The Bad Girl (17 page)

approached her, observing certain forms, she moved away on the

pretext of wanting to greet someone, or to go to the buffet or the bar,

or to have a private chat with a friend. I couldn't exchange glances

with her either, and though I had no doubt she was perfectly aware

of my constantly following her with my eyes, she never looked at me

but always arranged to show me her back or her profile. What Juan

Barreto had said was true: her English was elementary and at times

incomprehensible, full of mistakes, but she spoke with so much

freshness and conviction, and her Latin American musicality was so

attractive, that the result was charming as well as expressive. To fill

in the gaps she constantly accompanied her words with gestures,

looks, and expressions that were a consummate display of coquetry.

Charles, Mrs. Stubard's nephew, turned out to be a charming

boy. He told me that because of Juan, he had begun to read books by

English travelers to Peru and was planning to spend a vacation in

Cuzco and hike up to Machu Picchu. He wanted to persuade Juan to

go with him. If I wanted to join the adventure, I was welcome.

At about two in the morning, as people were beginning to say

good night to Signor Ariosti, on a sudden impulse that must have

been brought on by the countless glasses of champagne I had

consumed, I moved away from a couple who were asking me about

my experiences as a professional interpreter, avoided my friend

Juan Barreto, who, for the fourth or fifth time that evening, wanted

to pull me into a room to admire the full-length portrait he had

painted of Belicoso, one of the stars of the stables belonging to the

master of the house, and crossed the salon to the group that

included Mrs. Richardson. I grasped her arm with some force,

smiled, and obliged her to move away from the people around her.

She looked at me with a displeasure that twisted her mouth, and I

heard her pronounce the first swear word I had ever heard her use.

"Let go of me, you fucking beast," she whispered through

clenched teeth. "Let go of me, you'll make trouble for me."

"If you don't call me, I'll tell Mr. Richardson you're married in

France and are wanted by the Swiss police for emptying out the

secret bank account of Monsieur Arnoux."

And I put a piece of paper in her hand with the telephone

number of Juan's pied-a-terre in Earl's Court. After a moment of

astonishment and silence—her face frozen in a rictus—she burst into

laughter, opening her eyes wide.

"Oh my God! You're learning, good boy," she exclaimed in a tone

of professional approval, recovering from her surprise.

She turned and went back to the small group I had pulled her

away from.

I was absolutely sure she wouldn't call me. I was a discomfiting

witness to a past she wanted to erase at any cost; if not, she never

would have behaved as she had all evening, avoiding me. But she did

call me at Earl's Court two days later, very early. We could barely

speak because, as always, she did nothing but give orders.

"I'll wait for you tomorrow at three, at the Russell Hotel. Do you

know it? In Russell Square, near the British Museum. English

punctuality, please."

I was there half an hour early. My hands were perspiring and it

was hard for me to breathe. The place couldn't have been better. The

old belle epoque hotel, its facade and long hallways in the Oriental

pompier style, seemed half empty, especially the bar with its high

ceiling, wood-paneled walls, small widely spaced tables, some of

them hidden among screens, and thick carpets that muffled

footsteps and conversation. Behind the bar, a waiter leafed through

the Evening Standard.

She arrived a few minutes late, dressed in a tailored outfit of

mauve suede, shoes and handbag of black crocodile, a single strand

of pearls, and on her hand a flashing solitaire. Over her arm she

carried a gray raincoat and an umbrella of the same color and fabric.

How far Comrade Arlette had come! Without greeting me, or

smiling, or extending her hand, she sat across from me, crossed her

legs, and began to berate me.

"The other night you did something so stupid I can't forgive you.

You shouldn't have said a word to me, you shouldn't have taken my

arm, you shouldn't have spoken to me as if you knew me. You might

have compromised me. Didn't you realize you had to pretend?

Where's your head, Ricardito?"

It was the bad girl, no question about that. We hadn't seen each

other for four years and she didn't think to ask me how I was, what I

had been doing, or even to give me a smile or a pleasant word on our

meeting. She went straight to what concerned her without being

distracted by anything else.

"You look very pretty," I said, speaking with some difficulty

because of my emotions. "Even prettier than four years ago when

your name was Madame Arnoux. I forgive your insults the other

night and your insolent remarks now because of how pretty you

look. Besides, in case you want to know, yes, I'm still in love with

you. In spite of everything. Crazy about you. More than ever. Do you

remember the toothbrush you left me as a memento the last time

we saw each other? Here it is. Since then I carry it everywhere in my

pocket. I've become a fetishist because of you. Thanks for being so

pretty, Chilean girl."

She didn't laugh, but the ironic gleam of past times flashed in her

eyes the color of dark honey. She took the toothbrush, examined it,

and returned it to me, murmuring, "I don't know what you're talking

about." With no discomfort at all she allowed me to look at her as

she observed me, studying me. My eyes looked her over from top to

bottom, from bottom to top, stopping at her knees, her throat, her

ears half covered by locks of her now light-colored hair, her carefully

tended hands and long nails with natural polish, her nose that

seemed to have sharpened. She allowed me to take her hands and

kiss them but with her proverbial indifference, without the slightest

gesture of reciprocity.

"Was that a serious threat you made the other night?" she finally

asked.

"Very serious," I said, kissing each finger, the knuckles, the back

and palm of each hand. "Over the years I've become like you.

Anything to get what you want. Those are your words, bad girl. And

as you know very well, the only thing I really want in this world is

you."

