The Bad Girl (36 page)

gray, rainy day, and the nearby woods had been stripped of leaves

and almost entirely blasted by winter. The park with the stone

fountain, without swans now, was covered by a wet, depressing mist.

I was shown into a rather spacious room where some people were

sitting in chairs in what looked like family groups. I waited beside a

window through which I could see the fountain, and suddenly I saw

her come in, wearing a bathrobe and sandals, a towel wrapped

around her head like a turban.

"I made you wait, I'm sorry*, I was in the pool, swimming," she

said, standing on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheeks. "I had no idea you

were coming. Just yesterday I received your note from Alexandria.

Are we really going for a honeymoon to a beach in the south of

Spain?"

We sat in the same corner, and she drew her chair close to mine

until our knees were touching. She extended both her hands so I

could grasp them, and that's how we sat, our fingers intertwined, for

the hour our conversation lasted. The change was remarkable. She

had, in fact, recovered, and her body again had a shape, the bones of

her face were no longer visible under the skin of her face, her

cheekbones were no longer prominent. In her eyes the color of dark

honey, the old vivacity and mischief could be seen again, and the

little blue vein wove along her forehead. She moved her full lips

with a coquetry that reminded me of the bad girl of prehistoric

times. I saw that she was confident, serene, happy because of how

well she felt and because, she assured me, she had only very

occasional attacks of the fear that in the past two years had brought

her to the brink of madness.

"You don't need to tell me you're better," I said, kissing her

hands and devouring her with my eyes. "I just have to see you to

know. You're pretty again. I'm so overwhelmed I barely know what

I'm saying."

"And imagine, you've caught me coming out of the pool," she

responded, looking into my eyes in a provocative way. "Wait till you

see me dressed and with my makeup on. It'll knock you flat,

Ricardito."

I had supper with the Gravoskis that night and told them about

the incredible improvement in the bad girl after three weeks of

treatment. They had visited her the previous Sunday and had the

same impression. They were still delighted with Yilal. The boy was

more and more willing to speak, at home and in school, though on

certain days he enclosed himself again in silence. But there could be

no doubt: going back was not a possibility*. He had left the prison

where he had taken refuge and was increasingly integrated into the

community of speaking individuals. That afternoon he greeted me in

Spanish: "You have to tell me about the pyramids, Uncle Ricardo."

I devoted the next few days to cleaning, arranging, and

beautifying the apartment on Rue Joseph Granier, preparing to

receive the patient. I had the curtains and sheets washed and ironed,

hired a Portuguese woman to help me clean and wax the floors, dust

the walls, and wash the linens, and bought flowers for the four large

vases in the house. I placed the package with the Egyptian dancing

outfit on the bed in the bedroom, with a cheerful card. The night

before she was to leave the clinic, I was as eager as a young kid going

out with a girl for the first time.

We went to pick her up in Elena's car, accompanied by Yilal, who

had no classes that day. In spite of the rain and the gray, dull air, I

felt as if streams of golden light were pouring down from the sky

over France. She was ready, waiting for us at the entrance to the

clinic, her suitcase at her feet. She had arranged her hair carefully,

put on a little lipstick and rouge, manicured her hands, and

lengthened her lashes with mascara. She wore a coat I hadn't seen

before, navy blue and belted, with a large buckle. When he saw her,

Yilal's eyes lit up and he ran to embrace her. While the porter placed

her luggage in Elena's car, I went to administration and the woman

with her hair in a bun handed me the bill. It came to approximately

the amount Dr. Zilacxy had predicted: 127,315 francs. I had

deposited 150,000 in my account to pay it and sold all the treasury

bonds where I kept my savings and obtained two loans, one from the

professional credit union I belonged to, which charged very low

interest, and another from my bank, the Societe Generate, at higher

rates. Everything indicated it had been an excellent investment: the

patient looked so much better. The administrator told me to call the

director's secretary for an appointment, since Dr. Zilacxy wanted to

see me. "Alone," she added.

That was a very beautiful night. We had a light supper at the

Gravoskis' apartment, though we did have a bottle of champagne,

and as soon as we returned home, we embraced and kissed for a

long time. At first tenderly, then avidly, passionately, desperately. I

ran my hands over her entire body and helped her to undress. It was

marvelous, her figure, which had always been slim, once again had

curves, sinuous forms, and it was delicious to feel in my hands and

on my lips her small breasts, warm, soft, shapely, with their erect

nipples and puckered areolas. I never wearied of inhaling the

perfume of her depilated underarms. When she was naked I picked

her up and carried her to the bedroom. She watched me undress

with one of those mocking little smiles from the old days.

"Are you going to make love to me?" she incited me, speaking in

a singsong. "But the two months the doctor ordered aren't over yet."

"Tonight I don't care," I replied. "You're too beautiful, and if I

don't make love to you I'll die. Because I love you with all my heart."

"I thought it strange that you hadn't told me any cheap,

sentimental things yet," she said with a laugh.

While I kissed her body, slowly, with infinite delicacy and

immense love, beginning with her hair and ending with the soles of

her feet, I felt her purring, contracting and stretching with

excitement. When I kissed her sex she was very wet, throbbing,

swollen. Her legs tightened around me. But as soon as I entered her,

she howled and burst into tears, her face distorted with pain.

"It hurts, it hurts," she whimpered, pulling me out with both

hands. "I wanted to please you tonight, but I can't, it's tearing me

apart, it hurts."

