Smitten for life
Simon Baker
THE BAD GIRL by Mario Vargas Llosa Faber, £16.99, pp. 276, ISBN 9780571239337 ✆ £13.59 (plus £2.45 p&p) 0870 429 6655 Ricardo Somocurcio, the narrator of The Bad Girl, is an unambitious man whose sole wish, ever since his childhood in Peru, has been to live in Paris. He studied hard at school and, on arriving in Paris after university, learns languages and soon makes enough money from working as a freelance interpreter to stay in his chosen home. He has a mild concern that he is simply drifting, but in fact his lack of aspirations is nothing worse than the result of being a balanced, civilised
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individual, happy if he has a reasonable income and enough time to enjoy reading and socialising.
However, Ricardo’s existence is never as quiet as it should be, thanks to the ‘bad girl’. She (we discover her name only towards the end) is a quirkily beautiful, dissembling, callous woman who enters Ricardo’s life when she appears in his town in her early teens, passing herself off as Chilean and well-to-do (she is neither: she is Peruvian and poor). The local girls are jealous of her wild dancing, but the teenaged Ricardo is smitten; he becomes her almost-boyfriend, hanging around with her but never receiving a true commitment.
They lose touch, but a decade later she shows up in Paris with a new identity: she is now a revolutionary activist, codenamed ‘Comrade Arlette’; in reality she is nonpolitical, and merely joined the communist cause so that she could travel. She and Ricardo restart something approximating a relationship, but for 30 more years she disappears whenever a rich man comes along, only for the two to meet again, with the bad girl invariably sporting a new name and a new life: she is Madame Arnoux, married to a Parisian diplomat, then Mrs Richardson, the wife of a Suffolk millionaire, and then Kuriko, the mistress of a sinister Japanese crook. Every time, their liaison rekindles, with Ricardo love-struck and the bad girl reluctantly dependent on the only unconditionally kind person she has ever known; but every time she goes away again. Finally, however, she returns looking dreadful, having been cruelly abused (in a Nigerian prison, she says). The eternally gentle Ricardo puts her back on her feet, and a peaceful journey towards old age with the bad girl seems to be his reward — but things are never peaceful with the bad girl.
Mario Vargas Llosa, now in his eighth decade, has achieved a brilliant success with this novel. Its narrator makes regular reference to Russian literature, which cannot be accidental, since this is a work written in the Tolstoyan mode: it addresses moral and philosophical issues, but does so within an immensely moving story, rather than within a novel of ideas. It examines identity, belonging, and our capacities for sadism and masochism, showing that both impulses can coexist in the same person, depending on whom he or she is dealing with. Ricardo is that rare type of fictional character, namely one who lives off the page as well as on it; it is difficult to believe he was created and therefore exists only in this novel. He is bright, witty and aware of his inability to turn away from the bad girl, but we never feel sympathy for him since, bizarrely, this sporadic affair, which is continually ended without warning, truly is the most wonderful thing in his life.
Most impressively of all, the bad girl herself commands our affection: she is caught between her mercenary instincts and the inconvenient fact that she genuinely does care for Ricardo. As the novel progresses we see a flawed, lost, endearing person who, although she stifles it, possesses an honourable streak and a tenderness for Ricardo that can only be love.
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