The Way to Paradise

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  His friends looked at him uncomprehendingly. You explained that the economic catastrophe had ruined every Frenchman, except for you. For you it meant emancipation. As a sequel, the crash brought about major political upheaval. Anarchists were hunted down, and Kropotkin was taken prisoner. Camille Pissarro went into hiding, and there was panic in many poor and bourgeois homes. But you, Paul, completely indifferent to these events, continued painting, bursting with impatience. When the Lyon stock exchange closed, Mette had a nervous attack and cried as if someone she loved had died. When the Paris exchange closed, she stopped eating for several days, growing thin and haggard. You were very happy. That year, you showed eleven oil paintings, one pastel, and a sculpture at the Seventh Impressionist Exhibition. In August 1883, when your boss at the financial office called you in to tell you, his voice shaking and an expression of remorse on his face, that given the dire situation, he had to let you go, you did something that flabbergasted him: you kissed his hands, while crying euphorically, “Thank you. You’ve just made me a real artist.” Wild with joy, you ran to tell Mette that from now on you would never set foot in an office again, and instead would devote yourself exclusively to painting. Speechless and deathly pale, after blinking for a long moment, Mette tumbled senseless to your feet.

  “By then, I was much changed,” Paul added, cheerfully. “I drank more than I used to. Cognac at home, and absinthe at La Nouvelle Athènes. I spent long stretches of time alone, playing the harmonium, because that inspired me to paint. And I began to dress outlandishly, like a bohemian, to provoke the bourgeoisie. I was thirty-five. My real life was just beginning, friends.”

  Suddenly, the thunder ceased, and the rain lessened a little. The thirty waterfalls that spouted in Atuona on rainy days from the peaks of Temetiu and Feani had multiplied, and the Make Make spilled over both its banks. Soon a wide ribbon of water crept into the studio and flooded it. Nodding at the fog that surrounded them, Ben Varney sang softly, “It’s like being on a whaler.” In just a few minutes, they were up to their ankles in muddy water. Soaked, they went to look outside. The whole area was inundated, and a newly fledged river—carrying branches, trunks, greenery, mud, and cans—flowed along toward the main street, taking the garden of the House of Pleasure with it.

  “Do you know what that shape there is?” Tioka pointed at some patches that were denser than the clouds settled low over Atuona. “That thing the current is carrying toward the sea? My house. I hope it isn’t taking my vahine and my children, too.”

  He spoke coolly, with the calm Marquesan stoicism that had so impressed Koké from his first day in Hiva Oa. Tioka waved goodbye and strode off, in water up to his knees. The curtains of rain and fog swallowed him up almost instantly. Then Ky Dong, Poseidon Frébault, and Ben Varney finally reacted, though very differently from Tioka. In seconds, their fright and surprise had erased the effects of the alcohol. What should they do? They had better run and see if their families were all right, and perhaps take refuge on the cemetery hill. On this flat ground they were much more exposed to the fury of the gale. And if a tsunami struck, farewell Atuona.

  “You have to come with us, Paul,” insisted Ky Dong. “Your hut won’t stand. This isn’t an ordinary storm. It’s a hurricane, a typhoon. You’ll be safer up there with us, in the cemetery.”

  “Slogging through the mud with my legs in this state?” he said with a laugh. “Why, I can scarcely walk, my friends. You go ahead. I’ll stay here, waiting. The end of the world is my element, gentlemen!”

