The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  Since leaving Peru (because you turned me down), I’ve been working in the United States and have done fairly well. In ten years I have become a manager and member of the executive board of a thriving electrical-conductor factory in the state of Massachusetts. As an engineer and entrepreneur, I have made my way in this, my second country, for I became an American citizen four years ago.

  I wanted to let you know that I have just resigned my position and am selling my stock in the firm, from which I expect to make a profit of $600,000—with luck, a little more. I am doing this because I have been offered the presidency of TIM (Technological Institute of Mississippi), the college I attended and with which I have maintained a close relationship. A third of the student body is now Hispanic (Latin American). My salary will be half of what I earn here. I don’t care. I look forward to devoting myself to the education of young people from the two Americas, who will build the twenty-first century. I always dreamed of dedicating my life to Academe, and this is what I would have done if I had remained in Peru, that is, if you had married me.

  “What’s the point of all this?” you must be asking yourself. “Why has Modesto returned after ten years to tell me this story?” I’m getting there, my darling Lucrecia.

  I have decided that during the week between my departure from Boston and my arrival in Oxford, Mississippi, I will spend $100,000 of my $600,000 on a vacation. I have, by the way, never taken a vacation and do not plan to take one in the future, because, as you may remember, I’ve always liked working. My job is still my favorite diversion. But if my plans materialize, as I hope they do, this week will be something quite out of the ordinary. Not the conventional Caribbean cruise or beaches with palm trees and surfers in Hawaii. Something very personal, and unrepeatable: the fulfillment of an old dream. This is where you come in, right through the front door. I know you are married to an honorable Limenian gentleman, a widower and an insurance executive. I am married too, to a gringa, a physician from Boston, and I am happy to the modest extent that marriage allows. I am not proposing that you divorce and take up a new life, not at all. Only that you join me for this ideal week, cherished in my mind for so many years, which circumstances now permit me to make a reality. You will not regret sharing these seven days of illusion with me, days you will remember fondly for the rest of your life, I promise.

  We will meet on Saturday the 17th at Kennedy Airport in New York, where you will arrive from Lima on Lufthansa, and I will fly in from Boston. A limousine will take us to the suite at the Plaza Hotel, which I have already reserved, along with the flowers I have selected to perfume it. You will have time to rest, have your hair done, visit a sauna, or go shopping on Fifth Avenue, which is literally at your feet. That night we have tickets to the Metropolitan Opera to see Puccini’s Tosca, with Luciano Pavarotti as Mario Cavaradossi and the Metropolitan Orchestra under the direction of Maestro Edouardo Muller. We will dine at Le Cirque, where, with luck, you can rub elbows with Mick Jagger, Henry Kissinger, or Sharon Stone. We will end the evening at the glamorous and exciting Regine’s.

  The Concorde to Paris leaves at noon on Sunday, and there will be no need for us to rise early. Since the flight takes less than three and a half hours—apparently one is hardly aware of the passage of time, thanks to the luncheon delicacies prepared under the supervision of Paul Bocuse—it will still be day when we reach the City of Light. After we have registered at the Ritz (a view of the Place Vendôme guaranteed), there will be time for a stroll along the bridges over the Seine, enjoying the mild evenings of early autumn, the loveliest season, according to connoisseurs, as long as it doesn’t rain. (I have failed in my efforts to determine the chances of fluvial precipitation in Paris on Sunday and Monday, since NASA, which is to say the science of meteorology, predicts the whims of heaven only four days in advance.) I have never been to Paris, and I hope you have not either, so that on our evening walk from the Ritz to Saint-Germain we will discover together what is, by all accounts, an astonishing itinerary. On the Left Bank (in other words, the Parisian Miraflores) we can look forward to a performance of Mozart’s unfinished Requiem at the Abbey of Saint-Germain des Prés, and supper chez Lipp, an Alsatian brasserie where the choucroute is obligatory (I don’t know what that is, but as long as it has no garlic, I’ll like it). I’ve assumed that when supper is over you will probably wish to rest in order to be fresh for our busy schedule on Monday, and therefore that night we will not be caught up in a whirl of discotheques, bars, boîtes, or caves that stay open until dawn.

