The Truce Read Free

Jaime asked: ‘Which Vignale is it?’ ‘Mario Vignale,’ I replied. ‘Is he partly bald and has a moustache?’ ‘The same,’ I replied. ‘I know him,’ said Jaime. ‘He’s a piece of work, a friend of Ferreira’s. Well known for
accepting bribes.’ Deep down I’m glad that Vignale is a worthless piece of filth, and therefore have no qualms about brushing him off. Then Blanca asked: ‘So, did he remember Mum?’ I thought Jaime was going to say something, that he had moved his lips, but he decided to remain quiet. ‘Lucky him,’ Blanca added. ‘I don’t.’ ‘I do,’ said Esteban. How does he remember? Is it like me, with memories of memories, or directly, like someone who sees their own face in the mirror? Is it possible that Esteban, who was only four years old at the time, can possess her image, and that I, on the other hand, who has logged so many, many, many nights, am left with nothing? We would make love in the dark. Perhaps that’s the reason. I’m sure that’s the reason. I have a tangible memory of those nights, and it’s indeed direct. But what about the daytime? During the day we weren’t in the dark. I would arrive home tired, full of problems, perhaps even furious with the injustice of that week, that month.
    Sometimes we went over our bills, but there was never enough to pay them. Perhaps we spent too much time looking at numbers, the additions, or the subtractions and didn’t have time to look at ourselves. Wherever she is, if she’s there, what memory could she have of me? Ultimately, does memory matter? ‘Sometimes I feel sad, over nothing more than not knowing what I’m missing,’ murmured Blanca, while she served the peaches in syrup. We each got three and a half.
Wednesday 27 February
    Today, seven new employees joined the office: four men and three women. They all had a splendid frightened look on their faces, and every now and then directed a glance of respectful
envy at the veteran workers. I was assigned two young men (one eighteen years old and the other twenty-two) and a young woman, twenty-four years of age. So now I’m truly a boss: I have no less than six employees working under me. And for the first time, a woman. I’ve never trusted women with numbers. Furthermore, there’s another drawback: during their menstrual period and even the day before, if they are normally intelligent, they become a little silly; if they are normally a little silly, they become complete imbeciles. These newbies who started today don’t seem too bad. The eighteen-year-old is the one I like the least. He has a weak, delicate face, and a shifty, yet fawning look about him. The other one is eternally dishevelled, but he has a pleasant disposition and (at least for now) a genuine interest in working. The young woman doesn’t seem too interested, but at least she understands what is explained to her; furthermore, she has a wide face and a large mouth, two features that generally impress me. Their names are Alfredo Santini, Rodolfo Sierra and Laura Avellaneda. I’ll assign the two men to the merchandise books, and the woman to the Production Assistant.
Thursday 28 February
    Tonight I spoke to a Blanca who was almost a stranger to me. We were alone after dinner. I was reading the newspaper and she was playing solitaire. All of a sudden she froze, holding a card over her head with a sad and lost expression on her face. I watched her for a few moments and then asked her what she was thinking about. With that she appeared to wake up, directed a distressed look at me, and, unable to contain herself, sunk her head into her hands, as if she didn’t want anyone to defile her weeping. Whenever a woman cries in front of me, I become
defenceless, and even clumsy. I become desperate and I don’t know how to remedy it. This time I followed a natural impulse as I stood up,