Read Online The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online
Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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a cup of coffee for old
times' sake.
"Not now, my husband's expecting me," she said, mockingly.
"He's a diplomat and works here in the French delegation.
Tomorrow at eleven, at Les Deux Magots. You know the place, don't
you?"
I was awake for a long time that night, thinking about her and
about Aunt Alberta. When I finally managed to get to sleep, I had a
wild nightmare about the two of them ferociously attacking each
other, indifferent to my pleas that they resolve their dispute like
civilized people. The fight was due to my aunt Alberta accusing the
Chilean girl of stealing her new name from a character in Flaubert. I
awoke agitated, sweating, while it was still dark and a cat was
yowling.
When I arrived at Les Deux Magots, Madame Robert Arnoux was
already there, at a table on the terrace protected by a glass partition,
smoking with an ivory cigarette holder and drinking a cup of coffee.
She looked like a model out of Vogue, dressed all in yellow, with
white shoes and a flowered parasol. The change in her was truly
extraordinary.
"Are you still in love with me?" was her opening remark, to break
the ice.
"The worst thing is that I think I am," I admitted, feeling my
cheeks flush. "And if I weren't, I'd fall in love all over again today.
You've turned into a very beautiful woman, and an extremely
elegant one. I see you and don't believe what I see, bad girl."
"Now you see what you lost because you're a coward," she
replied, her honey-colored eyes glistening with mocking sparks as
she intentionally exhaled a mouthful of smoke in my face. "If you
had said yes that time I proposed staying with you, I'd be your wife
now. But you didn't want to get in trouble with your friend Comrade
Jean, and you sent me off to Cuba. You missed the opportunity of a
lifetime, Ricardito."
"Can't this be resolved? Can't I search my conscience, suffer
from heartache, and promise to reform?"
"It's too late now, good boy. What kind of match for the wife of a
French diplomat can a little pissant translator for UNESCO be?"
She didn't stop smiling as she spoke, moving her mouth with a
more refined flirtatiousness than I remembered. Contemplating her
prominent, sensual lips, lulled by the music of her voice, I had an
enormous desire to kiss her. I felt my heart beat faster.
"Well, if you can no longer be my wife, there's always the
possibility of our being lovers."
"I'm a faithful spouse, the perfect wife," she assured me,
pretending to be serious. And with no transition: "What happened to
Comrade Jean? Did he go back to Peru to make the revolution?"
"Several months ago. I haven't heard anything about him or the
others. And I haven't read or heard of any guerrillas there. Those
revolutionary castles in the air probably turned into smoke. And all
the guerrillas went back home and forgot about it."
We talked for almost two hours. Naturally, she assured me the
love affair with Comandante Chacon had been nothing but the
gossip of the Peruvians in Havana; in reality, she and the
comandante had only been good friends. She refused to tell me
anything about her military training, and, as always, avoided making
any political comments or giving me details regarding her life on the
island. Her only Cuban love had been the charge d'affaires at the
French embassy, Robert Arnoux, now her husband, who had been
promoted to advisory minister. Weak with laughter and
retrospective anger, she told me about the bureaucratic obstacles
they had to overcome to marry, because it was almost unthinkable
in Cuba that a scholarship recipient would leave her training. But in
this regard it was certainly true that Comandante Chacon had been
"loving" and helped her defeat the damn bureaucracy.
"I'd wager anything you went to bed with that damn
comandante."
"Are you jealous?"
I said yes, very. And that she was so attractive I'd sell my soul to
the devil, I'd do anything if I could make love to her, or even just
kiss her. I
times' sake.
"Not now, my husband's expecting me," she said, mockingly.
"He's a diplomat and works here in the French delegation.
Tomorrow at eleven, at Les Deux Magots. You know the place, don't
you?"
I was awake for a long time that night, thinking about her and
about Aunt Alberta. When I finally managed to get to sleep, I had a
wild nightmare about the two of them ferociously attacking each
other, indifferent to my pleas that they resolve their dispute like
civilized people. The fight was due to my aunt Alberta accusing the
Chilean girl of stealing her new name from a character in Flaubert. I
awoke agitated, sweating, while it was still dark and a cat was
yowling.
When I arrived at Les Deux Magots, Madame Robert Arnoux was
already there, at a table on the terrace protected by a glass partition,
smoking with an ivory cigarette holder and drinking a cup of coffee.
She looked like a model out of Vogue, dressed all in yellow, with
white shoes and a flowered parasol. The change in her was truly
extraordinary.
"Are you still in love with me?" was her opening remark, to break
the ice.
"The worst thing is that I think I am," I admitted, feeling my
cheeks flush. "And if I weren't, I'd fall in love all over again today.
You've turned into a very beautiful woman, and an extremely
elegant one. I see you and don't believe what I see, bad girl."
"Now you see what you lost because you're a coward," she
replied, her honey-colored eyes glistening with mocking sparks as
she intentionally exhaled a mouthful of smoke in my face. "If you
had said yes that time I proposed staying with you, I'd be your wife
now. But you didn't want to get in trouble with your friend Comrade
Jean, and you sent me off to Cuba. You missed the opportunity of a
lifetime, Ricardito."
"Can't this be resolved? Can't I search my conscience, suffer
from heartache, and promise to reform?"
"It's too late now, good boy. What kind of match for the wife of a
French diplomat can a little pissant translator for UNESCO be?"
She didn't stop smiling as she spoke, moving her mouth with a
more refined flirtatiousness than I remembered. Contemplating her
prominent, sensual lips, lulled by the music of her voice, I had an
enormous desire to kiss her. I felt my heart beat faster.
"Well, if you can no longer be my wife, there's always the
possibility of our being lovers."
"I'm a faithful spouse, the perfect wife," she assured me,
pretending to be serious. And with no transition: "What happened to
Comrade Jean? Did he go back to Peru to make the revolution?"
"Several months ago. I haven't heard anything about him or the
others. And I haven't read or heard of any guerrillas there. Those
revolutionary castles in the air probably turned into smoke. And all
the guerrillas went back home and forgot about it."
We talked for almost two hours. Naturally, she assured me the
love affair with Comandante Chacon had been nothing but the
gossip of the Peruvians in Havana; in reality, she and the
comandante had only been good friends. She refused to tell me
anything about her military training, and, as always, avoided making
any political comments or giving me details regarding her life on the
island. Her only Cuban love had been the charge d'affaires at the
French embassy, Robert Arnoux, now her husband, who had been
promoted to advisory minister. Weak with laughter and
retrospective anger, she told me about the bureaucratic obstacles
they had to overcome to marry, because it was almost unthinkable
in Cuba that a scholarship recipient would leave her training. But in
this regard it was certainly true that Comandante Chacon had been
"loving" and helped her defeat the damn bureaucracy.
"I'd wager anything you went to bed with that damn
comandante."
"Are you jealous?"
I said yes, very. And that she was so attractive I'd sell my soul to
the devil, I'd do anything if I could make love to her, or even just
kiss her. I
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