She slipped one of her hands from mine and passed it over my

head, mussing my hair, in that slightly pitying semi-caress she had

used with me on other occasions.

"No, you're not capable of those things," she said quietly, as if

lamenting a lack in my personality. "But yes, it must be true you're

still in love with me."

She ordered tea with scones for two and said her husband was a

very jealous man and, what was worse, sick with retrospective

jealousy. He sniffed out her past like a predatory wolf. Which was

why she needed to be very careful. If he had suspected the other

night that we knew each other, he would have made a scene. I hadn't

been imprudent enough to tell Juan Barreto who she was, had I?

"I wouldn't have been able to tell him even if I wanted to," I

reassured her. "Because the truth is, I still don't have the slightest

idea who you are."

Finally she laughed. She let me hold her head in both my hands

and bring our lips together. Beneath mine, which kissed her avidly,

tenderly, with all the love I felt for her, hers were unyielding.

"I want you," I murmured, nibbling the edge of her ear. "You're

more beautiful than ever, Permian girl. I love you, I want you with

all my heart, with all my body. In these four years all I've done is

dream about you, and want you, and love you. And curse you too.

Each day, each night, every day."

After a moment she moved me away with her hands.

"You must be the last person on earth who still says those things

to women," she said with a smile, amused, looking at me as if I were

an exotic animal. "What cheap sentimental things you tell me,

Ricardito!"

"The worst thing isn't that I say them. The worst thing is that I

feel them. It's true. You turn me into a character in a soap opera.

I've never said them to anybody but you."

"Nobody can ever see us like this," she said suddenly, changing

her tone, very serious now. "The last thing I want is my pain of a

husband to have a jealous fit. And now I have to go, Ricardito."

"Will I have to wait another four years to see you again?"

"Friday," she specified immediately with a mischievous little

laugh, passing her hand over my hair again. And after a dramatic

pause: "Right here. I'll reserve a room in your name. Don't worry,

little pissant, I'll pay for it. Bring an overnight bag, to make it look

good."

I said that was fine but I'd pay for the room myself. I didn't

intend to trade my honest profession of interpreter for that of kept

man.

She burst out laughing, spontaneously this time.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "You're a good little Miraflores

gentleman and gentlemen don't take money from women."

For the third time she ran her hand through my hair and this

time I caught her hand and kissed it.

"Did you think I'd go to bed with you in the dump that fag Juan

Barreto lent you in Earl's Court? You haven't realized yet that I'm at

the top now."

A minute later she was gone, after telling me not to leave the

Russell Hotel for another quarter of an hour, because with David

Richardson everything was possible, including his having her

followed every time she came to London by one of those detectives

who specialized in adultery.

I waited fifteen minutes and then, instead of the tube, I took a

long walk under a cloudy sky and intermittent showers. I went to

Trafalgar Square, crossed St. James's Park and Green Park, smelling

the wet grass and watching the branches of fat oaks dripping water,

went down almost all of Brompton Road, and an hour and a half

later reached the half-moon of Philbeach Gardens, tired and happy.

The long walk had calmed me and allowed me to think without the

tumult of chaotic ideas and sensations I had experienced since my

visit to Newmarket. How could seeing her again after so much time

upset you so much, Ricardito? Because everything I told her was

true: I was still crazy about her. It was enough for me to see her to

realize that, despite my knowing that any relationship with the bad

girl was doomed to failure, the only thing I really wanted in life with

the passion others bring to the pursuit of fortune, glory, success,

power, was having her, with all her lies, entanglements, egotism,

and disappearances. A cheap, sentimental thing, no doubt, but also

true that I wouldn't do anything until Friday but curse how slowly

the hours went by until I could see her again.

On Friday, when I arrived at the Russell Hotel with my overnight

bag, the receptionist, an Indian, confirmed that the room had been

reserved for the day in my name. It had already been paid for. He

added that "my secretary" had told them I came in from Paris with

some frequency, and in that case the hotel would find a way to give

me the special price they used for regular clients, "except in high

season." The room overlooked Russell Square, and though it wasn't

small it seemed so because it was crowded with objects: end tables,

lamps, miniature animals, prints, and paintings of Mongol warriors

with popping eyes, twisted beards, and curved scimitars who seemed

to be rushing the bed with very evil intentions.

The bad girl arrived half an hour after me, wrapped in a closefitting

leather coat, a little matching hat, and knee-high boots. In

addition to her handbag she carried a portfolio filled with notebooks

and textbooks for classes on modern art that, she told me later, she

took three times a week at Christie's. Before looking at me she

glanced around the room and nodded briefly in approval. When,

finally, she deigned to look at me, I already had her in my arms and

had begun to undress her.

"Be careful," she instructed. "Don't wrinkle my clothes."

I took them off with all the precaution in the world, studying

each thing she wore as if it were a precious, unique object, kissing

with devotion every centimeter of skin that came into view,

breathing in the soft, lightly perfumed aura that emanated from her

body. Now she had a small, almost invisible scar near her groin

because her appendix had been removed, and her pubis had even

less hair than before. I felt desire, emotion, tenderness as I kissed

her insteps, her fragrant underarms, the suggestion of little bones in

her spine, and her motionless buttocks, as delicate to the touch as

velvet. I kissed her small breasts at length, mad with happiness.

"You haven't forgotten what I like, good boy," she finally

whispered in my ear.

And, without waiting for my reply, she turned on her back,