The Bad Girl (29 page)

mosque, domed ceiling, and red marble tables, and then, without

need for prior arrangements, we went to bed in the luxurious Hotel

Sacher, where the two of us were staying, since the hotel offered

significant discounts to conference participants. She was still

attractive, though age had begun to leave a few traces on her

extremely white body. She made love and the smile didn't leave her

face, not even when she had an orgasm. I enjoyed it and she enjoyed

it too, but it seemed to me that this healthful way of making love

had more to do with gymnastics than with what the late Salomon

Toledano called, in one of his letters, "the disturbing and lascivious

pleasure of the gonads." The second and last time we went to bed,

the telephone on my night table rang when we had finished our

acrobatics and Astrid was telling me about the accomplishments of

one of her daughters in Copenhagen, who had made the move from

ballet dancer to circus acrobat. I picked up the receiver, said "Hello,"

and heard the affectionate, kittenish voice.

"Are you going to hang up on me again, little pissant?"

I held the receiver for a few seconds while I mentally cursed

UNESCO for giving her my phone number in Vienna, but I hung up

when, after a pause, she began to say: "Well, at least this time..."

"Stories of past love?" guessed Astrid. "Shall I go to the bathroom

so you can talk freely?"

No, no, it was a story over and done with. Since that night I

hadn't had another sexual relationship, and the truth was, it didn't

concern me in the least. At the age of forty-seven, I had verified that

a man could lead a perfectly normal life without making love.

Because my life was fairly normal, though empty. I worked a great

deal and did my job to fill the time and earn a salary, but not

because I was interested—that happened only rarely—and even my

studies of Russian and the almost eternal translation of Ivan

Bunin's stories, which I did over and over again, turned out to be a

mechanical chore that seldom became pleasurable again. Even films,

concerts, books, records were ways to kill time more than activities

that excited me as they once had. Another reason for my still feeling

rancorous toward Kuriko. Because of her, the illusions that make

existence something more than the sum of its routines had been

extinguished for me. At times I felt like an old man.

Perhaps because of this state of mind, the arrival of Elena,

Simon, and Yilal Gravoski in the building on Rue Joseph Granier

was providential. My neighbors' friendship infused a little humanity

and emotion into my dull, flat life. The third call from the bad girl

came to my house in Paris, at least a year after the call to Vienna.

It was early, four or five in the morning, and the loud rings of the

phone pulled me out of sleep and filled me with alarm. It rang so

many times that finally I opened my eyes and fumbled for the

receiver.

"Don't hang up." Pleading and anger mixed in her voice. "I need

to talk to you, Ricardo."

I hung up and, of course, couldn't close my eyes for the rest of

the night. I was distraught, feeling ill, until I saw the streaks of a

mouse-colored dawn in the Paris sky through the skylight in my

bedroom. Why was she calling me periodically? Because I must be

one of the few stable things in her intense life, the faithful idiot in

love who was always there, waiting for the call that would make her

feel she was still what she no doubt was beginning not to be

anymore, what she soon would not be again: young, beautiful, loved,

desirable. Or, perhaps, she needed something from me? It wasn't

impossible. A gap had suddenly appeared in her life that the little

pissant could fill. And with that icy character of hers, she wouldn't

hesitate to look for me, certain there was no pain, no humiliation

that she, with her infinite power over my feelings, couldn't erase

after two minutes of conversation. Knowing her, it was certain she'd

be obstinate; she'd go on insisting, every few months, or years. No,

this time you're wrong. I won't talk to you again on the phone,

Permian girl.

Now she had called for the fourth time. From where? I asked

Elena Gravoski but, to my surprise, she said she hadn't answered

that call or any other during my trip to Brussels.

"Then it was Simon. Hasn't he said anything to you?"

"He doesn't even set foot in your apartment. He comes home

from the institute when Yilal is eating supper."

But then, was it Yilal who spoke to the bad girl?

Elena turned pale.

"Don't ask him," she said, lowering her voice. She was as white as

a sheet. "Don't make the slightest allusion to the message he gave

you."

Was it possible Yilal had spoken to Kuriko? Was it possible the

boy broke his silence when his parents weren't nearby and couldn't

see or hear him?

"Let's not think about that, let's not talk about that," Elena

repeated, making an effort to compose her voice and appear natural.

"What has to happen, will happen. In its own time. If we try to force

it, we'll make everything worse. I've always known it would happen,

that it will happen. Let's change the subject, Ricardo. What's this

about the bad girl? Who is she? Tell me about her."

We were drinking coffee in her house, after supper, and talking

quietly so as not to disturb Simon, who was in the next room, his

study, revising a report he had to present the following day at a

seminar. Yilal had gone to bed a while ago.

"An old story," I replied. "I've never told anybody about it. But

look, I think I'll tell you, Elena. So you'll forget what happened with

Yilal."

And I did tell her. From start to finish, from the distant days of

my childhood, when the arrival of Lucy and Lily, the false Chileans,

disturbed the tranquil streets of Miraflores, to the night of

passionate love in Tokyo—the most beautiful night of love in my

life—abruptly cut off by the sight, in the shadows of the room, of Mr.

Fukuda watching us from behind his dark glasses, his hands moving

inside his fly. I don't know how long I talked. I don't know exactly

when Simon appeared and sat down next to Elena and began to

listen to me, as silent and attentive as she was. I don't know when I

began to cry, and, embarrassed by this emotional outburst, fell

silent. It took me a while to regain my composure. As I stammered

excuses, I saw Simon stand and then come back with glasses and a

bottle of wine.