  He watched them go, huddled, splashing, the water up to their knees, toward the now-vanished path that became the main street of Atuona once it passed that clump of bushes. Would they make it safely? Yes, they had experience of bad weather like this. And you, Paul? What Ky Dong had said was true; the House of Pleasure was a fragile construction of bamboo, palm leaves, and wooden beams that only by some marvel had managed to withstand the wind and rain so far. If the storm lasted, it would collapse and be swept away, and you with it. Was this an acceptable way of dying? Slightly ridiculous, perhaps. But no more ridiculous than dying of pneumonia. Or slowly rotting away from the unspeakable illness. Since there wasn’t a single dry corner in the House of Pleasure, or anywhere to shelter from the buffeting of the wind and rain, he moved slowly—his legs hurt him very much now—to pour another glass of absinthe. He picked up his drenched harmonium and began to play, mechanically. He had learned to master the difficult instrument as a boy, on board ship, when he served in the merchant marine. Music filled the empty places in his soul, soothing him at moments of frustration or discouragement. When he was immersed in a painting or a sculpture—rarely now, since his sight was so bad—it gave him energy, ideas, something of his old will to achieve elusive perfection. Would it come as a surprise, dying like this, Paul? On a remote little island in the middle of the Pacific, in the Marquesas, the most isolated spot on earth? Well, you had decided long ago that you would die among the savages, like just another savage yourself. But then he remembered the old blind woman who had made him feel like a foreigner.

  She had appeared out of nowhere a few weeks before, at dusk, leaning on a cane, while Koké was up on the second floor straining his poor eyes to see the deserted island of Hanakee and the Bay of Traitors, which at this time of day were tinted pink by the setting sun. The old woman came into the yard, the dog barking and the two cats yowling, and shouted a few words in Maori that alerted Koké to her presence. She seemed a straggly bundle, a formless being, rather than a woman. She was dressed in rags that she had probably picked out of a rubbish heap, patched and mended with string. Feeling her way with her cane, which she tapped rapidly left and right, she found the path to the house, and—mysteriously—to Paul, who came to meet her. They stood face to face in the sculpture studio, precisely where Koké sat now, frozen to death and staving off his fear with absinthe. Was she blind or was she pretending? When she was very close to him he saw her milky corneas. Yes, she was blind. Before Paul could open his mouth, the woman, sensing he was there, raised her hand and touched his naked chest. Calmly, she felt his arms, shoulders, navel. Then, pushing aside his pareu, she felt his belly and grasped his testicles and penis. She weighed them in her hand, as if testing them. Then her face soured and she exclaimed, disgusted, “Popa’a.” It was an expression that Koké knew; it was what the Maori called Europeans. Without another word, and without waiting for the food or gift for which she had come, the old blind woman turned and left, feeling her way out. Being nothing more to them than a foreigner with a hooded cock was just another of your failures, Koké.

  He woke up the next morning with his harmonium in his arms. He had fallen asleep on the table full of glasses and bottles, which were now scattered all over the floor. The water was beginning to retreat from his studio, but havoc and desolation lay all around. Nevertheless, the House of Pleasure had resisted the hurricane, although it was damaged in places and part of its roof was gone. And up above, in the pale blue sky, the rising sun was beginning to warm the earth.

  19

  THE MONSTER-CITY

  BÉZIERS AND CARCASSONNE, AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 1844

  At times, Flora compared her travels in the south of France to Virgil and Dante’s descent into hell: each city on her itinerary was uglier, dirtier, and more craven than the next. In foul-smelling Béziers, for example, where she spent the night in the unbearable Hôtel des Postes, at which none of the porters or even the manager spoke anything but Provençal, she couldn’t get permission to hold a meeting in a single factory or workshop. Bosses and workers barred every door to her for fear of the authorities. And the eight workers who did agree to talk to her took so many precautions—they came to the hotel at night, they entered by the back door—and were so terrified of losing their jobs that Flora didn’t even try to suggest that they form a Workers’ Union committee.

  She was only in Béziers for two days, at the end of August 1844. When she got on the mail boat to Carcassonne, she felt as if she were being
freed from jail. So as not to be seasick, she stayed on deck with the passengers who hadn’t taken cabins. There, she instigated a quarrel that almost ended in blows, by urging a spahi, a colonial soldier recently returned from Algeria, and a young sailor in the merchant marine, to judge which of their jobs was more useful to society. The sailor said that ships carried passengers and goods and facilitated commerce, whereas soldiers were good only for killing. The spahi, indignant, showed his scars, and replied that the army had just conquered a colony in the north of Africa that was three times as large as France itself. When he grew incensed and began to hurl abuse, Flora shut him up.

  “You’re living proof that the French army still turns its conscripts into brutes, as it did in the time of Napoléon.”

