The Bad Girl (50 page)

again, and she made a great effort to be affectionate toward me. The

truth is, it didn't disturb me very much to know that a romance had

probably sprung up between Marcella and the choreographer from

Alicante. I never had any great illusions about how long our

relationship would last. And now I also knew that my love for her, if

it was love, was a fairly superficial feeling. I didn't feel hurt or

humiliated, only curious to know when I would have to move and

live alone again. And from then on I began asking myself if I would

stay in Madrid or go back to Paris. Two or three weeks later,

Marcella announced that Victor Almeda had been invited to present

Metamorphosis in Frankfurt, at a modern dance festival. It was an

important opportunity for her to have her work better known in

Germany. What did I think?

"Magnificent," I told her. "I'm sure Metamorphosis will be as

successful there as it has been in Madrid."

"Of course you'll come with me," she said quickly. "You can

translate there and..."

But I caressed her and told her not to be silly and not to look so

distressed. I wouldn't go to Germany, we didn't have the money for

that. I'd stay in Madrid working on my translation. I had confidence

in her. She ought to prepare for her trip and forget everything else,

because it could be decisive for her career. She shed some tears

when she embraced me and said into my ear, "I swear that stupidity

won't ever be repeated, caro"

"Of course, of course, bambina" and I kissed her.

On the day Marcella left for Frankfurt by train—I went to see her

off at Atocha Station—Victor Almeda, who was to leave two days

later by plane with the rest of the company, knocked on the door of

the apartment on Calle Ave Maria. He looked very serious, as if he

were consumed by profound questions. I assumed he had come to

give me some explanation of the episode at the Olimpia, and I

suggested we have coffee at the Barbieri.

In reality, he had come to tell me he and Marcella were in love

and he considered it his moral obligation to let me know. Marcella

didn't want to make me suffer and for that reason sacrificed herself

by staying with me even though she loved him. The sacrifice, in

addition to making her miserable, was going to damage her career.

I thanked him for his candor and asked if, by telling me all this,

he hoped I would resolve the problem for them.

"Well"—he hesitated for a moment—"in a way, yes. If you don't

take the initiative, she never will."

"And why would I take the initiative and break up with a girl I'm

so fond of?"

"Out of generosity and altruism," he said immediately, with a

solemnity so theatrical it made me want to laugh. "Because you're a

gentleman. And because now you know she loves me."

At that moment I realized the choreographer had begun to use

formal address with me. On previous occasions we always had used

tu with each other. Was he trying in this way to remind me I was

twenty years older than Marcella?

"You're not being frank with me, Victor," I said. "Tell me all the

truth. Did you and Marcella plan this visit of yours? Did she ask you

to talk to me because she didn't have the courage?"

I saw him shift in his chair and shake his head no. But when he

opened his mouth, he said yes.

"The two of us made the decision," he admitted. "She doesn't

want you to suffer. She feels all kinds of remorse. But I convinced

her that her first loyalty isn't to other people but to her own

feelings."

I was about to tell him that what I had just heard was a cheap,

sentimental thing, and explain the Peruvianism, but I didn't because

I was sick of him and wanted him to go. And so I asked him to leave

me alone to reflect on everything he had said. I'd make my decision

soon. I wished him much success in Frankfurt and shook his hand.

In reality I already had decided to leave Marcella with her dancer

and return to Paris. Then, what had to happen happened.

Two days later, as I was working in the afternoon in my favorite

spot at the back of the Cafe Barbieri, an elegant female form

suddenly sat down at the table, facing me.

"I won't ask if you're still in love with me because I already know

you're not," said the bad girl. "Cradle snatcher."

My surprise was so enormous that I somehow knocked the halffull

bottle of mineral water to the floor, and it broke and spattered a

boy with spiked hair and tattoos at the next table. While the

Andalusian waitress hurried to pick up the pieces of glass, I

examined the lady who, after three years, had abruptly been

resurrected in the most unpredictable way at the most unexpected

time and place in the world: the Cafe Barbieri in Lavapies.

Though it was late May and warm, she wore a light blue midweight

jacket over an open white blouse, and a fine gold chain

encircled her neck. The careful makeup couldn't hide her drawn

face, the prominent cheekbones, the small bags under her eyes. Only

three years had passed, but ten had fallen on her. She was old. While

the Andalusian waitress cleaned the floor, she drummed on the

table with one hand, the nails carefully tended and polished, as if

she had just come from the manicurist. Her fingers seemed longer

and thinner. She looked at me without blinking, without humor,

and—absolutely the final straw!—she called me to account for my

bad behavior:

"I never would have believed you'd live with a kid still wet

behind the ears who could be your daughter," she repeated

indignantly. "And a hippie besides, who surely never bathes. How

low you've fallen, Ricardo Somocurcio."

I wanted to throttle her and laugh out loud. No, it wasn't a joke:

she was making a jealous scene over me! She, over me!

"You're fifty-three or fifty-four now, aren't you?" she went on,

still drumming on the table. "And how old is this Lolita? Twenty?"

"Thirty-three," I said. "She looks younger, it's true. Because she's

a happy girl, and happiness makes people young. But you don't look

very happy."

"Does she ever bathe?" she asked in exasperation. "Or has old

age given you a taste for that, for dirt?"

"I learned from Yakuza Fukuda," I said. "I discovered that filth

also has its charm in bed."

"In case you're interested, at this moment I hate you with all my

heart and wish you were dead," she said in a muffled voice. She

hadn't taken her eyes off me or blinked once.

"Someone who didn't know you might say you're jealous."

