The Bad Girl (52 page)

Chemotherapy would only delay the inevitable, and in her extremely

weakened condition, she probably wouldn't survive it. The operation

on her breasts took place a year earlier, in Marseille. Because of her

extreme weakness they hadn't been able to operate again to

reconstruct her bosom. She and Martine's husband, when they ran

away, had lived on the Mediterranean coast, in Frontignan, near

Sete, where he owned property. He had behaved very well with her

when they found the cancer. He had been generous and attentive,

showering her with attentions, not letting her see, when they

removed her breasts, the disappointment he felt. On the contrary, it

was she who gradually convinced him that since her fate was

decided, the best thing he could do was reconcile with Martine and

end the lawsuit with his children, from which only the lawyers

would benefit. The gentleman returned to his family, saying goodbye

to the bad girl with generosity: he bought her the house in Sete that

she now wanted to transfer to me, and in her name deposited in the

bank the Electricity of France stocks that would allow her to live

without financial worries for the rest of what remained to her of life.

She had begun looking for me at least a year ago and finally found

me in Madrid, thanks to a detective agency that "charged me an arm

and a leg." When they gave her my address, she was having tests at

the hospital in Montpellier. She'd had pains in her vagina since the

days of Fukuda and hadn't paid much attention to them.

She told me all this in a long conversation that lasted the entire

afternoon and a good part of the night, while we lay in bed, pressed

together. She had dressed again. At times she stopped talking so I

could kiss her and tell her I loved her. She told me the story—true?

very embellished? totally false?—without dramatics, with apparent

objectivity, without self-pity, but with relief, and happily, as if after

telling it to me she could die in peace.

She lasted another thirty-seven days, during which time she

behaved, just as she promised she would in the Cafe Barbieri, like a

model wife. At least, when the terrible pain didn't keep her in bed,

sedated with morphine. I went to live with her in an apartment hotel

on Los Jeronimos, where she was staying, taking with me one

suitcase with a few articles of clothing and some books, and I left

Marcella a very hypocritical and dignified letter, telling her I had

decided to leave, giving her back her freedom, because I didn't want

to be an obstacle to a happiness that—I understood this very* well—I

couldn't offer her, given the difference in our ages and vocations,

but only a young man of her own age, with a disposition akin to

hers, like Victor Almeda, could. After three days the bad girl and I

took the train to her little house on the outskirts of Sete, at the top

of a hill, from which you could see the beautiful sea sung about by

Valery in Le Cimetiere marin. It was a small house, austere, pretty,

nicely arranged, with a small garden. For two weeks she felt so well,

so happy, that contrary to all reason I thought she might recover.

One afternoon, when we were sitting in the garden at twilight, she

said that if it ever occurred to me one day to write our love story, I

shouldn't make her look too bad, because then her ghost would

come and pull on my feet every night.

"And what made you think of that?"

"Because you always wanted to be a writer and didn't have the

courage. Now that you'll be all alone, you can make good use of the

time, and you won't miss me so much. At least admit I've given you

the subject for a novel. Haven't I, good boy?"