  It would be six more hours until they reached Carcassonne. She sat on a bench in the stern, huddled against some rope, and fell asleep at once. She dreamed of Olympia. It was the first time you had dreamed of her since leaving Paris seven months ago, Florita.

  A pleasant dream, sweet, faintly exciting, nostalgic. You had only good memories of your friend, to whom you owed so much. But you didn’t regret having broken things off with her so abruptly when you returned from England in the fall of 1839, because that would mean you regretted your crusade to transform the world through intelligence and love. Although you had met her at the Opéra ball you attended dressed as a Gypsy—she was the slender woman with piercing eyes who kissed your hand—you began your friendship with Olympia Maleszewska only months later. She was the granddaughter of a celebrated orientalist, professor at the Sorbonne, and she had worked to liberate Poland from the yoke of imperial Russia. She was a member of the National Polish Committee, which met in exile in France, and she had married one of its leaders, Léonard Chodzko, a historian and patriot who worked at the library of Sainte-Geneviève. But Olympia was primarily a society hostess. She had a well-known salon, which was attended by literary figures, artists, and politicians, and when Flora received an invitation to Olympia’s Thursday-evening gatherings, she decided to attend. The house was elegant, the reception gracious, and many famous people were there. Here, the actress of the moment, Marie Dorval, brushed elbows with the novelist George Sand; there, Eugène Sue stood beside the Saint-Simonian Father, Prosper Enfantin. Olympia presided with exquisite tact and hospitality. She welcomed you affectionately, introducing you to her friends with great ceremony. She had read Peregrinations of a Pariah, and her admiration of your book seemed sincere.

  Since Olympia was so insistent that you visit her salon again, you did, several times, and you always enjoyed yourself. On the third or fourth time, Olympia was helping you take off your coat in the dressing room and smoothing your hair—“I’ve never seen you look so radiant, Flora”—when suddenly she put her arms around your waist, pulled you to her, and kissed you on the lips. It was so unexpected that you, aflame from head to toe, didn’t know what to do. (For the first time in your life, Florita.) Blushing, confused, you stood rooted in place, staring wordlessly at Olympia.

  “If you hadn’t guessed already, now you know that I love you,” Olympia said, laughing. And taking you by the hand, she dragged you out to meet the other guests.

  Many times you had asked yourself why you stayed at the salon that afternoon. Had it been a man who had kissed you, you would have slapped him and immediately left the house. You were dazed and disconcerted, but not angry, and you felt no desire to go. Was it simple curiosity, or something else? What did it mean, Andalusa? What would happen next? When, a few hours later, you announced that you were leaving, the mistress of the house took you by the arm and led you to the dressing room. She helped you put on your coat and your little hat with a veil. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, Flora?” she whispered warmly in your ear.

  “I don’t know if I’m angry or not. I’m confused. I’ve never been kissed on the mouth by a woman before.”

  “I’ve loved you ever since I saw you that night at the Opéra,” said Olympia, gazing into your eyes. “Can we see each other alone, to get to know each other better? I beg it of you, Flora.”

  They did see each other, took tea together, and drove in a fiacre around Neuilly, as Flora, telling the story of her marriage to André Chazal, brought tears to her friend’s ardent eyes. You confessed that, since your marriage, you had always felt instinctively repelled by the sexual act and that, as a result, you had never had a lover. With infinite delicacy and tenderness, Olympia, kissing your hands, begged you to let her show you how sweet and delightful pleasure could be between two friends who loved each other. After that, whenever they met or parted, they searched for each other’s lips.