  The next morning we will visit the Louvre to pay our respects to La Gioconda, have a light lunch at La Closerie de Lilas or La Coupole (the restaurants in Montparnasse so revered by snobs), and in the afternoon we will dip into the avant-garde at the Centre Pompidou and make a quick visit to the Marais, famous for its eighteenth-century palaces and contemporary faggots. We will have tea at La Marquise de Sévigné, at La Madeleine, before returning to the hotel for a refreshing shower. Our program that night is completely frivolous: an apéritif at the Ritz Bar, supper in the modernist decor of Maxim’s, and to round off the festivities, a visit to that cathedral of striptease the Crazy Horse Saloon, with its brand-new revue, It’s So Hot! (Tickets have been purchased, tables reserved, and maîtres d’s and doormen bribed to assure the best locations, tables, and service.)

  On Tuesday morning a limousine, less showy but more refined than the one in New York, complete with driver and guide, will take us to Versailles to visit the palace and gardens of the Sun King. We will eat a typical meal (steak and fried potatoes, I’m afraid) at a bistro along the way, and before the opera (Verdi’s Otello, with Plácido Domingo, of course) you will have time for shopping on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, very close to the hotel. We will have a simulacrum of supper, for purely visual and sociological reasons, at the Ritz, where—dixit the expert—the sumptuous ambiance and elegant service compensate for an unimaginative menu. We will have our real supper after the opera, at La Tour d’Argent, from whose windows we will bid a fond farewell to the towers of Notre Dame and the lights of the bridges reflected in the flowing waters of the Seine.

  The Orient Express to Venice leaves on Wednesday at noon, from the Gare Saint Lazare. We will spend that day and night traveling and resting, but according to those who have engaged in this railway adventure, passing through the landscapes of France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Italy in those belle époque compartments is relaxing and instructive, stimulating but not fatiguing, exciting but in moderation, and entertaining, if only for archaeological reasons, because of the tastefully restored elegance of the compartments, restrooms, bars, and dining cars of that legendary train, the setting for so many novels and films of the years between the wars. I will bring with me Agatha Christie’s novel Murder on the Orient Express, in both English and Spanish, in case you wish to enhance your view of the locales where the action occurs. According to the prospectus, for our supper à la chandelle that evening, formal wear and deep décolletage are de rigueur.

  Our suite at the Hotel Cipriani, on the island of Giudecca, has a view of the Grand Canal, the Piazza di San Marco, and the swelling Byzantine towers of its church. I have hired a gondola and the man considered by the agency to be the best-informed (and only good-natured) guide in the lacustrine city, so that on Thursday morning and afternoon he can familiarize us with the churches, plazas, convents, bridges, and museums, including a short break at noon for a snack—a pizza, for example—surrounded by pigeons and tourists on the terrazza of the Florian. We will have a drink—an inevitable concoction called a Bellini—at the Hotel Danieli, and our supper at Harry’s Bar, immortalized in a wretched novel by Hemingway. On Friday we will continue the marathon with a visit to the Lido and an excursion to Murano, where glass is still shaped by human breath (a technique that preserves tradition as it strengthens the lungs of the natives). There will be time for souvenirs and a furtive glance at a villa by Palladio. At night, a concert on the isle of San Giorgio—I Musici Veneti—performing
music by Venetian baroque composers, of course: Vivaldi, Cimarosa, and Albinoni. Supper will be on the terrazza of the Danieli, where, if the sky is clear, we can watch (I cite the guidebooks) the lights of Venice like a mantle of fireflies. We will take our leave of the city and the Old Continent, my dear Lucre, if our bodies permit, surrounded by modernity in the discotheque Il Gatto Nero, which attracts old, middle-aged, and youthful jazz fans (something you and I have never been, but one of the requirements of this ideal week is to do what we have never done, subject as we are to the servitude of the mundane).

  The following morning—the seventh day, with the word “end” looming on the horizon—we will have to rise early. The plane to Paris leaves at ten, connecting with the Concorde to New York. As we fly over the Atlantic, we will sort through the images and sensations stored in our memories, selecting those that deserve to endure.

