Free B004QGYWNU EBOK by Mario Vargas Llosa Page B

the privacy of their darkened bedroom, Don Rigoberto whispered once again that he loved her and, covering her with kisses, thanked her for his days and nights, the immense bliss that filled his life because of her. “Since we’ve been married, I’ve been learning how to live, Lucrecia,” she heard him tell her excitedly. “Had it not been for you, I would have died without ever knowing that such wisdom existed and without even suspecting what pleasure really meant.” As she listened to him, she was moved and happy, but even now she couldn’t stop thinking about the youngster. Nonetheless, that intruding proximity, that curious angelical presence did not detract from her pleasure, but, on the contrary, enhanced it with a feverish, disturbing piquancy. “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” Don Rigoberto finally murmured.
    “Who, who, my love?” she asked with the requisite impatience, spurring him on.
    “Well, a monster,” she heard him say, already far away, unreachable, in his flight of fancy.

Nine.
Profile of a Human Being
    My left ear was bitten off in a fight with another human being, as I remember. But I hear the sounds of the world clearly through the thin slit that remains. I also see things, though only obliquely and with difficulty. Because, even though not apparent at first glance, this bluish protuberance, to the left of my mouth, is an eye. That it is there, in working order, apprehending forms and colors, is a marvel wrought by medical science, a testimonial to the extraordinary progress so characteristic of our time. I ought by all odds to be doomed to perpetual darkness, since all the survivors of the great fire—I do not recall whether it was caused by a bombardment or a coup d’état—lost both their sight and their hair, because of the oxides. I had the good fortune to lose only one eye; the other one was saved by the ophthalmologists after sixteen operations. It has no eyelid and frequently oozes tears, but it allows me to distract myself watching television and, above all, to detect in a flash the appearance of the enemy.
    The glass cube I live in is my home, I can see through the walls of it, but no one can see me from the outside: a very handy system for ensuring the safety of the home, in this era of terrible traps. The glass panes of my dwelling are, of course, bulletproof, germproof, radiationproof, and soundproof. They are continually perfumed with the distinctive odor of armpits and musk, which to me—and only to me, I know—is delightful.
    I have a very highly developed sense of smell and it is by way of my nose that I experience the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain. Ought I to call this gigantic membranous organ that registers all scents, even the most subtle, a nose? I am referring to the grayish shape, covered with white crusts, that begins at my mouth and extends, increasing in size, down to my bull neck. No, it is not a goiter or an acromegalic Adam’s apple. It is my nose. I know that it is neither beautiful nor useful, since its excessive sensibility makes it an indescribable torment when a rat is rotting in the vicinity or fetid materials pass through the drainpipes that run through my home. Nonetheless, I revere it and sometimes think that my nose is the seat of my soul.

 

    Francis Bacon. Head I (1948), oil and tempera on hardboard, collection of Richard S. Zeisler, New York

 
    I have no arms or legs, but my four stumps are nicely healed over and well toughened, so that I can move about easily along the ground and can even run if need be. My enemies have never been able to catch me in any of their roundups thus far. How did I lose my hands and feet? An accident at work, perhaps; or maybe some medicine my mother took so as to have an easy pregnancy (science doesn’t come up with the right answer in all cases, unfortunately).
    My sex organ is intact. I can make love, on condition that the young fellow or the female acting as my partenaire allows me to