Pluto, blushing. “New York, Paris, Venice, operas, restaurants, all the rest, were merely the background. The important thing, the central thing, was to be alone with you in that setting.”
They returned to the Ritz in a taxi, tired and a little tipsy from the champagne, the Burgundy wine, and the cognac with which they had anticipated, accompanied, and bidden farewell to the choucroute . When they said good night, standing in the small room that divided their bedrooms, Doña Lucrecia, without the slightest hesitation, announced to Modesto, “You’re behaving so well that I want to play too. I’m going to give you a present.”
“Oh, really?” Pluto’s voice broke. “What’s that, Lucre?”
“My entire body,” she sang out. “Come in when I call you. But just to look.”
She did not hear Modesto’s reply but was sure that in the darkened room, as he nodded, speechless, his joy knew no bounds. Not certain exactly what she would do, she undressed, hung up her clothes, and, in the bathroom, unpinned her hair (“The way I like it, my love?” “Exactly the same, Rigoberto”), walked back into the room, turned out all the lights except the one on the night table, and moved the lamp so that its illumination, softened by a satin shade, fell on the sheets that the chambermaid had turned down for the night. She lay on her back, turned slightly to the side in a languid, uninhibited pose, and settled her head on the pillow.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She closed her eyes so as not to see him come in, thought Don Rigoberto, moved by that touch of modesty. With absolute clarity he could see in the blue-tinged light, from the perspective of the hesitant, yearning engineer who had just crossed the threshold, the shapely body that, without reaching Rubenesque excesses, emulated the virginal opulence of Murillo as she lay on her back, one knee slightly forward to hide the pubis, the other presented openly, the full curves of the hips stabilizing the volume of golden flesh in the center of the bed. Though he had contemplated, studied, caressed and enjoyed that body so many times, through another man’s eyes he seemed to see it for the first time. For a long while—his breathing agitated, his phallus stiff—he admired it. Reading his mind, not saying a word to break the silence, from time to time Lucrecia moved in slow motion with the abandon of one who thinks she is safe from indiscreet eyes, and displayed to the respectful Modesto, frozen two paces from the bed, her flanks and back, her buttocks and breasts, her hair-free underarms and the little forest of her pubis. At last she began to open her legs, revealing her inner thighs and the half-moon of her sex. “In the pose of the anonymous model of L’Origine du monde , by Gustave Courbet (1866),” Don Rigoberto sought and found the reference, overcome by emotion to discover that the exuberance of his wife’s belly, the robust solidity of her thighs and mound of Venus, coincided millimeter by millimeter with the headless woman in the oil painting that was the reigning prince of his private collection. Then eternity dissolved.
“I’m tired, and I think you are too, Pluto. It’s time to sleep.”
“Good night” was the immediate reply of a voice at the very peak of ecstasy, or agony. Modesto stepped back, stumbled, and seconds later closed the door.
“He was capable of restraining himself, he did not throw himself at you like a ravening beast,” exclaimed an enchanted Don Rigoberto. “You were controlling him with your little finger.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Lucrecia said with a laugh, “but that docility of his was also part of the game.”
The next morning a bellboy brought a bouquet of roses to her bed, with a card that read: Eyes that see , a heart that feels , a mind that remembers , and a cartoon dog that thanks you with all his heart .
“I want you too much,” Don Rigoberto apologized as he covered her mouth with his hand. “I
They returned to the Ritz in a taxi, tired and a little tipsy from the champagne, the Burgundy wine, and the cognac with which they had anticipated, accompanied, and bidden farewell to the choucroute . When they said good night, standing in the small room that divided their bedrooms, Doña Lucrecia, without the slightest hesitation, announced to Modesto, “You’re behaving so well that I want to play too. I’m going to give you a present.”
“Oh, really?” Pluto’s voice broke. “What’s that, Lucre?”
“My entire body,” she sang out. “Come in when I call you. But just to look.”
She did not hear Modesto’s reply but was sure that in the darkened room, as he nodded, speechless, his joy knew no bounds. Not certain exactly what she would do, she undressed, hung up her clothes, and, in the bathroom, unpinned her hair (“The way I like it, my love?” “Exactly the same, Rigoberto”), walked back into the room, turned out all the lights except the one on the night table, and moved the lamp so that its illumination, softened by a satin shade, fell on the sheets that the chambermaid had turned down for the night. She lay on her back, turned slightly to the side in a languid, uninhibited pose, and settled her head on the pillow.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She closed her eyes so as not to see him come in, thought Don Rigoberto, moved by that touch of modesty. With absolute clarity he could see in the blue-tinged light, from the perspective of the hesitant, yearning engineer who had just crossed the threshold, the shapely body that, without reaching Rubenesque excesses, emulated the virginal opulence of Murillo as she lay on her back, one knee slightly forward to hide the pubis, the other presented openly, the full curves of the hips stabilizing the volume of golden flesh in the center of the bed. Though he had contemplated, studied, caressed and enjoyed that body so many times, through another man’s eyes he seemed to see it for the first time. For a long while—his breathing agitated, his phallus stiff—he admired it. Reading his mind, not saying a word to break the silence, from time to time Lucrecia moved in slow motion with the abandon of one who thinks she is safe from indiscreet eyes, and displayed to the respectful Modesto, frozen two paces from the bed, her flanks and back, her buttocks and breasts, her hair-free underarms and the little forest of her pubis. At last she began to open her legs, revealing her inner thighs and the half-moon of her sex. “In the pose of the anonymous model of L’Origine du monde , by Gustave Courbet (1866),” Don Rigoberto sought and found the reference, overcome by emotion to discover that the exuberance of his wife’s belly, the robust solidity of her thighs and mound of Venus, coincided millimeter by millimeter with the headless woman in the oil painting that was the reigning prince of his private collection. Then eternity dissolved.
“I’m tired, and I think you are too, Pluto. It’s time to sleep.”
“Good night” was the immediate reply of a voice at the very peak of ecstasy, or agony. Modesto stepped back, stumbled, and seconds later closed the door.
“He was capable of restraining himself, he did not throw himself at you like a ravening beast,” exclaimed an enchanted Don Rigoberto. “You were controlling him with your little finger.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Lucrecia said with a laugh, “but that docility of his was also part of the game.”
The next morning a bellboy brought a bouquet of roses to her bed, with a card that read: Eyes that see , a heart that feels , a mind that remembers , and a cartoon dog that thanks you with all his heart .
“I want you too much,” Don Rigoberto apologized as he covered her mouth with his hand. “I
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