The Most Beautiful Book in the World Read Free

herself dealing with teachers whose primary concern was not the subject they were supposed to teach but rather the imposition of their authority—teaching specialists whose mission was to provide not so much an education but an upbringing. So Wanda concluded that it was through men that she would make her way in life. They found her attractive. That much was patently obvious. And she liked the fact that they found her attractive.
    Whenever she could, she snuck out of the institution and went to the beach on her bicycle. Open, curious, eager to connect with people, she had managed to establish the notion that she lived not far from there, with her mother. And since she was pretty, people believed her, and they treated her as a local girl.
    She wanted to sleep with a man the way other girls her age wanted to pass a difficult exam: for her, this was the diploma that would put an end to her painful adolescence and allow her to get a start in real life. The only hitch was that she wanted to share the experience with a man, a real one, not a boy her age; already ambitious, she doubted whether a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old could have a lot to teach her.
    Every bit as scrupulous and serious in this regard as she would prove to be later in life, Wanda studied the market of available males. In those days, in a territory of five square kilometers, there was one man who stood out: Cesario.
    Women had confided in her, and everyone agreed, that he was an accomplished lover. Not only did Cesario—tanned, athletic, slim—have an irreproachable build—all the more visible for the fact that he lived on the beach in his swimming trunks—he also adored women, and was very good at making love to them.
    â€œHe does it all, sweetie, everything, as if you were a queen! He’ll kiss you all over, he’ll lick you all over, and nibble your ears and your buns and even your toes, he’ll make you moan with pleasure, he spends hours, he . . . Look, Wendy, in terms of men who are that crazy about women, there’s no two ways around it, there’s no one else. No one but him. Okay, the only drawback is that he doesn’t get attached. He’s a bachelor in his soul. Not one of us has managed to hold on to him. To be honest, it’s better that way, we can have a go and then, from time to time, have another go. Even when we’re married . . . Ah, Cesario . . .”
    Wanda would study Cesario as if she were trying to choose a university.
    She liked him. Not just because the other women praised his qualities. She really did like him. His skin, smooth and velvety, like melted caramel . . . His green-gold eyes, the whites as pure as mother-of-pearl . . . The blond hair on his body, golden in the sun, as if his body were radiating a luminous aura . . . His torso, slim and rugged . . . And that butt of his, above all, firm, round, fleshy, insolent. Looking at Cesario from behind, Wanda understood for the first time that she was as attracted to a man’s butt as a man was to a woman’s breasts: a gut attraction, burning inside. When Cesario walked by, his lower body so close to her, it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him, fondle him, stroke him.
    Unfortunately, Cesario did not pay much attention to her.
    Wanda went with him to his boat, joked around with him, offered him a drink, an ice cream cone, a game of . . . He always took a few seconds to reply, politely, with a hint of irritation.
    â€œThat’s real sweet of you, Wendy, but I don’t need you.”
    Wanda was furious: he right not need her, but she needed him! The more he resisted her, the more he stimulated her desire: it was going to be him and no one else. She wanted to inaugurate her life as a woman with the best-looking man, no matter how poor; there would be time enough, later, to sleep with ugly rich men.
    One night she wrote him a long love letter, full of hope and devotion, and on rereading it, she was filled with such