"It's the only thing I have, wine, a very cheap Beaujolais," he said

in apology, patting me on the shoulder. "I imagine in cases like this

a nobler drink would be more appropriate."

"Whiskey, vodka, rum, cognac, of course!" said Elena. "This

house is a disaster. We never have what we ought to have. We're

terrible hosts, Ricardo."

"I've messed up your report for tomorrow with my little

performance, Simon."

"Something much more interesting than my report," he declared.

"Aside from that, the nickname fits you like a glove. Not in the

pejorative but in the literal sense. That's what you are, mon vieux,

though you don't like it: a good boy."

"Do you know, it's a marvelous love story?" exclaimed Elena,

looking at me in surprise. "Because that's what it is, basically. A

marvelous love story. This melancholy Belgian has never loved me

like that. I envy her, chico."

"I'd like to meet this Mata Hari," said Simon.

"Over my dead body," Elena threatened, tugging at his beard. "Do

you have any pictures of her? Will you show them to us?"

"Not even one. As I recall, we never took a picture together,"

"The next time she calls, I beg you to answer that phone," said

Elena. "The story can't end like this, with a phone ringing and

ringing, like something in Hitchcock's worst movie."

"Besides," said Simon, lowering his voice, "you have to ask her if

Yilal talked to her."

"I'm mortified," I said, apologizing for the second time. "I mean,

crying and everything."

"You didn't see it, but Elena shed a few tears too," Simon said. "I

would have joined you two if I weren't Belgian. My Jewish ancestors

inclined me to weeping. But the Walloon prevailed. A Belgian

doesn't fall into the emotionalism of tropical South Americans."

"To the bad girl, to that fantastic woman!" said Elena, raising her

glass. "Holy God, what a boring life I've had."

We drank the entire bottle of wine, and with the laughter and

jokes, I felt better. To prevent my feeling uncomfortable, not once in

the days and weeks that followed did my friends the Gravoskis make

the slightest reference to what I had told them. In the meantime, I

decided that if the Permian girl called again, I would talk to her. So

she could tell me if the last time she called, she had talked with

Yilal. Was that the only reason? Not the only one. Ever since I

confessed my love affair to Elena Gravoski, it was as if sharing the

story with someone had lifted the burden of rancor, jealousy,

humiliation, and susceptibility that trailed behind it, and I began to

wait for her phone call with anticipation, afraid that because of my

rebuffs of the past two years, it might not happen. I assuaged my

feelings of guilt by telling myself this would in no way signify a

relapse. I would talk to her like a distant friend, and my coldness

would be the best proof that I was truly free of her.

As for the rest, the wait had a fairly good effect on my state of

mind. Between contracts at UNESCO or outside Paris, I resumed the

translation of Ivan Bunin's stories, gave them a final revision, and

wrote a short prologue before sending the manuscript to my friend

Mario Muchnik. "It's about time," he replied. "I was afraid

arteriosclerosis or senile dementia would come to me before your

Bunin." If I was at home when Yilal watched his television program,

I would read him stories. He didn't like the ones I had translated

very much, and he listened more out of politeness than interest. But

he adored the novels of Jules Verne. At the rate of a couple of

chapters a day, I read several to him in the course of that autumn.

The one he liked best—the episodes made him jump up and down

with delight—was Around the World in Eighty Days. Though he was

also fascinated by Michael Strogoff: A Courier to the Czar. Just as

Elena had requested, I never asked him about the call only he could

have received, though I was devoured by curiosity. In the weeks and

months that followed the message for me that he had written on his

slate, I never saw the slightest indication that Yilal was capable of

speaking.

The call came two and a half months after the previous one. I

was in the shower, getting ready to go to UNESCO, when I heard the

phone ring and had a premonition: "It's her." I ran to the bedroom

and picked up the receiver, dropping onto the bed even though I was

wet.

"Are you going to hang up on me this time too, good boy?"

"How are you, bad girl?"

There was a brief silence, and finally, a little laugh.

"Well, well, at last you deign to answer me. May I ask to what I

owe this miracle? Did you get over your fit of anger or do you still

hate me?"

I felt like hanging up on her when I heard the lightly mocking

tone and triumphant irony in her words.

"Why are you calling?" I asked. "Why did you call those other

times?"

"I need to talk to you," she said, changing her tone.

"Where are you?"

"I've been here in Paris for a while: Can we see each other for a

moment?"

I was dumbfounded. I had been sure she was still in Tokyo, or in

some distant country, and would never set foot in France again.

Knowing she was here and that I could see her at any time plunged

me into total confusion.

"Just for a little while," she insisted, thinking my silence was

prelude to a refusal. "What I have to tell you is very personal, I

prefer not to do it on the phone. No more than half an hour. Not too

long for an old friend, is it?"

We made a date for two days later, when I left UNESCO at six, in

La Rhumerie on Saint-Germain-des-Pres (the bar had always been

called La Rhumerie Martiniquaise, but recently, for some

mysterious reason, it had lost its nationality). When I hung up, my

heart was pounding in my chest. Before going back to the shower, I

had to sit for a while with my mouth open until my respiration

returned to normal. What was she doing in Paris? Special little jobs

for Fukuda? Opening the European market to exotic aphrodisiacs

made of elephant tusks and rhinoceros horns? Did she need my help

in her smuggling operations, money laundering, or other criminal

business? It had been stupid of me to answer the phone. It would be

the same old story all over again. We'd talk, I'd submit again to the

power she always had over me, we'd have a brief false idyll, I'd have

all kinds of illusions, and when least expected she would disappear

and I'd be left battered and bewildered, licking my wounds as I had