sideburns.
A few* months after Paul left, Senor Charnes began to
recommend me as a translator at international conferences and
congresses in Paris or other European cities when there wasn't work
for me at UNESCO. My first contract was at the International
Atomic Energy Agency, in Vienna, and the second, in Athens, at an
international cotton congress. These trips, lasting only a few days
but well paid, allowed me to \isit places I never would have gone to
otherwise. Though this new* work cut into my time, I didn't abandon
my Russian studies or interpreting classes but attended them in a
more sporadic way.
It was on my return from one of those short business trips, this
time to Glasgow and a conference on customs tariffs in Europe, that
I found a letter at the Hotel du Senat from a first cousin of my
father's, Dr. Ataulfo Lamiel, an attorney in Lima. This uncle once
removed, whom I barely knew*, informed me that my aunt Alberta
had died of pneumonia and had made me her sole heir. It was
necessary for me to go to Lima to expedite the formalities of the
inheritance. Uncle Ataulfo offered to advance me the price of a plane
ticket against the inheritance, which, he said, would not make me a
millionaire but would help out nicely during my stay in Paris. I went
to the post office on Vaugirard to send him a telegram, saying I'd
buy the ticket myself and leave for Lima as soon as possible.
Aunt Alberta's death left me in a black mood for many days. She
had been a healthy woman, not yet seventy. Though she was as
conservative and judgmental as one could be, this spinster aunt, my
father's older sister, had always been very loving toward me, and
without her generosity and care I don't know what would have
become of me. When my parents died in a senseless car accident, hit
by a truck that fled the scene as they were traveling to Trujillo for
the wedding of a daughter of some close friends—I was ten—she
took their place. Until I finished my law studies and came to Paris, I
lived in her house, and though her anachronistic manias often
exasperated me, I loved her very much. From the time she adopted
me, she devoted herself to me body and soul. Without Aunt Alberta,
I'd be as solitary as a toadstool, and my connections to Peru would
eventually vanish.
That same afternoon I went to the offices of Air France to buy a
round-trip ticket to Lima, and then I stopped at UNESCO to explain
to Senor Charnes that I had to take a forced vacation. I was crossing
the entrance lobby when I ran into an elegant lady wearing very high
heels and wrapped in a black fur-trimmed cape, who stared at me as
if we knew* each other.
"Well, well, isn't it a small world," she said, coming close and
offering her cheek. "What are you doing here, good boy?"
"I work here, I'm a translator," I managed to stammer, totally
disconcerted by surprise, and very conscious of the lavender scent
that entered my nostrils when I kissed her. It was Comrade Arlette,
but you had to make a huge effort to recognize her in that
meticulously made-up face, those red lips, tweezed eyebrows, silky
curved lashes shading mischievous eyes that black pencil
lengthened and deepened, those hands with long nails that looked as
if they had just been manicured.
"How you've changed since I saw you last," I said, looking her up
and down. "It's about three years, isn't it?"
"Changed for the better or the worse?" she asked, totally selfassured,
placing her hands on her waist and making a model's half
turn where she stood.
"For the better," I admitted, not yet recovered from the impact
she'd had on me. "The truth is, you look wonderful. I suppose I can't
call you Lily the Chilean girl or Comrade Arlette the guerrilla fighter
anymore. What the hell's your name now?"
She laughed, showing me the gold ring on her right hand.
"Now I use my husband's name, the way they do in France:
Madame Robert Arnoux."
I found the courage to ask if we could have
A few* months after Paul left, Senor Charnes began to
recommend me as a translator at international conferences and
congresses in Paris or other European cities when there wasn't work
for me at UNESCO. My first contract was at the International
Atomic Energy Agency, in Vienna, and the second, in Athens, at an
international cotton congress. These trips, lasting only a few days
but well paid, allowed me to \isit places I never would have gone to
otherwise. Though this new* work cut into my time, I didn't abandon
my Russian studies or interpreting classes but attended them in a
more sporadic way.
It was on my return from one of those short business trips, this
time to Glasgow and a conference on customs tariffs in Europe, that
I found a letter at the Hotel du Senat from a first cousin of my
father's, Dr. Ataulfo Lamiel, an attorney in Lima. This uncle once
removed, whom I barely knew*, informed me that my aunt Alberta
had died of pneumonia and had made me her sole heir. It was
necessary for me to go to Lima to expedite the formalities of the
inheritance. Uncle Ataulfo offered to advance me the price of a plane
ticket against the inheritance, which, he said, would not make me a
millionaire but would help out nicely during my stay in Paris. I went
to the post office on Vaugirard to send him a telegram, saying I'd
buy the ticket myself and leave for Lima as soon as possible.
Aunt Alberta's death left me in a black mood for many days. She
had been a healthy woman, not yet seventy. Though she was as
conservative and judgmental as one could be, this spinster aunt, my
father's older sister, had always been very loving toward me, and
without her generosity and care I don't know what would have
become of me. When my parents died in a senseless car accident, hit
by a truck that fled the scene as they were traveling to Trujillo for
the wedding of a daughter of some close friends—I was ten—she
took their place. Until I finished my law studies and came to Paris, I
lived in her house, and though her anachronistic manias often
exasperated me, I loved her very much. From the time she adopted
me, she devoted herself to me body and soul. Without Aunt Alberta,
I'd be as solitary as a toadstool, and my connections to Peru would
eventually vanish.
That same afternoon I went to the offices of Air France to buy a
round-trip ticket to Lima, and then I stopped at UNESCO to explain
to Senor Charnes that I had to take a forced vacation. I was crossing
the entrance lobby when I ran into an elegant lady wearing very high
heels and wrapped in a black fur-trimmed cape, who stared at me as
if we knew* each other.
"Well, well, isn't it a small world," she said, coming close and
offering her cheek. "What are you doing here, good boy?"
"I work here, I'm a translator," I managed to stammer, totally
disconcerted by surprise, and very conscious of the lavender scent
that entered my nostrils when I kissed her. It was Comrade Arlette,
but you had to make a huge effort to recognize her in that
meticulously made-up face, those red lips, tweezed eyebrows, silky
curved lashes shading mischievous eyes that black pencil
lengthened and deepened, those hands with long nails that looked as
if they had just been manicured.
"How you've changed since I saw you last," I said, looking her up
and down. "It's about three years, isn't it?"
"Changed for the better or the worse?" she asked, totally selfassured,
placing her hands on her waist and making a model's half
turn where she stood.
"For the better," I admitted, not yet recovered from the impact
she'd had on me. "The truth is, you look wonderful. I suppose I can't
call you Lily the Chilean girl or Comrade Arlette the guerrilla fighter
anymore. What the hell's your name now?"
She laughed, showing me the gold ring on her right hand.
"Now I use my husband's name, the way they do in France:
Madame Robert Arnoux."
I found the courage to ask if we could have
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