The Truce by Mario Benedetti Read Free Book Online

consolation; I interpreted it as the finest homage that anyone could pay to my mother and me during my grief. It was merely a gesture, an almost insignificant episode, this I well understand. But it occurred during one of those moments in which the pain of loss makes one exaggeratedly receptive.
Saturday 6 April
    A wild dream. I had just walked through Aliados Park dressed in my pyjamas, when all of a sudden I saw Avellaneda standing on the pavement of a luxurious two-storey house. I approached without hesitating. She was wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, resting directly on her flesh. She was sitting on a little kitchen bench next to a eucalyptus tree, peeling potatoes. I suddenly realized it was already night-time and
I moved towards her and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.’ Apparently, my reasoning was decisive, because I immediately became dedicated to possessing her, without any intervening resistance on her part.
    This morning, when Avellaneda appeared wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, I couldn’t restrain myself and said: ‘What a wonderful aroma of countryside.’ She looked at me in genuine panic, exactly the same way one looks at a lunatic or a drunk. To make matters worse, I tried to explain that I was talking to myself. I didn’t convince her, and when she left at noon, she was still watching me with a certain wariness. Just further proof that it’s possible to be more convincing in dreams than in reality.
Sunday 7 April
    Almost every Sunday, I eat lunch and dinner alone and inevitably become melancholic. ‘What have I done with my life?’ is a question that is reminiscent of Gardel, the Women’s Supplement of
La Mañana
, or an article from
Reader’s Digest
. But it doesn’t matter. Today, Sunday, I feel as if I’m beyond ridicule and can ask myself these kinds of questions. In my particular case, there have been no irrational changes or unusual and sudden turns. Isabel’s death was most extraordinary. Does the real key to what I consider to be my frustration lie in Isabel’s death? I don’t think so. Furthermore, the more I inquire, the more I’m convinced that her untimely death was a case of misfortune with, let’s say, luck. (Good God, how mean and coarse this sounds. I’m horrifying myself). I mean to say that when Isabel died I was twenty-eight years old and she was twenty-five. We were, then, at the very peak of desire. I think she was the inspiration for my most impassioned physical desire. Perhaps that’s
why, although I’m incapable of reconstructing (with my own images, not with photographs or memories of memories) Isabel’s face, I can, instead, once again feel in my hands, every time I need to, the particular contour of her waist, her stomach, her calves, her breasts. Why do the palms of my hands have a more faithful memory than I do? One conclusion that I can draw from all of this is that if Isabel had lived long enough for her body to sag (that was one good thing about her: smooth and taut skin) and therefore weigh down my capacity to desire her, I can’t guarantee what would have happened to our exemplary bond. Because everything that was harmonious between us depended ultimately on what took place in the bedroom, our bedroom. I don’t mean to say that during the day we got along like cat and dog; on the contrary, in our daily life we were largely on amicable terms. But what could impede the outbursts, the overflows? Simply, the enjoyment of our evenings, its protective presence in the midst of the displeasures of the day. If at any time we were tempted by hatred and started to become angry, the lure of past and future evenings would flash before our eyes, and then, inevitably, a wave of tenderness enveloped us, placating every outburst of anger. I’m not unhappy about this. My marriage was a good thing, and a happy time in my