Arnoux asked me how long I had known her. I lied and
said only since i960 or 1961, when she passed through Paris on her
way to Cuba as one of the recipients of a scholarship from the MIR
to receive guerrilla training.
"In other words, you don't know anything about her past, her
family," Monsieur Arnoux said with a nod, as if he were talking to
himself. "I always knew she lied. About her family and her
childhood, I mean. But I forgave her. They seemed like pious lies
intended to disguise a childhood and adolescence that embarrassed
her. Because she must have come from a very humble social class,
don't you agree?"
"She didn't like talking about it. She never told me anything
about her family. But yes, undoubtedly a very humble class—"
"It made me sad, I could guess at the mountain of prejudices in
Permian society, the great family names, the racism," he interrupted
me. "She said she had attended the Sophianum, the best nuns'
academy in Lima, where the daughters of high society were
educated. That her father owned a cotton plantation and she had
broken with her family out of idealism, in order to be a
revolutionary. She never cared about the revolution, I'm sure of
that! From the time I met her, she never expressed a single political
opinion. She would have done anything to get out of Cuba. Even
marry me. When we left, I suggested a trip to Peru to meet her
family. She told me more stories, of course. That because she had
been in the MIR and in Cuba, if she set foot in Peru she would be
arrested. I forgave these fantasies. I understood they were born of
her insecurity. She had been infected with the social and racial
prejudices that are so strong in South American countries. That's
why she invented the biography for me of the aristocratic girl she
had never been."
At times I had the impression that Monsieur Arnoux had
forgotten about me. Even his gaze was lost at some point in the void,
and he spoke so softly his words became an inaudible murmur. At
other times he recovered, looked at me with suspicion and hatred,
and pressed me to tell him if I'd known she had a lover. I was her
compatriot, her friend, hadn't she ever confided in me?
"She never said a word. I never suspected anything. I thought
you two got along very well, that you were happy."
"I thought so too," he murmured, crestfallen. He ordered another
bottle of wine. And added, his eyes veiled and his voice acerbic: "She
didn't need to do what she did. It was ugly, it was dirty, it was
disloyal to behave like that with me. I gave her my name, I went out
of my way to make her happy. I endangered my career to get her out
of Cuba. That was a real via crucis. Disloyalty can't reach these
extremes. So much calculation, so much hypocrisy, it's inhuman."
Abruptly he stopped speaking. He moved his lips, not making a
sound, and his rectangular little mustache twisted and stretched. He
had gripped his empty glass and was squeezing it as if he wanted to
crush it. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears.
I didn't know what to say to him, any consolatory phrase would
have sounded false and ridiculous. Suddenly, I understood that so
much desperation was not due only to her abandoning him. There
was something else he wanted to tell me but was finding difficult.
"My life's savings," Monsieur Arnoux whispered, looking at me
accusingly, as if I were responsible for his tragedy. "Do you follow?
I'm an older man, I'm in no condition to rebuild my whole life. Do
you understand? Not only to deceive me with some gangster who
must have helped her plan the crime, but to do that too: withdraw
all the money from the account we had in Switzerland. I gave her
that proof of my trust, do you see? A joint account. In case I had an
accident, or died suddenly. So inheritance taxes wouldn't take
everything I'd saved in a lifetime of work and sacrifice. Do you
understand the disloyalty, the vileness? She went to Switzerland to
make a
said only since i960 or 1961, when she passed through Paris on her
way to Cuba as one of the recipients of a scholarship from the MIR
to receive guerrilla training.
"In other words, you don't know anything about her past, her
family," Monsieur Arnoux said with a nod, as if he were talking to
himself. "I always knew she lied. About her family and her
childhood, I mean. But I forgave her. They seemed like pious lies
intended to disguise a childhood and adolescence that embarrassed
her. Because she must have come from a very humble social class,
don't you agree?"
"She didn't like talking about it. She never told me anything
about her family. But yes, undoubtedly a very humble class—"
"It made me sad, I could guess at the mountain of prejudices in
Permian society, the great family names, the racism," he interrupted
me. "She said she had attended the Sophianum, the best nuns'
academy in Lima, where the daughters of high society were
educated. That her father owned a cotton plantation and she had
broken with her family out of idealism, in order to be a
revolutionary. She never cared about the revolution, I'm sure of
that! From the time I met her, she never expressed a single political
opinion. She would have done anything to get out of Cuba. Even
marry me. When we left, I suggested a trip to Peru to meet her
family. She told me more stories, of course. That because she had
been in the MIR and in Cuba, if she set foot in Peru she would be
arrested. I forgave these fantasies. I understood they were born of
her insecurity. She had been infected with the social and racial
prejudices that are so strong in South American countries. That's
why she invented the biography for me of the aristocratic girl she
had never been."
At times I had the impression that Monsieur Arnoux had
forgotten about me. Even his gaze was lost at some point in the void,
and he spoke so softly his words became an inaudible murmur. At
other times he recovered, looked at me with suspicion and hatred,
and pressed me to tell him if I'd known she had a lover. I was her
compatriot, her friend, hadn't she ever confided in me?
"She never said a word. I never suspected anything. I thought
you two got along very well, that you were happy."
"I thought so too," he murmured, crestfallen. He ordered another
bottle of wine. And added, his eyes veiled and his voice acerbic: "She
didn't need to do what she did. It was ugly, it was dirty, it was
disloyal to behave like that with me. I gave her my name, I went out
of my way to make her happy. I endangered my career to get her out
of Cuba. That was a real via crucis. Disloyalty can't reach these
extremes. So much calculation, so much hypocrisy, it's inhuman."
Abruptly he stopped speaking. He moved his lips, not making a
sound, and his rectangular little mustache twisted and stretched. He
had gripped his empty glass and was squeezing it as if he wanted to
crush it. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears.
I didn't know what to say to him, any consolatory phrase would
have sounded false and ridiculous. Suddenly, I understood that so
much desperation was not due only to her abandoning him. There
was something else he wanted to tell me but was finding difficult.
"My life's savings," Monsieur Arnoux whispered, looking at me
accusingly, as if I were responsible for his tragedy. "Do you follow?
I'm an older man, I'm in no condition to rebuild my whole life. Do
you understand? Not only to deceive me with some gangster who
must have helped her plan the crime, but to do that too: withdraw
all the money from the account we had in Switzerland. I gave her
that proof of my trust, do you see? A joint account. In case I had an
accident, or died suddenly. So inheritance taxes wouldn't take
everything I'd saved in a lifetime of work and sacrifice. Do you
understand the disloyalty, the vileness? She went to Switzerland to
make a
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