Sunday book pick: Mario Benedetti’s 1960 novel ‘The Truce’ makes the heart soar, then breaks it

“…I would never feel that way again, at least at that level, with that intensity. The pinnacle of happiness is like that, surely it’s like that. Furthermore, I’m sure the pinnacle is only a second long, a brief second, a flashing instant, and there’s no right to an extension.”

Uruguayan writer Mario Bendetti’s 1960 novel, La Truega, translated from the Spanish as The Truce into English in 2015 by Harry Morales, lures the heart with happy promises of a new romance, gives it wings to soar with joy, and brings it down – with a rude whack – moment before the pinnacle, “a flashing instant”, can come to a pass.

Love comes late

Martín Santomé, a 49-year-old widower, has all but given up on the pleasures of youth. His wife died at 25 and left him in charge of three children – two sons and one daughter – who are all grown up now and remember little of their mother. Martín has been a good father to them; he has spent much of his time worrying about being judged incompetent. He doesn’t have a particularly remarkable job, nor is he a man of superb talents, but what he is proud of is being a competent father. He is doubtful of whether his children love him – he at least doesn’t love them equally – but he has shepherded them to adulthood, and though they are still his children, they aren’t children anymore.

His son Esteban ices him out every chance he gets, slamming doors in his father’s face and not bothering with a conversation the few times the family sits together to eat. Blanca, his daughter, is poised and reasonable and treats her father as she would a child – she’s concerned about his well-being but they’re not exactly friends. His favourite child is his youngest son, Jaime, who though shy and reserved, exhibits a sense of humour.

Martín’s humdrum life is shaken up by his young colleague 24-year-old Laura Avellaneda – whom he addresses by her surname – who, though fidgety and of nervous disposition, displays a certain magnetism. By his own admission, she’s no tremendous beauty nor is her sexual charm overflowing, and yet, he is enamoured. A feeling he can explain to nobody, least of all himself.

Strictly speaking, 49 is not old. But raising three children all by himself and long years of widowerhood have convinced him so. How ridiculous he feels is proportionate to the intensity of his feelings for Avellaneda – he devises elaborate plans to “bump” into her at a café, puts on the pretence of a strict boss at work, and is terribly restrained in treating her favourably among his colleagues. As Anne Sexton said, “no small love can be concealed”, so it proves true for Martín too. He confesses to his feelings and is understandably delighted when she doesn’t shoot him down.

Love – romance is too trivial a word for what’s unfolding – shoots out of the steady soil of respect, admiration, and gentleness. Martín’s chivalry wins Avellaneda over. She is charmed by his simple, sweet ways. She declares to loving him for not the promises he holds but for his “goodness.” For Martín, this love is exceptional – something he cannot fully believe, luck that he is always “alert” to. The phrase that reigns supreme in his life is “still” – he is still young, still somewhat pleasant looking, still in good health. While the future is a mystery to Avellaneda, for Martín, it is colliding with the present. A pregnant cloud of disbelief hovers over him – could life, and indeed god himself, ever be so kind?

And then it leaves

As the lovers debate the private anxieties of their unusual relationship, Martín’s children face growing pains of their own. Estaban remains as inscrutable as ever. Blanca has a boyfriend but she feels torn about her duties to the men in her family, and Jaime is battling an identity crisis (that will eventually estrange him from his father). When their father’s relationship is made known to them – an accidental discovery – Martín is unspeakably relieved to find his children on the understanding side of nature. Unlike their father who has yet to sink into happiness fully, his children agree that he is worthy of it.

What makes Martín’s love special is its sweetness. Avellaneda’s arrival brings hope; he is quite sure that this is him falling in love for “one final time”. His turning 50 disheartens him terribly – there is no denying that he’s an old man now. However, whenever he feels stirrings of envy or despair thinking about Avellaneda’s life after him, it is still disbelief that strikes him first. Not grief. He still cannot believe that he has been awarded a second chance at love. This is his “truce” with god – a few moments of companionship after a lifetime of loneliness.

The novel rises and rises, like a soulful crescendo, lulling the reader into contentment of an easy love, before violently striking them with a terrible tragedy. This – conveyed as a single line diary entry – does what pages upon pages of elaborate writing probably cannot. I felt the contours of my face changing, my heart growing heavy, and a sob that let itself out without my knowledge. In short, my heart was shattered.

I wanted to start re-reading The Truce the moment I was done, but I know I cannot endure it all over again. Mario Benedetti (and translator Harry Morales equally) achieves something momentous – humanising a love that many do not understand. The Truce elasticises what love affords us – to fully be ourselves, cast away shame, for once and all, and the courage to face a new day year after year.

The Truce, Mario Benedetti, translated from the Spanish by Harry Morales, Penguin Modern Classics.