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Con inmensa satisfacción publicamos Elogio de la madrastra, no sólo porque era --al menos así nos lo parecía-- una asignatura pendiente del gran escritor peruano Mario Vargas Llosa con el género de la novela erótica, sino porque, al animarse a cumplirla, nos ha entregado a todos una de sus obras más rotundas.
Quien haya seguido con cierta atención la trayectoria literaria de Mario Vargas Llosa, sus escritos sobre literatura, sus manifiestas aficiones literarias, no se extrañará de que haga esta incursión en este género y le parecerá natural que la dedique a otro ilustre erotómano, su amigo cineasta y director de esta colección Luis G. Berlanga. Su curiosidad por los móviles recónditos de la literatura erótica viene, pues, de antiguo y es de sobras conocida su admiración por los grandes maestros franceses Georges Bataille y Pierre Klossowski, algunos de cuyos libros eróticos o sobre erotismo ha prolongado y divulgado en nuestro idioma. Ahora, leyendo Elogio de la madrastra, por fin podremos todos comprobar hasta qué punto el discípulo pasa él mismo a ocupar rango de maestro en arte tan difícil y, por desgracia, tan poco frecuentado por escritores ya consagrados como él.
Con la sabiduría del meticuloso observador que él es y mediante la seductora ceremonia del bien contar, Vargas Llosa nos induce sin paliativos a dejarnos prender en la red sutil de perversidad que, poco a poco, va enredando y ensombreciendo las extraordinarias armonía y felicidad que unen en la plena satisfacción de sus deseos a la sensual doña Lucrecia, la madrastra, a don Rigoberto, el padre, solitario practicante de rituales higiénicos y fantaseador amante de su amada esposa, y al inquietante Fonchito, el hijo, cuya angelical presencia y anhelante mirada parecen corromperlo todo.
Aquí, la reflexión múltiple sobre la felicidad y sus oscuras motivaciones, pero ante todo sobre los paradójicos entresijos del poder putrefactor de la inocencia, que subyace en cada una de sus páginas, sostiene una narración que cumple perfectamente con als exigencias del género sin por ello deslucir ni un solo instante la rica filigrana poética de la escritura.
198 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1988




"Here lies Don Rigerbto, who contrived to love the epigastrium of his spouse as much as her vulva or her tongue,” he philosophically projected as a fitting epitaph on the marble of his tomb. Would that mortuary motto be a lie? Not in the slightest.
"Happiness exists”, he repeated to himself, in one’s own body and in that of one’s beloved, for instance; by oneself and in the bathroom; for hours or minutes on a bed with the being so ardently desired. It was hidden, a pearl in its seashell, in certain rites and ceremonial duties that offered human being brief flashes and optical illusions of perfection. Happiness lies hidden in...all that rich and subtle biological orography that lay beneath the smooth epidermis of Lucrecia’s belly.
Alfonsito’s attention appeared to be riveted on his stepmother’s hands. He had seized them and was kissing them lingeringly, timidly, with fervent devotion. Then, as he rubbed them against his satiny cheek, Doña Luncrecia heard him murmur in a very soft voice, as though he were addressing only the slender fingers that he was squeezing so hard: “I love you a lot, stepmother. A whole lot….Don’t ever treat me again the way you have lately, because I’ll kill myself. I swear to you I’ll kill myself."
From that night on, she was certain that the clandestine meetings with the boy, however obscure and complicated, however difficult to explain, enriched her marital relation, taking it by surprise and thus giving it a fresh start. But what kind of morality is this, Lucrecia? She couldn’t understand it, and made no attempt to do so. One morning, on opening her eyes, the phrase “I have won sovereignty” came to her. She felt fortunate and emancipated, but could not have said what it was that she had been freed from.

When the organ player looks at where his gaze is fixed, what is he finding? There is something there that attracts his eyes in the late afternoon each day, with the imperiousness of a stroke of fate or the magic of a witch’s spell. Something like the divination that, at the foot of the sunlit mound of Venus, in the tender cleft protected by the rounded columns of the lady’s thighs, resilient, red, moist with the dew of her privateness, pours forth the fountain of life and pleasure. In just a little while now, our lord and master Don Rigoberto will bend down to drink ambrosia from it.
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Jordan Jordaens, Candaules, King of Lydia, showing his wife to Prime Minister Gyges (1648), oil on canvas. The National Museum of Stockholm
There are those who soon tire of their lawfully wedded wife. The routine of married life kills desire, they philosophize: what illusory hope can swell and revive the veins of a man who sleeps, for months and years, with the same woman? Yet, despite our having been wed for so long a time, Lucrecia, my lady, does not bore me. When I go off on tiger and elephant hunts, the memory of her makes my heart beat faster, just as in the first days, and when I caress a slave girl or some camp follower so as to relieve the loneliness of nights in a field tent, my hands always experience a keen disappointment: those are merely backsides, buttocks, rumps, asses. Only hers – O Beloved – is the croup.