"In case you're interested, I am. But above all, I'm disappointed

in you."

I grasped her hand and forced her to move a little closer to ask

her, out of earshot of our spike-haired, tattooed neighbor: "What's

the meaning of this farce? What are you doing here?"

She dug her nails into my hand before answering me. And

lowered her voice, too.

"You don't know how sorry I am that I looked for you all this

time. But now I know this hippie will make you suffer the torments

of the damned, she'll put horns on you and throw you away like a

dirty rag. x\nd you don't know how happy that makes me."

"I have the perfect training for it, bad girl. In matters of horns

and being abandoned, I know all there is to know and even a little

more."

I released her hand, but as I did, she grasped mine again.

"I swore to myself I wouldn't say anything to you about the

hippie," she said, softening her voice and expression. "But when I

saw you, I couldn't control myself. I still feel like scratching you. Be

a little more gallant and order me a cup of tea."

I called over the Andalusian waitress and tried to let go of the

bad girl's hand, but she still clutched at mine.

"Do you love this disgusting hippie?" she asked. "Do you love her

more than you loved me?"

"I don't think I ever loved you," I assured her. "You're for me

what Fukuda was for you: a sickness. Now I'm cured, thanks to

Marcella."

She scrutinized me for a while and, without releasing my hand,

smiled ironically for the first time and said, "If you didn't love me

you wouldn't have turned so pale and your voice wouldn't be

breaking. Aren't you going to cry, Ricardito? Because you're

something of a weeper, if I remember correctly."

"I promise you I won't. You have the damn habit of turning up

suddenly, like a nightmare, at the most unexpected times. It doesn't

amuse me anymore. The truth is, I never expected to see you again.

What is it you want? What are you doing in Madrid?"

When they brought the cup of tea, I could examine her a little as

she put in a lump of sugar, stirred the liquid, and examined the

spoon, saucer, and cup, turning up her nose. She wore a white skirt

and open white shoes that exposed her small feet, the toenails

painted with transparent polish. Once again her ankles were two

stalks of bamboo. Had she been sick? Only during the time of the

clinic in Petit Clamart had I seen her so thin. She wore her hair

pulled back on each side and held by clips at her ears, which, as

always, looked elegant. It occurred to me that without the rinse to

which it probably owed its black color, her hair must be gray by now,

perhaps white, like mine.

"Everything looks dirty here," she said abruptly, looking around

and exaggerating her expression of disgust. "The people, the place,

cobwebs and dust everywhere. Even you look dirty."

"This morning I showered and soaped myself from top to

bottom, word of honor."

"But you're dressed like a beggar," she said, grasping my hand

again.

"And you, like a queen," I said. "Aren't you afraid they'll mug you

and rob you in a place like this filled with starving people?"

"At this new stage in my life, I'm prepared to risk any danger for

you," she said with a laugh. "Besides, you're a gentleman, you'd

defend me to the death, wouldn't you? Or did you stop being a little

Miraflores gentleman when you got together with the hippies?"

Her rage of a moment ago had passed and now, pressing my

hand firmly, she was laughing. In her eyes was a distant

reminiscence of that dark honey, a little gleam that lit her thin, aged

face.

"How did you find me?"

"It was very hard. It took months. A thousand inquiries,

everywhere. And a lot of money. I was scared to death, I even

thought you had committed suicide. This time for real."

"That kind of absurdity you attempt only once, when love for

some woman has made you feebleminded. Happily, that doesn't

apply to me anymore."

"Trying to find you, I fought with the Gravoskis," she said

suddenly, getting angry again. "Elena treated me very badly. She

refused to give me your address or tell me anything about you. And

she began to lecture me. That I made you miserable, that I almost

killed you, that it was my fault you had a stroke, that I've been the

tragedy of your life."

"Elena said the absolute truth. You have been the misfortune of

my life."

"I told her to go to hell. I don't intend to speak to her or see her

ever again. I'm sorry on account of Yilal, because I don't think I'll

see him again either. Who did that idiot think she was to lecture

me? I think she's in love with you herself."

She shifted in her chair, and I thought she suddenly turned pale.

"May I ask why you were looking for me?"

"I wanted to see you and talk to you," she said, smiling again. "I

missed you. And you missed me too, just a little?"

"You always turn up and look for me between lovers," I said,

trying to pull my hand away from hers. This time I succeeded. "Did

Marline's husband throw you out? Did you come for an interlude in

my arms until you catch another old man in your nets?"

"Not anymore," she interrupted, grasping my hand again and

adopting her old, mocking tone. "I've decided to put an end to my

madness. I'm going to spend my final years with my husband. And

be a model wife."

I started to laugh and she laughed too. She scratched my hand

with her fingers and I felt more and more like tearing her eyes out.

"You, you have a husband? May I ask who he is?"

"I'm still your wife and I can prove it, I have the certificate," she

said, becoming serious. "You're my husband. Don't you remember

we got married in the mairie of the fifth arrondissement?"

"It was a farce, to get you papers," I reminded her. "You've never

really been my wife. You've been with me for periods of time, when

you had problems, for as long as you couldn't get anything better.

Are you going to tell me why you were looking for me? This time, if

you're having problems, I couldn't help you even if I wanted to. But

I don't want to. I don't have a cent and I'm living with a girl whom I

love and who loves me."

"A grimy hippie who'll leave you just like that," she said, getting

angry again. "Who doesn't care about you at all, judging by the way

you walk around. But from now on, I'll take care of you. I'll worry

about you twenty-four hours a day. Like a model wife. That's why