secret," Paul insisted. "That it's
your hidden vice. We've talked about it often, with other Peruvians.
Everybody thinks you write and don't dare admit it because you're
self-critical. Or timid. Every South American comes to Paris to do
great things. Do you want me to believe that you're the exception to
the rule?"
"I swear I am, Paul. My only ambition is to go on living here, just
as I'm doing now."
I walked with him to the Metro station at Carrefour de l'Odeon.
When we embraced, I couldn't stop my eyes from filling with tears.
"Take care of yourself, Fats. Don't do anything stupid up there,
please."
"Yes, yes, of course I will, Ricardo." He gave me another hug. And
I saw that his eyes were wet too.
I stood there, at the entrance to the station, watching him go
down the steps slowly, held back by his round, bulky body. I was
absolutely certain I was seeing him for the last time.
Fat Paul's departure left me feeling empty because he was the
best friend I had during those uncertain times of my settling in
Paris. Fortunately, the temp contracts at UNESCO and my classes in
Russian and simultaneous interpretation kept me very busy, and at
night I returned to my garret in the Hotel du Senat and hardly had
the energy to think about Comrade Arlette or fat Paul. Without
intending to, at that time I believe I began to move away
unconsciously from the Peruvians in Paris, whom I had previously
seen with a certain degree of frequency. I didn't look for solitude,
but after I became an orphan and my aunt Alberta took me in, it
hadn't been a problem for me. Thanks to UNESCO, I no longer
worried about surviving; my translator's salary and occasional
money orders from my aunt were enough for me to live on and to
pay for my Parisian pleasures: movies, art shows, plays, and books. I
was a steady customer at La Joie de Lire bookshop, on Rue Saint-
Severin, and at the bouquinistes on the quays along the Seine. I
went to the National Popular Theater, the Comedie-Fran^aise,
l'Odeon, and from time to time to concerts at the Salle Pleyel.
And during that time I also had the beginnings of a romance with
Carmencita, the Spanish girl who, dressed in black from head to toe
like Juliette Greco, sang and accompanied herself on the guitar at
L'Escale, the little bar on Rue Monsieur le Prince frequented by
Spaniards and South Americans. She was Spanish but had never set
foot in her country* because her republican parents couldn't or
wouldn't go back while Franco was alive. The ambiguity of that
situation tormented her and frequently appeared in her
conversation. Carmencita was tall and slim, with hair cut a la garqon
and melancholy eyes. She didn't have a great voice, but it was very
melodious, and she gave marvelous performances of songs based on
roundels, poems, verses, and refrains of the Golden Age, murmuring
them with very effective pauses and emphasis. She had lived for a
couple of years with an actor, and the break with him hurt her so
much that—she told me this with the bluntness I initially found so
shocking in my Spanish colleagues at UNESCO—she didn't "want to
hook up with any guy right now." But she agreed to my taking her to
the movies, to supper, and to the Olympia one night to hear Leo
Ferre, whom we both preferred to Charles Aznavour and Georges
Brassens, the other popular singers of the moment. When we said
good night after the concert, at the Opera Metro station, she said,
brushing my lips, "I'm beginning to like you, my little Permian."
Absurdly enough, whenever I went out with Carmencita I was filled
with disquiet, the feeling I was being unfaithful to the lover of
Comandante Chacon, an individual I imagined as sporting a huge
mustache and strutting around with a pair of pistols on his hips. My
relationship with the Spanish girl went no further because one night
I discovered her in a corner of L'Escale melting with love in the
arms of a gentleman with a neck scarf and heavy
your hidden vice. We've talked about it often, with other Peruvians.
Everybody thinks you write and don't dare admit it because you're
self-critical. Or timid. Every South American comes to Paris to do
great things. Do you want me to believe that you're the exception to
the rule?"
"I swear I am, Paul. My only ambition is to go on living here, just
as I'm doing now."
I walked with him to the Metro station at Carrefour de l'Odeon.
When we embraced, I couldn't stop my eyes from filling with tears.
"Take care of yourself, Fats. Don't do anything stupid up there,
please."
"Yes, yes, of course I will, Ricardo." He gave me another hug. And
I saw that his eyes were wet too.
I stood there, at the entrance to the station, watching him go
down the steps slowly, held back by his round, bulky body. I was
absolutely certain I was seeing him for the last time.
Fat Paul's departure left me feeling empty because he was the
best friend I had during those uncertain times of my settling in
Paris. Fortunately, the temp contracts at UNESCO and my classes in
Russian and simultaneous interpretation kept me very busy, and at
night I returned to my garret in the Hotel du Senat and hardly had
the energy to think about Comrade Arlette or fat Paul. Without
intending to, at that time I believe I began to move away
unconsciously from the Peruvians in Paris, whom I had previously
seen with a certain degree of frequency. I didn't look for solitude,
but after I became an orphan and my aunt Alberta took me in, it
hadn't been a problem for me. Thanks to UNESCO, I no longer
worried about surviving; my translator's salary and occasional
money orders from my aunt were enough for me to live on and to
pay for my Parisian pleasures: movies, art shows, plays, and books. I
was a steady customer at La Joie de Lire bookshop, on Rue Saint-
Severin, and at the bouquinistes on the quays along the Seine. I
went to the National Popular Theater, the Comedie-Fran^aise,
l'Odeon, and from time to time to concerts at the Salle Pleyel.
And during that time I also had the beginnings of a romance with
Carmencita, the Spanish girl who, dressed in black from head to toe
like Juliette Greco, sang and accompanied herself on the guitar at
L'Escale, the little bar on Rue Monsieur le Prince frequented by
Spaniards and South Americans. She was Spanish but had never set
foot in her country* because her republican parents couldn't or
wouldn't go back while Franco was alive. The ambiguity of that
situation tormented her and frequently appeared in her
conversation. Carmencita was tall and slim, with hair cut a la garqon
and melancholy eyes. She didn't have a great voice, but it was very
melodious, and she gave marvelous performances of songs based on
roundels, poems, verses, and refrains of the Golden Age, murmuring
them with very effective pauses and emphasis. She had lived for a
couple of years with an actor, and the break with him hurt her so
much that—she told me this with the bluntness I initially found so
shocking in my Spanish colleagues at UNESCO—she didn't "want to
hook up with any guy right now." But she agreed to my taking her to
the movies, to supper, and to the Olympia one night to hear Leo
Ferre, whom we both preferred to Charles Aznavour and Georges
Brassens, the other popular singers of the moment. When we said
good night after the concert, at the Opera Metro station, she said,
brushing my lips, "I'm beginning to like you, my little Permian."
Absurdly enough, whenever I went out with Carmencita I was filled
with disquiet, the feeling I was being unfaithful to the lover of
Comandante Chacon, an individual I imagined as sporting a huge
mustache and strutting around with a pair of pistols on his hips. My
relationship with the Spanish girl went no further because one night
I discovered her in a corner of L'Escale melting with love in the
arms of a gentleman with a neck scarf and heavy
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