Free The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa

nobody could have imagined what Armida’s body was really like, hidden under the aprons and coarse skirts she wore. Even though you and I didn’t notice, Justiniana thinks that when poor Clotilde entered the final stage of her illness and her death seemed inevitable, Armida began to pay more attention to her appearance than she had before—”
    “What did she do, for example?” Rigoberto interrupted her again. His voice was slow and thick and his heart was pounding. “Was she provocative with Ismael? Doing what? How?”
    “Each morning she’d show up looking much more attractive than before. Her hair arranged, with small flirtatious touches that nobody would notice. And some new movements of her arms, her breasts, her bottom. But old man Ismael noticed. In spite of how he was when Clotilde died—in shock, like a sleepwalker, shattered by grief. He’d lost his compass, he didn’t know who or where he was. But he knew something was going on around him. Of course he noticed.”
    “Again you’re moving away from the point, Lucrecia,” Rigoberto complained, holding her tight. “This isn’t the time to be talking about death, my love.”
    “Then, oh what a miracle, Armida turned into the most devoted, attentive, and accommodating creature. There she was, always near her employer to prepare a chamomile maté or a cup of tea for him, pour him a whiskey, iron his shirt, sew on a button, put the finishing touches to his suit, give his shoes to the butler to polish, tell Narciso to hurry and get the car right away because Don Ismael was ready to go out and didn’t like waiting.”
    “What does all that matter,” Rigoberto said in vexation, nibbling his wife’s ear. “I want to know more intimate things, my love.”
    “At the same time, with an intelligence only we women have, an intelligence that comes to us from Eve herself and is in our souls, our blood, and, I suppose, in our hearts and ovaries too, Armida began to set the trap into which the widower, devastated by his wife’s death, would fall like an innocent babe.”
    “What did she do to him,” Rigoberto pleaded urgently. “Tell me everything in lavish detail, my love.”
    “On winter nights Ismael would shut himself in his study and suddenly start to cry. And as if by magic, Armida would be at his side, devoted, respectful, sympathetic, calling him tender nicknames in that northern singsong that sounds so musical. And shedding a few tears too, standing very close to the master of the house. He could feel and smell her because their bodies were touching. While Armida wiped her employer’s forehead and dried his eyes, without realizing it, you would say, in her efforts to console him, calm him, and be loving toward him, her neckline shifted and Ismael’s eyes couldn’t help but be aware of those plump, dark, young breasts brushing against his chest and face, which, from the perspective of his years, must have seemed like those not of a young woman but of a little girl. Then it must have occurred to him that Armida was not only a pair of tireless hands for making and stripping beds, dusting walls, waxing floors, washing clothes, but also an abundant, tender, palpitating, warm body, a fragrant, moist, exciting closeness. That was when poor Ismael, during his employee’s fond displays of loyalty and affection, probably began to feel that the hidden, shrunken thing between his legs, beyond all help from lack of use, was starting to show signs of life, to revive. Of course, Justiniana doesn’t know this but can only guess. I don’t know either, but I’m sure that’s how it all began. Don’t you think so too, my love?”
    “When Justiniana was telling you all this, were you and she naked, my darling?” As Rigoberto spoke, he just barely nibbled at his wife’s neck, ears, and lips, and his hands caressed her back, buttocks, and inner thighs.
    “I held her the way you’re holding me now,” responded Lucrecia, caressing him, biting him, kissing