  We will say goodbye at Kennedy Airport (your flight to Lima and mine to Boston leave at almost the same time), no doubt never to see one another again. I do not think our paths will cross a second time. I will not return to Peru, and I do not believe you will ever set foot in the remote corner of the Deep South that, beginning in October, will boast of the only Hispanic college president in this country (the 2,500 others are gringos, African Americans, or Asians).

  Will you come? Your passage is waiting for you in the offices of Lufthansa in Lima. You don’t need to send me a reply. On Saturday the 17th I will be at the appointed place. Your presence or absence will be your response. If you do not come, I will follow this itinerary alone, fantasizing that you are with me, making real this whim that has been my consolation for years, thinking of a woman who, despite the rejection that changed my life, will always be the very heart of my memory.

  Need I point out that this is an invitation to honor me with your company and does not imply any obligation other than your presence? I am in no way asking you, during the days of our travels together—I can think of no other euphemism for saying this—to share my bed. My darling Lucrecia, my only desire is that you share my dream. The suites reserved in New York, Paris, and Venice have separate bedrooms with doors under lock and key, and if your scruples demand it, I can add daggers, hatchets, revolvers, and even bodyguards. But you know none of that will be necessary, and for the entire week this virtuous Modesto, this gentle Pluto, as they called me in the neighborhood, will be as respectful of you as I was years ago in Lima, when I tried to persuade you to marry me and barely had the courage to touch your hand in darkened movie theaters.

  Until we meet at Kennedy, or goodbye forever, Lucre,

  Modesto (Pluto)

  Don Rigoberto felt assailed by the high temperature and tremors of tertian fever. How would Lucrecia respond? Would she indignantly reject this letter from Lazarus? Or would she succumb to frivolous temptation? In the milky light of dawn, it seemed to him that his notebooks were waiting for the denouement as impatiently as his tormented spirit.

  Imperatives of the Thirsty Traveler

  This is an order from your slave, beloved.

  Before a mirror, on a bed or sofa adorned with hand-painted silks from India or Indonesian batik with circular eyes, you will lie on your back, undressed, and loosen your long black hair.

  You will raise your left leg, bending it until it forms an angle. You will rest your head on your right shoulder, partially open your lips, and, crushing a corner of the sheet in your right hand, you will lower your eyelids, feigning sleep. You will imagine a yellow river of butterfly wings and stardust descending from heaven and entering you.

  Who are you?

  The Danaë of Gustav Klimt, naturally. No matter the model he used to paint this oil (1907-8), the master anticipated you, foretold you, saw you just as you would come into the world, just as you would be half a century later, on the other side of the ocean. He believed he was re-creating a figure from Hellenic mythology with his brushes, when he was actually pre-creating you, future beauty, loving wife, sensual stepmother.

  Only you among women, in this painterly fantasy, combine an angel’s virtuous perfection, innocence, and purity with a boldly terrestrial body. Today I pass over the firmness of your breasts and the assertiveness of your hips to pay exclusive homage to the consistency of your thighs, a temple to whose columns I would like to be tied, then whipped because I have misbehaved.

  All of you brings joy to my senses.

  Velvet skin, aloe saliva, oh delicate lady of unwithering elbows and knees, awaken, regard yourself in the mirror, tell yourself, “I am worshipped and admired above all others, I am desired as watery mirages in the desert are longed for by the thirsty traveler.”

  Lucrecia-Danaë, Danaë-Lucrecia.

  This is a plea from your master, slave.

  The Ideal Week

  “My secretary called Lufthansa and, in fact, your paid passage is waiting there,” said Don Rigoberto. “Round trip. First class, of course.”

  “Was I right to show you the letter, my love?” exclaimed Doña Lucrecia in great alarm. “You’re not angry, are you? We promised never to hide anything from each other, and I thought I ought to show it to you.”

  “You did just the right thing, my queen,” said Don Rigoberto, kissing his wife’s hand. “I want you to go.”

