one of the most important Latin American writers of the twentieth century. He was the author of more than ninety books and his work has been translated into twenty-six languages, including Braille. After becoming active in left-wing circles he was exiled from Uruguay following the military coup d’état of 1973, only returning following the restoration of democracy in 1985. He eventually settled in Montevideo, continuing to write until his death in 2009.

  Harry Morales is a Spanish literary translator whose translations include the work of the late Mario Benedetti, Rodrigo Rey Rosa, Eugenio María de Hostos, Emir Rodríguez Monegal, Juan Rulfo, Alberto Ruy-Sánchez, Ilan Stavans and Francisco Proaño Arandi, among many other distinguished Latin American writers. His work has been widely published in numerous anthologies and has appeared in various journals. He has translated two verse collections by Mario Benedetti, Sólo Mientras Tanto: Poemas: 1948–1950 (Only in the Meantime: Poems: 1948–1950) and Poemas de la Oficina: 1953–1956 (Office Poems: 1953–1956), and a volume of stories, El Resto Es Selva y Otros Cuentos (The Rest is Jungle and Other Stories).

  Mi mano derecha es una golondrina

  Mi mano izquierda es un ciprés

  Mi cabeza por delante es un señor vivo

  Y por detrás es un señor muerto.

  – Vicente Huidobro

  Monday 11 February

  In only six months and twenty-eight days I’ll be in a position to retire. I’ve been doing this daily calculation of the time remaining for at least the past five years. Do I really need leisure so much? I tell myself no, that it’s not leisure that I need, but the right to
work at what I love. For example? The garden, perhaps. It’s good as a relaxing activity on Sundays, for counteracting a sedentary life, and also as a secret defence against my future and guaranteed arthritis. But I fear I couldn’t bear it every day. The guitar, perhaps. I think I would like it. But it must be lonely to start studying music at forty-nine. Writing? Perhaps I wouldn’t be too bad at it, at least people usually enjoy my letters. And so what? I can imagine a short bibliographical note about ‘the considerable merits of this author who is nearing fifty’ and the mere possibility of it repulses me. That I should still feel naïve and immature (with only the defects of youth and almost none of its virtues, that is) doesn’t mean that I have the right to display that naivety and immaturity. I once had a spinster cousin who, when she made a dessert, would show it to everyone with a sad and childish smile. She had worn that smile since the time when she had striven to impress her motorcyclist-boyfriend, who later killed himself on one of our many very dangerous ‘Death Curves’. She dressed appropriately, suitable to her fifty-three years; in that and everything else she was discreet, and poised, but that smile lay claim, on the other hand, to a twenty-year-old’s lips, magnificent skin and shapely legs. It was merely a pathetic gesture, a gesture that could never appear ridiculous, because in that face there was also kindness. So many words just to say I don’t want to seem pathetic.

  Friday 15 February

  In order to do passable work in the office, I have to force myself not to think that my retirement is relatively near. Otherwise, my fingers twitch and the round letters that should be used for the main headings turn out broken and inelegant. Round letters are one of my best distinctions as a public servant. I should confess, furthermore, that I am moved by the design of certain letters like the capital letter ‘M’ or the lower-case ‘b’, in which I have allowed myself several innovations. What I hate the least is the routine, mechanical part of my job: going back to review an entry that I’ve written thousands of times, arriving at a sales balance, and finding that everything is in order and that there are no discrepancies to look for. That kind of work doesn’t tire me because it allows me to think about other things and also even (why not admit it to myself?) to dream. It’s as if I were divided into two different entities; contradictory, independent: one who knows his work by heart, expertly handles its variations and surprises, and is always sure of what he is doing, and another: a feverish dreamer, frustratingly passionate, a sad man, who nevertheless had, has and will have a happy calling; an absent-minded man who doesn’t care about where his pen writes or what is written by that blue ink which will end up black in eight months.

