The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa

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    Yahuarina pass. Nine guards, among them the major in command of
    the patrol, died in the fighting. In Lima, there had been bombing
    attacks on the Hotel Crillon and the Club Nacional. The Belaunde
    government had decreed a state of siege throughout the central
    sierra. I felt my heart shrink. That day, and the days that followed, I
    was uneasy, the face of fat Paul etched in my mind.
    Uncle Ataulfo wrote to me from time to time—he had replaced
    Aunt Alberta as my only correspondent in Peru—his letters filled
    with commentary on the political situation. Through him I learned
    that although the guerrilla war was very sporadic in Lima, military
    actions in the central and southern Andes had convulsed the
    country. El Comercio and La Prensa, and Apristas and Odristas now
    allied against the government, were accusing Belaunde Terry of
    weakness in the face of the Castrista rebels, and even of secret
    complicity with the insurrection. The government had made the
    army responsible for suppressing the rebels. "This is turning ugly,
    nephew, and I'm afraid there may be a coup at any moment. You can
    hear the sound of swords crossing in the air. When don't things go
    badly in our Peru!" To his affectionate letters Aunt Dolores would
    always add a message in her own hand.
    In a totally unexpected way, I ended up getting along very- well
    with Monsieur Robert Arnoux. He showed up one day at the Spanish
    office at UNESCO to suggest that, when it was time for lunch, we go
    to the cafeteria to have a sandwich together. For no special reason,
    just to chat for a while, the time needed to have a filtered Gitane, the
    brand we both smoked. After that, he stopped by from time to time,
    when his commitments allowed, and we'd have coffee and a
    sandwich while we discussed the political situation in France and
    Latin America, and cultural life in Paris, about which he was also
    very knowledgeable. He was a man who read and had ideas, and he
    complained that even though working with Rene Maheu was
    interesting, the problem was that he had time to read only on
    weekends and couldn't go to the theater and concerts very
    frequently.
    Because of him I had to rent a dinner jacket and wear formal
    dress for the first and undoubtedly the last time in my life in order
    to attend a benefit for UNESCO—a ballet, followed by dinner and
    dancing—at the Opera. I had never been inside this imposing
    building, adorned with the frescoes Chagall had painted for the
    dome. Everything looked beautiful and elegant to me. But even
    more beautiful and elegant was the ex-Chilean girl and ex-guerrilla
    fighter, who, in an ethereal strapless gown of white crepe with a
    floral print, an upswept hairdo, and jewels at her throat, ears, and
    fingers, left me openmouthed with admiration. The old men who
    were friends of Monsieur Arnoux came up to her all night, kissed
    her hand, and stared at her with glittering, covetous eyes. "Quelle
    beaute exotique!" I heard one of those excited drones say. At last I
    was able to ask her to dance. Holding her tight, I murmured in her
    ear that I'd never even imagined she could ever be as beautiful as
    she was at that moment. And it tore my heart out to think that, after
    the dance, in her house in Passy, it would be her husband and not
    me who would undress her and make love to her. The beaute
    exotique let herself be adored with a condescending little smile and
    then finished me off with a cruel remark: "What cheap, sentimental
    things you say to me, Ricardito." I inhaled the fragrance that floated
    all around her and wanted her so much I could hardly breathe.
    Where did she get the money for those clothes and jewels? I was
    no expert in luxury items, but I realized that to wear those exclusive
    models and change outfits the way she did—each time I saw her she
    was wearing a new dress and exquisite new shoes—one needed more
    money than a UNESCO functionary could earn, even if he was the
    director's right hand. I tried to