Read Online The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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“We literally had to undress on top of one another,” she completed the sentence. “We saw each other in our underclothes, though it was dark, because I turned out all the lights except the night-light.”
“Underclothing is a general, abstract concept,” Don Rigoberto fumed. “Give me precise details.”
Doña Lucrecia did. When it was time to undress—the anachronistic Orient Express was crossing German or Austrian forests, passing an occasional village—Modesto asked if she wanted him to leave. “There’s no need, in this darkness we’re no more than shadows,” Doña Lucrecia replied. The engineer sat on the lower berth, taking up as little room as possible in order to give her more space. She undressed, not forcing her movements or stylizing them, turning round where she stood as she removed each article of clothing: dress, slip, bra, stockings, panties. The illumination from the night-light, a little mushroom-shaped lamp with lanceolate drawings, caressed her neck, shoulders, breasts, belly, buttocks, thighs, knees, feet. Raising her arms, she slipped a Chinese silk pajama top, decorated with dragons, over her head.
“I’m going to sit with my legs uncovered while I brush my hair,” she said, and did so. “If you feel the urge to kiss them, you may. As far as my knees.”
Was it the torment of Tantalus? Or the garden of earthly delights? Don Rigoberto had moved to the foot of the bed, and anticipating his wish, Doña Lucrecia sat on the edge so that, like Pluto on the Orient Express, her husband could kiss her insteps, breathe in the fragrance of the creams and colognes that refreshed her ankles, nibble at her toes and lick the hollows that separated them.
“I love you and admire you,” said Don Rigoberto.
“I love you and admire you,” said Pluto.
“And now to sleep,” ordered Doña Lucrecia.
They reached Venice on an Impressionist morning, the sun strong and the sky a deep blue, and as the launch carried them to the Cipriani through curling waves, Modesto, Michelin in hand, provided Lucrecia with brief descriptions of the palaces and churches along the Grand Canal.
“I’m feeling jealous, my dear,” Don Rigoberto interrupted her.
“If you’re serious, we’ll erase it, sweetheart,” Doña Lucrecia proposed.
“Absolutely not,” and he recanted. “Brave men die with their boots on, like John Wayne.”
From the balcony of the Cipriani, over the trees in the garden, one could see the towers of San Marco and the palaces along the canal. They went out in the gondola-with-guide that was waiting for them. It was a whirl of canals and bridges, greenish waters and flocks of gulls that took flight as they passed, dim churches where they had to strain their eyes to make out the attributes of the gods and saints hanging there. They saw Titians and Veroneses, Bellinis and del Piombos, the horses of San Marco and the mosaics in the cathedral, and they fed a few grains of corn to the fat pigeons on the piazza. At midday they took the obligatory photograph at a table at Florian’s while they ate the requisite pizzetta. In the afternoon they continued their tour, hearing names, dates, and anecdotes they barely listened to, lulled by the soothing voice of the guide from the agency. At seven-thirty, when they had bathed and changed, they drank their Bellinis in the salon with Moorish arches and Arabian pillows at the Danieli, and at precisely the right hour—nine o’clock—they were in Harry’s Bar. There they saw the divine Catherine Deneuve (it seemed part of the program) come in and sit at the next table. Pluto said what he had to say, “I think you’re more beautiful, Lucre.”
“And?” Don Rigoberto pressed her.
Before taking the vaporetto back to Giudecca, they went for a walk, Doña Lucrecia holding Modesto’s arm, through narrow, half-deserted streets. They reached the hotel after midnight. Doña Lucrecia was yawning.
“And?” Don Rigoberto was
“We literally had to undress on top of one another,” she completed the sentence. “We saw each other in our underclothes, though it was dark, because I turned out all the lights except the night-light.”
“Underclothing is a general, abstract concept,” Don Rigoberto fumed. “Give me precise details.”
Doña Lucrecia did. When it was time to undress—the anachronistic Orient Express was crossing German or Austrian forests, passing an occasional village—Modesto asked if she wanted him to leave. “There’s no need, in this darkness we’re no more than shadows,” Doña Lucrecia replied. The engineer sat on the lower berth, taking up as little room as possible in order to give her more space. She undressed, not forcing her movements or stylizing them, turning round where she stood as she removed each article of clothing: dress, slip, bra, stockings, panties. The illumination from the night-light, a little mushroom-shaped lamp with lanceolate drawings, caressed her neck, shoulders, breasts, belly, buttocks, thighs, knees, feet. Raising her arms, she slipped a Chinese silk pajama top, decorated with dragons, over her head.
“I’m going to sit with my legs uncovered while I brush my hair,” she said, and did so. “If you feel the urge to kiss them, you may. As far as my knees.”
Was it the torment of Tantalus? Or the garden of earthly delights? Don Rigoberto had moved to the foot of the bed, and anticipating his wish, Doña Lucrecia sat on the edge so that, like Pluto on the Orient Express, her husband could kiss her insteps, breathe in the fragrance of the creams and colognes that refreshed her ankles, nibble at her toes and lick the hollows that separated them.
“I love you and admire you,” said Don Rigoberto.
“I love you and admire you,” said Pluto.
“And now to sleep,” ordered Doña Lucrecia.
They reached Venice on an Impressionist morning, the sun strong and the sky a deep blue, and as the launch carried them to the Cipriani through curling waves, Modesto, Michelin in hand, provided Lucrecia with brief descriptions of the palaces and churches along the Grand Canal.
“I’m feeling jealous, my dear,” Don Rigoberto interrupted her.
“If you’re serious, we’ll erase it, sweetheart,” Doña Lucrecia proposed.
“Absolutely not,” and he recanted. “Brave men die with their boots on, like John Wayne.”
From the balcony of the Cipriani, over the trees in the garden, one could see the towers of San Marco and the palaces along the canal. They went out in the gondola-with-guide that was waiting for them. It was a whirl of canals and bridges, greenish waters and flocks of gulls that took flight as they passed, dim churches where they had to strain their eyes to make out the attributes of the gods and saints hanging there. They saw Titians and Veroneses, Bellinis and del Piombos, the horses of San Marco and the mosaics in the cathedral, and they fed a few grains of corn to the fat pigeons on the piazza. At midday they took the obligatory photograph at a table at Florian’s while they ate the requisite pizzetta. In the afternoon they continued their tour, hearing names, dates, and anecdotes they barely listened to, lulled by the soothing voice of the guide from the agency. At seven-thirty, when they had bathed and changed, they drank their Bellinis in the salon with Moorish arches and Arabian pillows at the Danieli, and at precisely the right hour—nine o’clock—they were in Harry’s Bar. There they saw the divine Catherine Deneuve (it seemed part of the program) come in and sit at the next table. Pluto said what he had to say, “I think you’re more beautiful, Lucre.”
“And?” Don Rigoberto pressed her.
Before taking the vaporetto back to Giudecca, they went for a walk, Doña Lucrecia holding Modesto’s arm, through narrow, half-deserted streets. They reached the hotel after midnight. Doña Lucrecia was yawning.
“And?” Don Rigoberto was
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