  In my job, the routine isn’t what is unbearable; it’s the new problem, the unexpected request of that ghostly Board of Directors who hide behind records, provisions and Christmas bonuses; the urgency with which one requests a report, an analytical statement, or a financial forecast. Then yes, because it’s about more than routine, my two halves should work for the same thing. I can no longer think about what I want, and fatigue settles on to my back and neck, like porous plaster. What do I care about the probable gains of the Pernos de Pistón account in the second half of the fiscal year before last? What do I care about the most practical way of lowering overhead expenses?

  Today was a happy day; just routine.

  Monday 18 February

  None of my children is like me. In the first place, they all have more energy than I do, always appear to be more decisive, and they are not accustomed to having doubts. Esteban is the most aloof. I still don’t know whom his resentment is directed at, but he truly appears resentful. I think he respects me, but you never know. Jaime is probably my favourite, although I can almost never understand him. I think he’s sensible and intelligent, but I don’t think he is fundamentally honest. It’s apparent that there is a barrier between us. Sometimes I think he hates me and at other times I think he admires me. At least Blanca and I have something in common: she, too, is a sad person with a calling for happiness. But in regards to everything else, she is much too suspicious about her proper, inexchangeable life to share her most difficult problems with me. She’s the one who spends the most time at home and perhaps she feels enslaved by our untidiness, our diet, our dirty laundry. Her relationship with her brothers is often on the brink of hysteria, but she knows how to control herself and, furthermore, she knows how to control them. Perhaps deep down they love each other very much, although this kind of love between siblings carries with it the quota of mutual exasperation which makes this custom possible. No, they’re not like me. Not even physically. Esteban and Blanca have Isabel’s eyes. Jaime inherited Isabel’s mouth and forehead. What would Isabel think if she could see them today, preoccupied, active and grown up? And I have a better question: what would I think if I could see Isabel today? Death is a tedious experience; for everyone else, especially for everyone else. I should feel proud about being a widower with three children and having come out ahead. But I don’t feel proud, I feel tired. Pride is for when one is twenty or thirty years old. Doing well with my children was a duty, my only escape from coming face to face with society and the unyielding look that is reserved for heartless fathers. There was no other option, and so I did well. But everything was always too overly demanding to allow me to feel happy.

  Tuesday 19 February

  At four o’clock in the afternoon I suddenly felt unbearably empty. I had to hang up my satin smock and tell the Personnel Department that I had to go to the Banco República to solve that money order problem. That’s a lie. What I could no longer bear was the wall in front of my desk; the horrible wall completely covered by that enormous calendar with February dedicated to Goya. What is Goya doing on the wall of this old company that imports automobile spare parts? I don’t know what would have happened if I had continued looking at that calendar like an imbecile. Perhaps I would have screamed or initiated one of my habitual series of allergic sneezes, or I simply would have immersed myself in the neat pages of the cash-book. This is because I have already learned that pre-outburst stages don’t always lead up to an actual outburst. Sometimes they end in splendid humiliation, an irremediable acceptance of the circumstances and their diverse and offensive pressures. Nevertheless, I like to convince myself that I shouldn’t allow myself any outbursts, that I should radically restrain them if I don’t want to lose my poise. Then, I leave like I left today, in an enraged search for fresh air, for the horizon, and who knows what else. Well, sometimes I don’t reach the horizon, so I find contentment in sitting at the window of some café observing a few pretty legs go past.

  I am convinced that the city is different during office hours. I recognize the Montevideo of men by their schedule, those who arrive at eight-thirty and leave at noon, and those who return at two-thirty and leave without fail at seven. With those tense and sweating faces, with those rushed and stumbling footsteps; with those, we are old acquaintances. But there is the other city, the city of fresh, well-bred girls, recently bathed, who come out in mid-afternoon – perfumed, scornful, optimistic and witty; of mummy’s boys who wake up at noon and who by six in the evening haven’t yet soiled the impeccably white collars of their imported silk shirts; of the old men who ride the bus to the customs house and return without ever getting off, thereby reducing their moderate spree to the lone comforting look with which they traverse the Old City of their memories; of the young mothers who never come out at night and who, with a guilty look on their faces, go to the three-thirty film matinee; of the babysitters who badmouth their female bosses while the flies feast on the children; of the many retired and bored people who think they are finally going to gain their entrance to heaven by feeding crumbs to the pigeons in the plaza. Those are the ones who are unfamiliar to me, at least for now. They are settled much too comfortably in life while I become nervous and weak in the presence of an enormous calendar with its February dedicated to Goya.

