The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa

weight, which left him gasping for breath after walking
    barely a block on Saint-Germain, would be a tremendous hindrance
    to the guerrillas in the Andes, and for that same reason, he'd be one
    of the first the soldiers would kill as soon as the uprising began.
    "You're going to get yourself killed because of the stupid gossip
    of a few rancorous types in Paris who accuse you of being an
    opportunist? Think it over, Fats, you can't do something as mindless
    as this."
    "I don't give a damn what the Peruvians in Paris say, compadre.
    It isn't about them, it's about me. This is a question of principle. It's
    my obligation to be there."
    And he started to crack jokes again and assure me that, in spite
    of his 120 kilos, he had passed all the tests in his military training
    and, furthermore, had demonstrated excellent marksmanship. His
    decision to return to Peru had provoked arguments with Luis de la
    Puente and the leadership of the MIR. They all wanted him to stay
    in Europe as the movement's representative to friendly
    organizations and governments, but he, with his bulletproof
    obstinacy, finally got his way. Seeing there was nothing I could do,
    and that my best friend in Paris had practically decided to commit
    suicide, I asked him if his departure meant that the insurrection
    would break out soon.
    "It's a question of a couple of months, maybe less."
    They had set up three camps in the mountains, one in the
    department of Cuzco, another in Piura, and the third in the central
    region, on the eastern slope of the Cordillera, near the edge of the
    Junin forest. Contrary to my prophecies, he assured me that the
    great majority of scholarship recipients had gone to the Andes.
    Fewer than ten percent had deserted. With an enthusiasm that
    sometimes verged on euphoria, he told me the recipients' return
    operation had been a success. He was happy because he had directed
    it himself. They had gone back one by one or two by two, following
    complicated trajectories that made some of the kids go halfway
    around the world to hide their tracks. No one had been found out. In
    Peru, De la Puente, Lobaton, and the rest had established urban
    support networks, formed medical teams, installed radio stations at
    the camps and at scattered hiding places for supplies and explosives.
    Contacts with the peasant unions, especially in Cuzco, were
    excellent, and they expected that once the rebellion began, many
    members of the village communities would join the struggle. He
    spoke with joy and certainty, convinced of what he was saying,
    exalted. I couldn't hide my sorrow.
    "I know you don't believe me at all, Don Incredulous," he finally
    murmured.
    "I swear I'd like nothing better than to believe you, Paul. And
    have your enthusiasm."
    He nodded, observing me with his affectionate, full-moon smile.
    "And you?" he asked, grasping my arm. "What about you, mon
    vieux?"
    "Not me, not ever," I replied. "I'll stay here, working as a
    translator for UNESCO, in Paris."
    He hesitated for a moment, afraid that what he was going to say
    might hurt me. It was a question he undoubtedly had been biting his
    tongue over for a long time.
    "Is this what you want out of life? Nothing but this? All the
    people who come to Paris want to be painters, writers, musicians,
    actors, theater directors, or get a doctorate, or make a revolution.
    You only want this, to live in Paris? I confess, mon vieux, I never
    could swallow it."
    "I know you couldn't. But it's the truth, Paul. When I was a boy, I
    said I wanted to be a diplomat, but that was only so they'd send me
    to Paris. That's what I want: to live here. Does it seem like a small
    thing to you?"
    I pointed at the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens: heavy with
    green, they overflowed the fences and looked elegant beneath the
    overcast sky. Wasn't it the best thing that could happen to a person?
    To live, as Vallejo said in one of his lines, among "the leafy chestnut
    trees of Paris"?
    "Admit that you write poetry in