Death in the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa

was so uncomfortable. You’ll feel better after a little soup and a good sleep,” the boy assured her.
    â€œI hope so,” she replied. And sat with her eyes closed, shivering, until they brought the food.
    â€œAnd that meant I could look at her all I wanted,” said Tomasito.
    â€œSo far, I haven’t been able to picture her,” said Lituma. “I still can’t see her. You saying ‘She’s terrific-looking,’ ‘She’s a knockout’ isn’t any help. At least give me a few details.”
    â€œA round little face, cheeks like two apples, full lips, a nice nose,” Tomás recited. “A little nose that quivered when she talked, sniffing like a puppy’s. She was so tired she had dark circles under those long eyelashes.”
    â€œDamn, you had it worse than a love-sick calf,” Lituma said in amazement. “And you still do, Tomasito.”
    â€œEven though her hair was messy, even though her makeup had worn off and she was dirty from the trip, she didn’t look ugly,” the boy insisted. “She was still real pretty, Corporal.”
    â€œAt least you have memories of Mercedes to comfort you,” Lituma complained. “I didn’t bring any from Piura. Not a single girl in Piura or Talara misses me, not a single woman in the world for me to miss.”
    They had the soup in silence, and then they were served breaded steak and rice, which they had not ordered. But they ate it all the same.
    â€œSuddenly her eyes filled with tears, even though she was trying not to cry,” said Tomás. “She was trembling, and I knew it was because of what could happen to us. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how. The future looked black to me, too.”
    â€œSkip that part and get to the bed,” Lituma pleaded.
    â€œDry your eyes,” said Carreño, handing her his handkerchief. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear it.”
    Mercedes wiped away the tears and did not speak until they had finished eating. Their room was on the second floor, at the end of the hall, and the beds were separated by a wooden bench that served as a night table. The lightbulb dangled from a cord draped in cobwebs, and it barely lit the faded, uneven walls and the floorboards that creaked under their feet.
    â€œThe manager gave us two towels and a piece of soap,” Tomasito continued, relishing every detail. “She said that if we wanted to shower we should do it now because there was no water during the day.”
    She walked out and Mercedes followed, with a towel over her shoulder. She came back a good while later, and the boy, who was lying on the bed as taut as a guitar string, gave a start when he heard her come into the room. She had the towel wrapped around her head like a turban, her dress was unbuttoned, and she was carrying her shoes.
    â€œA great shower,” he heard her say. “The cool water revived me.”
    He picked up the other towel and went to shower, too.
    â€œWhat an asshole!” Lituma was indignant. “What the hell were you waiting for? Suppose she fell asleep?”
    There was no shower head, but the water was strong and cool. Tomás soaped and rubbed his body and felt his weariness lifting. He dried himself, put on his shorts, and wrapped the towel around his waist. The light in the room was turned off. He left his clothes on the bureau, where Mercedes had folded hers, felt his way to the empty bed, and lay down under the spread. His eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark. Uneasy and overwrought, he strained his ears, trying to hear her. She was breathing slowly, deeply. Was she asleep already? He thought he could smell her body, there, so close to him. Tomás was restless, and took a deep breath. Should he go to see his godfather, should he try to explain? “This is how you repay everything I’ve done for you, you piece of shit.” He would have to leave