  Thursday 21 February

  Coming from the office this afternoon, I was stopped in
the street by a drunk. He didn’t protest against the government, didn’t say he and I were brothers, and didn’t touch upon any of the innumerable topics of universal drunkenness. He was a strange drunk, with a special light in his eyes. He grabbed me by the arm and, practically leaning on me, said: ‘Do you know what’s wrong with you? You’re going nowhere.’ Another man who was passing by at that moment looked at me with some cheery understanding and even winked at me in solidarity. But it’s already been four hours and I’m still uneasy, as if I were really going nowhere and I’d only just now realized it.

  Friday 22 February

  When I retire, I don’t think I’ll continue to write this diary. By then, there is no doubt that far fewer things will happen to me, and then it will be unbearable for me to feel so bored and, furthermore, to leave a record of it. When I retire, perhaps it would be best to give myself up to leisure, a kind of drowsy compensation, in order for my nerves, muscles and willpower to slowly relax and become accustomed to dying well. But no. There are moments when I have and maintain the luxurious hope that retirement will be something full, rich; the last opportunity to find myself. And that would really be worth writing down.

  Saturday 23 February

  Today I lunched alone in town. As I was walking along Mercedes, I came across a man dressed in brown. At first he feigned a wave. I should have looked at him suspiciously, because the man stopped and, with some indecision, extended his hand. His face wasn’t an unfamiliar face. It was like a caricature of someone whom I, in the past, would have seen often. I shook his hand, mumbling my apologies, and somehow managed to admit my confusion. ‘Martín Santomé?’ he said, displaying a ruined set of teeth in his smile. Sure, I’m Martín Santomé, I thought, as I was becoming more and more confused. ‘Don’t you remember Brandzen Street?’ Well, not very well, I thought. It’s been about thirty years and I’m not famous for my memory. Naturally, as a bachelor I lived on Brandzen Street, but even if I were given a thrashing I couldn’t say what the front of the house looked like, how many balconies it had, or who lived next door. ‘And the café on Defensa Street?’ Now the fog cleared a bit and for a moment I saw the belly and wide belt of the gallego* Alvarez. ‘Of course, of course,’ I exclaimed, enlightened. ‘Well, I’m Mario Vignale,’ he said. Mario Vignale? I don’t remember, I swear I don’t remember, I continued thinking. But I didn’t have the courage to tell him. After all, the man seemed so enthusiastic about the encounter … So I told him I remembered him, to please forgive me, that I was terrible with faces; so much so that last week I had bumped into a cousin and had not recognized him (a lie). Naturally, we had to have coffee, and so my Saturday siesta was spoiled. For two hours and fifteen minutes he persisted in reconstructing details to convince me he had been a part of my life. ‘I even remember that sensational artichoke omelette your mother used to make. I always came by at eleven-thirty to see if she would invite me to eat.’ And he let out a big laugh. ‘Always?’ I asked him, still suspicious. Then he was suddenly embarrassed and said: ‘Well, I went three or four times.’ Now, which part was true? I asked silently. ‘And your mother, is she all right?’ ‘She died fifteen years ago,’ I replied. ‘Damn, and your father?’ ‘He died two years ago, in Tacuarembó,’ I replied. ‘He was staying at my Aunt Leonor’s house.’ ‘He must have been old.’ Of course he was old, I thought. My God, how dull. Only then did he ask the most logical question: ‘Hey, did you finally marry Isabel?’ ‘Yes, and I have three children,’ I replied, being brief. He has five. What luck. ‘And how is Isabel? Still attractive?’ ‘She died,’ I said, assuming the most inscrutable facial expression in my repertory. The words sounded like a gunshot and he – thank goodness – became confused. He rushed to finish his third coffee and immediately looked at his watch. There is a sort of automatic reflex which makes one talk about death and then immediately look at one’s watch.