Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [193]
Around midnight—my aunt and uncle had gone discreetly off to bed and Aunt Julia and I were making love in the worst possible circumstances, half dressed, filled with anxiety, our ears alert for the least little sound—I finally gave in. There was no other way out. The following morning we would try to exchange her plane ticket to La Paz for one to Chile. Half an hour later, as I was walking down the streets of Miraflores, heading for my little bachelor’s room at my grandparents’, I felt bitter and powerless, and I cursed myself for not having even enough money to buy myself a revolver, too.
Aunt Julia went to Chile two days later, on a plane that left at dawn. The airline had had no objection to exchanging the ticket, but there was a difference in price, which we were able to meet thanks to a loan of fifteen hundred soles made us by none other than Pascual. (He left me openmouthed with amazement when he told me that he had five thousand soles in a savings account, a sum that, considering the salary he earned, was a really heroic feat.) So as to be able to give Aunt Julia some money to take with her, I went to the bookseller on the Calle La Paz and sold all the books I still had left, including my copies of the Civil Codes and my law textbooks, and then bought fifty U.S. dollars for her.
Aunt Olga and Uncle Lucho went to the airport with us. I had stayed over at their house the night before. Aunt Julia and I didn’t sleep, and we didn’t make love. After supper my aunt and uncle went off to their bedroom and I sat on the end of Aunt Julia’s bed, watching her carefully pack her suitcase. Then we went and sat in the living room in the dark. We stayed there for three or four hours, holding hands, cuddled up in the armchair together, talking in low voices so as not to wake up the relatives. We embraced every so often, turning our faces toward each other and kissing, but we spent most of the time smoking and talking. We talked about what we’d do once we were back together again, how she’d help me with my work, and how, in one way or another, sooner or later, we’d go to Paris to live in that garret where I would become a writer at last. I told her the story of her compatriot Pedro Camacho, who was now in a private mental hospital, surrounded by madmen and in all likelihood going mad himself, and we made plans to write each other every day, long letters in which we’d tell each other absolutely everything we did, thought, and felt. I promised her that by the time she came back I’d have everything all arranged and would be earning enough money to make ends meet. When the alarm clock went off at five, it was still pitch-dark outside, and when we arrived at Limatambo airport an hour later, it was just barely beginning to get light. Aunt Julia was wearing the blue tailored suit that I liked so much and that looked so pretty on her. She seemed very calm when we said goodbye, but I could feel her trembling in my arms; I, on the other hand, seeing her enter the plane as I watched from the visitors’ terrace, felt a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.
Her Chilean exile lasted one month and fourteen days. For me, these were six decisive weeks, during which (thanks to my importuning of friends, acquaintances, fellow students, professors, whom I sought out, earnestly beseeched, pestered, drove mad with my pleas to lend me a helping hand) I managed to land myself seven jobs, including, naturally, the one I was already holding down at Panamericana. The first one I nailed down was at the library of the Club Nacional, next door to the radio station; it consisted of spending