Read Online The Truce by Mario Benedetti - Free Book Online Page A

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.
Saturday 4 May
    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.
Sunday 5 May
    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