  It wasn’t much later that they made love for the first time, in a little country house near Pontoise where the Chodzkos summered and spent weekends. A complicit rustle came from the nearby poplars swaying in the breeze, birds could be heard chirping, and in a room warmed by a fire in the hearth, the enervating, enveloping atmosphere slowly overcame Flora’s defenses. Passing swallows of champagne from her own mouth to Flora’s, Olympia helped her to undress. Confidently, Olympia undressed, too, and taking Flora in her arms, laid her on the bed, whispering tender words. After contemplating Flora intently and devoutly, she began to caress her. The pleasure she made you feel was great, Florita, truly great, once those first moments of confusion and wariness were past. She made you feel beautiful, desirable, young, womanly. Olympia showed you that there was no need to be frightened of sex or repulsed by it, that abandoning oneself to desire, giving way to the sensuality of touch and the satisfaction of physical desires, was an intense and impassioned way of living, even if it lasted only hours, or minutes. What delicious egotism, Florita. The discovery of physical pleasure, of love without violence, between equals, made you feel freer, more complete—though even on the days you were happiest with Olympia, you couldn’t help experiencing a feeling of guilt and wastefulness when you abandoned yourself to bodily delights, a sense that you were squandering your energies.

  The relationship lasted somewhat less than two years. Flora couldn’t remember a single time it was sullied by argument, coolness, or harsh words. It was true that they didn’t see each other often, since both of them had many things to do, and Olympia had a husband and home to look after as well, but when they did meet, everything always went marvelously well. They laughed and cavorted together like two girls in love. Olympia was more frivolous and worldly than Flora, and except for Poland and its tragic subjugation, she wasn’t interested in social questions, or the fate of women or workers. And Poland interested her because of her husband, whom she loved very much, in her libertine way. But she was spirited, tireless, and—when she was with you—infinitely loving. Flora enjoyed listening to her relate society intrigue and gossip, because she did it so humorously and ironically. Also, Olympia was an educated woman who had read widely and was well versed in history, art, and politics—subjects she was passionate about—so that intellectually, too, Flora gained much from her friendship. They made love several times in the little house in Pontoise, but also in Olympia’s Paris flat, in Flora’s flat on the rue du Bac, and once, with you dressed as a nymph and she as a silenus, at an inn on the edge of the leafy groves of Marly, where squirrels would come to the windows to eat peanuts from your hands. When Flora left for London for four months in 1839, to write a book on the plight of the poor in that citadel of capitalism, they wrote letters two or three times a week, passionate missives telling how much they missed each other, thought of each other, desired each other, and were counting the days, hours, and minutes until they could see each other again.

  “I devour you with kisses and caresses in all my dreams, Olympia. I adore the darkness of your hair, of your muff. Since I met you, I despise blond women.” Were you thinking these fiery sentences in London as you visited factories, bars, slums, and brothels, disguised as a man, to document your hatred of that paradise for the rich and inferno for the poor? You were, word for word. But then why, as soon as you returned t
o Paris, on the very afternoon of your arrival, did you inform Olympia that your relationship was over, that you could never see each other again? Olympia, always so sure of herself, such a woman of the world, opened her eyes and mouth very wide and turned pale. But she didn’t say anything. She knew you, and she knew that your decision was unappealable. She looked at you, biting her lips, devastated.

  “Not because I don’t love you, Olympia. I do; you are the only person in the world I’ve ever loved. I’ll always be grateful to you for these two years of happiness. But I have a mission, which can’t be fulfilled so long as my mind and feelings are divided between my obligations and you. What I’m about to do requires that I not be distracted by anything or anyone, even you. I must devote myself body and soul to this task. I don’t have much time, my love. And as far as I know, there is no one in France who can replace me. This bullet here could end my life at any moment. At the very least, I must leave things well under way. Don’t hate me for it; forgive me.”

  That was the last time they saw each other. Afterward, you wrote your fierce diatribe against England—Walks in London—and your little book The Workers’ Union, and here you were now, on the Pyrenean fringes of France, in Carcassonne, trying to start a worldwide revolution. Didn’t you regret abandoning sweet Olympia that way, Florita? No. It was your duty to do what you did. Redeeming the exploited, uniting workers, achieving equality for women, bringing justice to the victims of this imperfect world—these things were more important than the marvelous egotism of love, the supreme indifference to one’s fellows that was produced by pleasure. The only feeling you had room for in your life now was love for humanity. There wasn’t even space in your crowded heart for your daughter, Florita. Aline was in Amsterdam, working as a seamstress’s apprentice, and sometimes weeks would go by before you remembered to write her.