The Most Beautiful Book in the World Read Free Page B

as much, and decided to put it to good use. Subsequently she would readily resort to this technique for seducing men, a method which, if properly implemented, is always a success: flattery. In Cesario’s case, it wasn’t his good looks that wanted complimenting—he didn’t care about his looks because he already knew he was good-looking, and could use this to his advantage—you had to be interested in his art.
    After devouring a few books she’d borrowed from the institution’s library—art history, encyclopedia of painting, biographies of painters—Wanda went back to the beach, well-armed for her discussions. Very quickly, she confirmed his secret belief: he was an artiste maudit ; just like van Gogh, he would encounter sarcasm on the part of his peers and find glory posthumously; in the meantime he must not doubt his genius for a moment. Wanda got into the habit of keeping him company while he dabbled, and she became an expert on the art of gushing rapturously when she saw his blots and splashes of color.
    It moved Cesario to tears to have met Wanda. He could no longer do without her. She incarnated everything he had never dared hope to find: kindred spirit, confidant, impresario, muse. Every day he needed her that little bit more; every day he increasingly overlooked her extreme youth.
    And then what was bound to happen did happen: he fell in love. Wanda realized before he did, and slipped into one of her most provocative outfits.
    She could tell from his eyes that not touching her was painful to him. Out of a sense of integrity, because he was a decent fellow, he managed to restrain himself, although all of him, body and soul, desired nothing more than to kiss Wanda.
    Thus, she could deliver the coup de grâce.
    For three days she refrained from going to visit him—he would worry and miss her. On the fourth evening, late at night, she came running into his cabin, tears streaming down her face.
    â€œIt’s horrible, Cesario! I’m so unhappy! I feel like killing myself.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œMy mother has decided—just like that—that we have to move back to Paris. I won’t be able to see you anymore.”
    And everything happened as planned: Cesario took her in his arms to comfort her, she was not consoled, and neither was he; he offered her a drop of alcohol so that she’d feel better; after a few glasses, floods of tears, and an equal amount of rubbing against each other, he could no longer control himself, and they made love.
    Wanda relished every instant of that night. The local girls were right: Cesario revered the female body. When he carried her into his bed she felt as if she were a goddess placed upon an altar to be worshipped until dawn.
    Naturally she slipped away at daybreak and came back that evening, upset, once again pretending to be desperate. Every night for several weeks an utterly disorientated Cesario tried to console the adolescent girl he loved, first keeping her at a distance and then, after they had brushed against each other once too often, and he had kissed or dried the tears on her eyelashes or under her lips, a distraught Cesario would end up setting aside any moral principles and making love to the young girl with an energy equal to his passion.
    Once she knew that she had gained an encyclopedic knowledge of what goes on between a man and a woman in bed—because he did eventually teach her what was pleasing to the man, as well—she vanished.
    Back at the institution, she no longer wrote to him, and she perfected the art of sensual delight in the company of a handful of new lovers; then she learned, not without a certain contentment, that her mother had succumbed to an overdose.
    A free woman, Wanda ran away to Paris, immersed herself in the city’s nightlife and, using men as her support, began her social ascension.
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    â€œShall we go back to the boat or rent some mattresses on the beach?