  “You want me to go?” Doña Lucrecia smiled, looked somber, then smiled again. “Are you serious?”

  “I beg you to go,” he insisted, his lips on his wife’s fingers. “Unless the idea displeases you. But why should it? Even though the plan is that of a rather vulgar nouveau riche, it has been worked out in a spirit of joy and with an irony not at all frequent in engineers. You will have a good time, my dear.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Rigoberto,” Doña Lucrecia stammered, making an effort not to blush. “It’s very generous of you, but…”

  “I’m asking you to accept for selfish reasons,” her husband explained. “And you know that selfishness is a virtue in my philosophy. Your trip will be a great experience for me.”

  Doña Lucrecia knew from Don Rigoberto’s eyes and expression that he was serious. And so she did take the trip, and on the eighth day she returned to Lima. At Córpac she was met by her husband and Fonchito, who was holding a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers with a card that read: Welcome home, Stepmamá. They greeted her with many displays of affection, and Don Rigoberto, to help her conceal her discomfort, asked endless questions about the weather, going through customs, changes in schedule, jet lag and fatigue, avoiding anything approaching sensitive material. On the way to Barranco he provided her with a meticulous accounting of events at the office and Fonchito’s school, and their breakfasts, lunches, and dinners during her absence. The house sparkled with extravagant order and cleanliness. Justiniana had even had the curtains washed and the fertilizer in the garden replaced, tasks usually reserved for the end of the month.

  The afternoon was spent unpacking suitcases, talking to the servants about practical matters, and answering phone calls from friends and relations who wanted to know how she had enjoyed her trip to Miami to shop for Christmas presents (the official version of her adventure). The atmosphere was absolutely uncharged when she took out gifts for her husband, her stepson, and Justiniana. Don Rigoberto liked the French ties, the Italian shirts, and the sweater from New York, and Fonchito looked marvelous in the jeans, leather jacket, and athletic gear. Justiniana gave a cry of enthusiasm when she tried on the duck-yellow dress over her smock.

  After supper, Don Rigoberto withdrew to the bathroom and took less time than usual with his ablutions. When he emerged, he found the bedroom in darkness cut by indirect lighting that illuminated only the two engravings by Utamaro depicting the incompatible but orthodox matings of the same couple, the man endowed with a long, corkscrew member, the woman with a Lilliputian sex, the two of them surrounded by kimonos billowing like storm clouds, paper lanterns, floor mats, low tables holding a porcelain tea service, and, in the distance, bridges spanning a sinuous river. Doña Lucrecia lay beneath
the sheets, not naked, he discovered when he slipped in beside her, but in a new nightgown—purchased and worn on her trip?—that allowed his hands the freedom necessary to reach her most intimate corners. She turned on her side, and he could slide his arm under her shoulders and feel her from head to foot. He did not crush her to him but kissed her, very tenderly, on the eyes and cheeks, taking his time to reach her mouth.

  “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to,” he lied into her ear with a boyish coquetry that inflamed her impatience as his lips traced the curve of her ear. “Whatever you have a mind to. Or nothing at all, if you prefer.”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” Doña Lucrecia murmured, searching for his mouth. “Isn’t that why you sent me?”

  “That’s one reason,” Don Rigoberto agreed, kissing her on the neck, the hair, her forehead, returning again and again to her nose, cheeks, and chin. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you have a good time?”

  “Whether it was good or bad will depend on what happens now between you and me,” said Señora Lucrecia hurriedly, and Don Rigoberto felt his wife become tense for a moment. “Yes, I enjoyed myself. Yes, I had a good time. But I was always afraid.”

  “Afraid I would be angry?” Now Don Rigoberto was kissing her firm breasts, millimeter by millimeter, and the tip of his tongue played with her nipples, feeling them harden. “That I would make a scene and be jealous?”

  “That you would suffer,” Doña Lucrecia whispered, embracing him.

  “She’s beginning to perspire,” Don Rigoberto observed to himself. He felt joy as he caressed her increasingly responsive body, and he had to bring his mind to bear to control the vertigo that was overtaking him. He whispered into his wife’s ear that he loved her more, much more than before her trip.