The Bad Girl (7 page)

according to excited rumors, she was having a passionate love affair

with Comandante Chacon, second-in-command to Osmani

Cienfuegos, the younger brother of Camilo, the great hero of the

Cuban Revolution who had disappeared. Comandante Osmani

Cienfuegos was head of the organization that lent assistance to all

revolutionary movements and related parties, and the man who

coordinated rebel actions in every corner of the world. Comandante

Chacon, veteran of the Sierra Maestra, was his right arm.

"Can you imagine, that tremendous piece of news was the first

thing I heard." Paul scratched his head. "That skinny thing, that

absolutely ordinary girl, having an affair with one of the historic

comandantes! Comandante Chacon, no less!"

"Couldn't it just be gossip, Paul?"

He shook his head remorsefully, and patted my arm in

encouragement.

"I was with them myself at a meeting in Casa de las Americas.

They're living together. Comrade Arlette, even if you don't believe it,

has become an influential person, sharing bed and table with the

comandantes."

"It's just wonderful for the MIR," I said.

"But shit for you." Paul gave me another little pat. "I'm damn

sorry to have to give you the news, mon vieux. But it's better for you

to know, isn't it? Okay, it's not the end of the world. Besides, Paris is

full of damn fine women. Just look around."

After attempting a few jokes, with absolutely no success, I asked

Paul about Comrade Arlette.

"As the companion of a comandante of the revolution she doesn't

need a thing, I suppose," he said evasively. "Is that what you want to

know? Or if she's richer or uglier than when she was here? Just the

same, I think. A little more tanned by the Caribbean sun. You know,

I never thought she was anything special. I mean, don't make that

face, it's not that important, my friend."

Often, in the days, weeks, and months that followed that meeting

with Paul, I tried to imagine the Chilean girl transformed into

Comandante Chacon's lover, dressed as a guerrilla fighter with a

pistol at her waist, a blue beret, boots, alternating with Fidel and

Raul Castro in the big parades and demonstrations of the revolution,

doing voluntary work on weekends and toiling like a slave in the

cane fields while her small hands with their delicate fingers

struggled to hold the machete and, perhaps, with that facility of hers

for phonetic metamorphosis which I already knew about, speaking

with that lingering, sensual music of people from the Caribbean. The

truth is, I couldn't envision her in her new role: her image trickled

away as if it were liquid. Had she really fallen in love with this

comandante? Or had he been the instrument for her getting out of

guerrilla training and, above all, out of her commitment to the MIR

to wage revolutionary war in Peru? It did me no good at all to think

about Comrade Arlette, since each time I did I felt as if a new ulcer

had opened in the pit of my stomach. To avoid this, and I wasn't

completely successful, I dedicated myself zealously to my classes in

Russian and simultaneous interpretation whenever Senor Charnes,

with whom I got on very well, had no contract for me. And I had to

tell Aunt Alberta—to whom I'd confessed in a letter, in a moment of

weakness, that I was in love with a girl named Arlette, and who was

always asking for her photograph—that we had broken up and from

now on she should put the matter out of her mind.

It must have been six or eight months following the afternoon

that Paul gave me the bad news about Comrade Arlette when, very

early one morning, the fat man, whom I hadn't seen for a while,

came by the hotel so we could have breakfast together. We went to

Le Tournon, a bistrot on the street of the same name, at the corner

of Rue de Vaugirard.

"Even though I shouldn't tell you, I've come to say goodbye," he

said. "I'm leaving Paris. Yes, mon vieux, I'm going to Peru. Nobody

knows about it here, so you don't know anything either. My wife and

Jean-Paul are already there."

The news left me speechless. And suddenly I was filled with a

terrible fear, which I tried to conceal.

"Don't worry," Paul said to calm me, with that smile that puffed

up his cheeks and made him look like a clown. "Nothing will happen

to me, you'll see. And when the revolution triumphs, we'll make you

ambassador to UNESCO. That's a promise!"

For a while we sipped our coffee in silence. My croissant was on

the table, untouched, and Paul, bent on making jokes, said that since

something apparently was taking away my appetite, he'd make the

sacrifice and take care of that crusty half-moon.

"Where I'm going the croissants must be awful," he added.

Then, unable to control myself any longer, I told him he was

going to commit an unforgivable act of stupidity. He wasn't going to

help the revolution, or the MIR, or his comrades. He knew it as well

as I did. His weight, which left him gasping for breath after walking

barely a block on Saint-Germain, would be a tremendous hindrance

to the guerrillas in the Andes, and for that same reason, he'd be one

of the first the soldiers would kill as soon as the uprising began.

"You're going to get yourself killed because of the stupid gossip

of a few rancorous types in Paris who accuse you of being an

opportunist? Think it over, Fats, you can't do something as mindless

as this."

"I don't give a damn what the Peruvians in Paris say, compadre.

It isn't about them, it's about me. This is a question of principle. It's

my obligation to be there."

And he started to crack jokes again and assure me that, in spite

of his 120 kilos, he had passed all the tests in his military training

and, furthermore, had demonstrated excellent marksmanship. His

decision to return to Peru had provoked arguments with Luis de la

Puente and the leadership of the MIR. They all wanted him to stay

in Europe as the movement's representative to friendly

organizations and governments, but he, with his bulletproof

obstinacy, finally got his way. Seeing there was nothing I could do,

and that my best friend in Paris had practically decided to commit

suicide, I asked him if his departure meant that the insurrection

would break out soon.

"It's a question of a couple of months, maybe less."

They had set up three camps in the mountains, one in the

department of Cuzco, another in Piura, and the third in the central

region, on the eastern slope of the Cordillera, near the edge of the

Junin forest. Contrary to my prophecies, he assured me that the

great majority of scholarship recipients had gone to the Andes.

