The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto by Mario Vargas Llosa Read Free Book Online Page A

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