The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa

sarcastically. "I'm the
    laughingstock of the agency. My wife has left me, and I don't even
    know for whom. I thought it was you, Senor Somocurcio."
    His voice broke before he finished pronouncing my name. His
    chin quivered and his teeth seemed to be chattering. I stammered
    that I was sorry, I hadn't heard anything, and stupidly repeated that
    this month I had been working away from Paris, in Vienna and
    Rome. And I said goodbye, but Monsieur Arnoux didn't respond.
    I was so surprised and chagrined that I felt a wave of nausea in
    the elevator and had to throw up in the bathroom in the corridor.
    With whom had she gone away? Could she still be living in Paris
    with her lover? One thought accompanied me in the days that
    followed: the weekend she had given me was her goodbye. So I'd
    have something special to pine for. The leavings you throw to the
    dog, Ricardito. Some calamitous days followed that brief visit to
    Monsieur Arnoux. For the first time in my life, I suffered from
    insomnia. I was in a sweat all night, my mind blank, as I clutched
    the Guerlain toothbrush that I kept like a charm in my night table,
    chewing on my despair and jealousy. The next day I was a wreck, my
    body shaken by chills, without energy for anything, and I didn't even
    want to eat. The doctor prescribed Nembutal, which didn't put me to
    sleep so much as knock me out. I awoke distraught and shaking, as
    if I had a savage hangover. I kept cursing myself for how stupid I
    had been when I sent her off to Cuba, putting my friendship with
    Paul ahead of the love I felt for her. If I had held on to her we would
    still be together, and life wouldn't be this sleeplessness, this
    emptiness, this bile.
    Senor Charnes helped me out of the slow emotional dissolution
    in which I found myself by giving me a month's contract. I wanted
    to fall on my knees and thank him. With the routine of work at
    UNESCO, I was slowly emerging from the crisis I had been in since
    the disappearance of the ex-Chilean girl, the ex-guerrilla fighter, the
    ex-Madame Arnoux. What did she call herself now? What
    personality, what name, what history had she adopted for this new
    stage in her life? Her new lover must be very important, much more
    important than the adviser to the director of UNESCO, who was too
    modest for her ambitions now, and who was devastated by her
    leaving. She had given me clear warning that last morning: "I'd only
    stay forever with a man who was very, very rich and powerful." I was
    certain I wouldn't see her again this time. You had to pull yourself
    together and forget the Permian girl with a thousand faces, good
    boy, convince yourself she was no more than a bad dream.
    But a few days after I had gone back to work at UNESCO,
    Monsieur Arnoux appeared in the cubicle that was my office as I was
    translating a report on bilingual education in sub-Saharan Africa.
    "I'm sorry I was short with you the other day," he said,
    uncomfortably. "I was in a very* bad state of mind just then."
    He proposed that we have supper. And though I knew this supper
    would be catastrophic for my own state of mind, my curiosity to
    hear about her and find out what had happened were stronger, and I
    accepted.
    We went to Chez Eux, a restaurant in the seventh
    arrondissement, not far from my house. It was the tensest, most
    difficult supper I've ever had. But fascinating too, because I learned
    many things about the ex—Madame Arnoux and also discovered
    how far she had gone in her search for the security she identified
    with wealth.
    We ordered whiskey with ice and Perrier as an aperitif, and then
    red wine with a meal we barely tasted. Chez Eux had a fixed menu
    consisting of exquisite food that came in deep pans, and our table
    was filling up with pates, snails, salads, fish, meat, which the
    amazed waiters took away almost untouched to make room for a
    great variety of desserts, one bathed in bubbling chocolate, not
    understanding why we slighted all those delicacies.
    Robert