Fewer than ten percent had deserted. With an enthusiasm that

sometimes verged on euphoria, he told me the recipients' return

operation had been a success. He was happy because he had directed

it himself. They had gone back one by one or two by two, following

complicated trajectories that made some of the kids go halfway

around the world to hide their tracks. No one had been found out. In

Peru, De la Puente, Lobaton, and the rest had established urban

support networks, formed medical teams, installed radio stations at

the camps and at scattered hiding places for supplies and explosives.

Contacts with the peasant unions, especially in Cuzco, were

excellent, and they expected that once the rebellion began, many

members of the village communities would join the struggle. He

spoke with joy and certainty, convinced of what he was saying,

exalted. I couldn't hide my sorrow.

"I know you don't believe me at all, Don Incredulous," he finally

murmured.

"I swear I'd like nothing better than to believe you, Paul. And

have your enthusiasm."

He nodded, observing me with his affectionate, full-moon smile.

"And you?" he asked, grasping my arm. "What about you, mon

vieux?"

"Not me, not ever," I replied. "I'll stay here, working as a

translator for UNESCO, in Paris."

He hesitated for a moment, afraid that what he was going to say

might hurt me. It was a question he undoubtedly had been biting his

tongue over for a long time.

"Is this what you want out of life? Nothing but this? All the

people who come to Paris want to be painters, writers, musicians,

actors, theater directors, or get a doctorate, or make a revolution.

You only want this, to live in Paris? I confess, mon vieux, I never

could swallow it."

"I know you couldn't. But it's the truth, Paul. When I was a boy, I

said I wanted to be a diplomat, but that was only so they'd send me

to Paris. That's what I want: to live here. Does it seem like a small

thing to you?"

I pointed at the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens: heavy with

green, they overflowed the fences and looked elegant beneath the

overcast sky. Wasn't it the best thing that could happen to a person?

To live, as Vallejo said in one of his lines, among "the leafy chestnut

trees of Paris"?

"Admit that you write poetry in secret," Paul insisted. "That it's

your hidden vice. We've talked about it often, with other Peruvians.

Everybody thinks you write and don't dare admit it because you're

self-critical. Or timid. Every South American comes to Paris to do

great things. Do you want me to believe that you're the exception to

the rule?"

"I swear I am, Paul. My only ambition is to go on living here, just

as I'm doing now."

I walked with him to the Metro station at Carrefour de l'Odeon.

When we embraced, I couldn't stop my eyes from filling with tears.

"Take care of yourself, Fats. Don't do anything stupid up there,

please."

"Yes, yes, of course I will, Ricardo." He gave me another hug. And

I saw that his eyes were wet too.

I stood there, at the entrance to the station, watching him go

down the steps slowly, held back by his round, bulky body. I was

absolutely certain I was seeing him for the last time.

Fat Paul's departure left me feeling empty because he was the

best friend I had during those uncertain times of my settling in

Paris. Fortunately, the temp contracts at UNESCO and my classes in

Russian and simultaneous interpretation kept me very busy, and at

night I returned to my garret in the Hotel du Senat and hardly had

the energy to think about Comrade Arlette or fat Paul. Without

intending to, at that time I believe I began to move away

unconsciously from the Peruvians in Paris, whom I had previously

seen with a certain degree of frequency. I didn't look for solitude,

but after I became an orphan and my aunt Alberta took me in, it

hadn't been a problem for me. Thanks to UNESCO, I no longer

worried about surviving; my translator's salary and occasional

money orders from my aunt were enough for me to live on and to

pay for my Parisian pleasures: movies, art shows, plays, and books. I

was a steady customer at La Joie de Lire bookshop, on Rue Saint-

Severin, and at the bouquinistes on the quays along the Seine. I

went to the National Popular Theater, the Comedie-Fran^aise,

l'Odeon, and from time to time to concerts at the Salle Pleyel.

And during that time I also had the beginnings of a romance with

Carmencita, the Spanish girl who, dressed in black from head to toe

like Juliette Greco, sang and accompanied herself on the guitar at

L'Escale, the little bar on Rue Monsieur le Prince frequented by

Spaniards and South Americans. She was Spanish but had never set

foot in her country* because her republican parents couldn't or

wouldn't go back while Franco was alive. The ambiguity of that

situation tormented her and frequently appeared in her

conversation. Carmencita was tall and slim, with hair cut a la garqon

and melancholy eyes. She didn't have a great voice, but it was very

melodious, and she gave marvelous performances of songs based on

roundels, poems, verses, and refrains of the Golden Age, murmuring

them with very effective pauses and emphasis. She had lived for a

couple of years with an actor, and the break with him hurt her so

much that—she told me this with the bluntness I initially found so

shocking in my Spanish colleagues at UNESCO—she didn't "want to

hook up with any guy right now." But she agreed to my taking her to

the movies, to supper, and to the Olympia one night to hear Leo

Ferre, whom we both preferred to Charles Aznavour and Georges

Brassens, the other popular singers of the moment. When we said

good night after the concert, at the Opera Metro station, she said,

brushing my lips, "I'm beginning to like you, my little Permian."

Absurdly enough, whenever I went out with Carmencita I was filled

with disquiet, the feeling I was being unfaithful to the lover of

Comandante Chacon, an individual I imagined as sporting a huge

mustache and strutting around with a pair of pistols on his hips. My

relationship with the Spanish girl went no further because one night

I discovered her in a corner of L'Escale melting with love in the

arms of a gentleman with a neck scarf and heavy sideburns.