She cried, kissing me on the mouth in distress, and her hair and

tears were in my eyes and nose. She trembled the way she had when

she suffered a terror attack. I asked her to forgive me for having

been a brute, an irresponsible egotist. I loved her, I'd never make

her suffer, she was for me the most precious, the sweetest, most

tender thing in life. Since the pain didn't lessen, I got up, naked, and

brought from the bathroom a washcloth soaked in warm water, and

with her I gently pressed it on her sex until, gradually, the pain

began to disappear. We wrapped ourselves in the blanket, and she

wanted me to finish in her mouth but I refused. I was sorry I had

made her suffer. Until she was completely healed, what happened

tonight would not be repeated: we would live a chaste life, her

health was more important than my pleasure. She listened, not

saying anything, holding me close, not moving a muscle. But much

later, before she fell asleep, with her arms around my neck and her

lips pressed to mine, she whispered, "I read your letter from

Alexandria ten times at least. I slept with it every night, holding it

between my legs."

The next morning, I called the clinic in Petit Clamart from the

street, and Dr. Zilacxy's secretary gave me an appointment for two

days later. She too specified that the director wanted to see me

alone. In the afternoon I went to UNESCO to explore possibilities

for a contract, but the head of interpreters said there was nothing for

the rest of the month, and he proposed instead to recommend me

for a three-day conference in Bordeaux. I didn't accept. Senor

Charnes's agency didn't have anything for me in Paris or its

outskirts, but since my old patron saw I needed work, he gave me a

pile of documents to translate from Russian and English, at fairly

good pay. And so I settled in to work in my living room, with my

typewriter and my dictionaries. I imposed a schedule of regular

hours on myself. The bad girl prepared cups of coffee for me and

took care of the meals. From time to time, like a newly-wed

attentive to her husband, she came over to embrace my shoulders

and give me a kiss on my back, neck, or ear. But when Yilal arrived

she forgot about me completely and devoted herself to playing with

the boy as if they were the same age. At night, after supper, we

listened to records before going to bed, and sometimes she fell

asleep in my arms.

I didn't tell her I had an appointment at the clinic in Petit

Clamart, and I left the house on the pretext of an interview for a

possible job at a firm on the outskirts of Paris. I arrived at the clinic

half an hour early, dying of the cold, and waited in the visitors'

room, watching light snow fall on the grass. The bad weather had

made the stone fountain and the trees disappear.

Dr. Zilacxy, dressed exactly the same as the first time I saw him a

month earlier, was with Dr. Roullin. I liked her right away. She was

a stout woman, still young, with intelligent eyes and an amiable

smile that almost never left her lips. She held a folder and passed it,

rhythmically, from one hand to the other. They were standing when

they received me, and though there were chairs in the office, they

didn't invite me to sit down.

"How does she seem to you?" the director asked by way of

greeting, making the same impression he had before: he was

someone unwilling to waste time in circumlocutions.

"Magnificent, Doctor," I replied. "She's another person. She's

recuperated, and her shape and color have returned. I find her very

serene. And the terror attacks that tormented her so have

disappeared. She's very grateful to both of you. As am I, of course."

"Fine, fine," said Dr. Zilacxy, rubbing his hands together like a

magician and shifting his weight. "Still, I caution you, in these

things, one can never trust appearances."

"What things, Doctor?" I interrupted, intrigued.

"Things of the mind, my friend," he said with a smile. "If you

prefer to call it the spirit, I have no objection. The lady is fine

physically. Her organism, in fact, has recovered, thanks to a

disciplined life, a good regimen of diet and exercise. Now we must

try to have her follow the instructions we gave her regarding meals.

She shouldn't abandon going to the gym and swimming, which have

done her so much good. But, in matters of the psyche, you'll have to

show a great deal of patience. She is well oriented, I think, though

the road she still has to travel will be a long one."

He looked at Dr. Roullin, who hadn't said a word so far. She

nodded. Something in her penetrating eyes alarmed me. I saw her

open the folder and leaf through it quickly. Were they going to give

me bad news? Only now did the director point to the chairs. They sat

down too.

"Your friend has suffered a great deal," said Dr. Roullin, so

pleasantly that she seemed to mean something very different. "She

has real turmoil inside her head. As a result of how wounded she is.

I mean, because of what she still is suffering."

"But I also find her much improved psychologically," I said, for

the sake of saying something. The preambles of both physicians had

frightened me. "Well, I suppose no woman ever recovers completely

after an experience like the one in Lagos."

There was a brief silence and another rapid exchange of glances

between the director and the doctor. Through the picture window

that faced the park, the falling snowflakes were now denser and

whiter. The garden, the trees, the fountain had disappeared. "That

rape probably never happened, Monsieur," Dr. Roullin said affably,

with a smile. And made a gesture as if in apology.

"It's a fantasy constructed to protect someone, to wipe away

clues," added Dr. Zilacxy, not giving me time to react. "Dr. Roullin

suspected as much in their first interview. And then we confirmed it

when I hypnotized her. The curious thing is her inventing this to

protect someone who, for a long time, for years, systematically used

and abused her. You were aware of that, weren't you?"

"Who is Mr. Fukuda?" Dr. Roullin asked gently. "She speaks of

him with hatred and, at the same time, with reverence. Her

husband? Her lover?"

"Her lover," I stammered. "A sordid individual involved in shady

business dealings with whom she lived in Tokyo for several years.

She told me he dropped her when he found out that the police who

arrested her in Lagos had raped her. Because he thought they had

infected her with AIDS."

"Another fantasy, this one to protect herself," said the director of