The Casanova Embrace (2 page)

"Do you think it will be the beginning?"

Dobbs understood. The United States was a kind of neutral
territory. Even the most ardent fanatics shied away from performing their
bloody business on American soil. Setups were difficult. Officials were less
corruptible. Surveillance was sophisticated.

"I hope not," Dobbs replied. In this case, it was
still neutral, he knew.

"They should do their bloody shit elsewhere."

"What kind was it?" Dobbs asked. He knew the
answer to that as well.

"Plastic stuff. We found the timer. It looks like it
was placed in the back seat, set to go when he hit this area. Where was he
heading, you think?" Grady was fishing now.

"Who knows?" Dobbs shrugged, on his guard. The
symbolism was clever, the blast so close to the embassy. A lucky stroke? Or
well planned? Either way, it was a useful device.

"You think we'll get them?" Grady asked.

"Nobody ever does."

"We'll get them," Grady said with an air of
conviction.

"Good luck."

"They'd better not start this shit over here. It'll
open up floodgates. Palestinians. Irish. Cubans. They'll drive us up the
wall."

Their naivete was incredible, Dobbs thought. The FBI was
stupid, he told himself. Too macho. Too worried about their own image. Too
simplistic. This business happened in the shadows. It was his war. The FBI was
out of its league and he was grateful for that.

The crowd in the street began to thin out. The wooden
horses were removed and a crane and truck appeared. The crane quickly lifted
the wreckage of the Pinto into the truck while the remaining litter was removed
and bagged. Then it, too, was put into the truck, covered and driven out of the
area. Reporters pressed around Grady as he moved toward his own car, but he
said nothing and drove away.

Dobbs moved slowly out of range of their probing voices. He
liked to think of himself as invisible, an observer, when he was in the
field--a rare occurrence. Shrouded in the mist of anonymity, he surveyed the
scene.

The large embassies on either side of the street had borne
witness impassively. Another one of man's silly brutalities, they might have
said if they could talk. Dobbs could see eyes still watching in the shadows
beyond the large windows. The street emptied. The last traces of the twisted
Pinto had disappeared. Even the bloodstains on the asphalt had been removed,
and the janitors of the various large homes and embassies had already swept the
shattered glass. Glaziers were on their way to replace the shattered windows.

Soon cars were moving normally and people had ventured back
into the street, observing the spot where it had happened, then moving on to
accustomed chores. The men of the Executive Police with their blue-trimmed uniforms
resumed their posts. A recall of the morning events would chase boredom for a
few hours, then it was back to the stultifying emptiness of their official
duties.

Dobbs walked to his car. So far, he had observed nothing
amiss. But it was still too early to be sure.

What was there in Eduardo ... he began to think of him as a
companion ... to inspire such ... he hesitated ... awesomeness? He needed to
refresh his mind, consult the files, review the total picture. It was not the
conclusion he was concerned about. That had already been determined. What had
this man possessed? Why had it eluded him until it was too late?

He was still turning it over in his mind as he suddenly
discovered that he had mistaken a turn and was heading the wrong way on the
Beltway.

It was one of Marie's special private pleasures to recall
the exact moment of her first observance of him. Later, it would become a
ritual of their lovemaking, like an after-dinner drink savored with all the
concentration and subtleties that the taste buds could muster.

It had happened at a crowded affair at the Roumanian
Embassy. There was always an eclectic group, since Roumania could bridge the
invitational gap of ideologies. One could find representatives of antagonistic
countries and factions calmly sipping champagne together as if what was
happening in the real world was merely a fictional device for a movie script.
It was politically appropriate, she later agreed, for Eduardo to be on their
invitational list, since it gave him the opportunity to continue to provide
visibility for the ill-fated Allende regime.

He was standing in a corner of the ornate room, deftly
removing tidbits from the buffet table, searching swiftly but carefully, with a
practiced eye for the most interesting culinary concoction. Then, with special
grace, he had propped the plate on the tips of the fingers of his left hand and
proceeded to eat with the calm assurance of one who had obviously had long
experience at the buffet tables.

She had watched him from across the crowded room, an idle
curiosity, since she was stuck with a most boring man from the Department of
State whose words she could barely hear above the social din. Her husband, the
Minister Plenipotentiary of the French Embassy, gesticulated with his usual
intensity in a group of other foreign diplomats. There goes Claude again, she
remembered thinking, turning slightly, spilling a drop of champagne on her pink
Cardin, the one that was lent out of his collection to publicize French wares.
She had looked up swiftly, caught his eye, then with feigned embarrassment but
real relief she excused herself and went off to the ladies' room. She had felt
his eyes watching her as she moved away.

"And then?" It was his ritual response whenever
she recalled the moment, her head nestled in the crook of his bare arm, the
hard muscle a pillow, as she played with the hairs of his chest.

"Then you passed completely out of my mind."

"Completely?"

"Well, I was concentrating on the removal of the
champagne stain."

"But I did notice that you had disappeared."

"How could you? You were so busy stuffing your
face."

"My digestion has nothing to do with the male
antenna."

"And what a beautiful antenna."

Her hand reached down and fondled his penis. She felt its
awakening response. Then she removed her hand.

"It was the furthest thing from my mind."

"But a seed was planted."

"Perhaps I loved you then, from that moment."

"You romantics. You exaggerate everything."

"How then can you explain this?" She reached
again for his penis which had hardened now. She looked downward and watched it
grow, fill out with its mysterious movement of blood, an enigma. "I was an
innocent. I had never been unfaithful. I have been married fifteen years. I
felt myself grow wet with yearning."

He reached downward for her organs, confirming the result
of suggestion.

"You see. I am still that way."

"Purely chemical. Purely a physical reaction." He
chided her playfully as two fingers massaged her nipples.

"When I came back you moved toward me. I saw you from
a corner of my eye. Then I looked at Claude. I don't know why. Perhaps it was
guilt. Perhaps I knew what was happening. But he was busy being intense and
impressive. He is quite impressive, you know, quite eloquent."

"I'm sure he will be an ambassador at his next
posting."

"He will be important someday. Quite powerful and
influential. I must never embarrass him. It will destroy him." She felt
her eyes begin to mist and a throbbing in her chest, a sob urgent to be heard.
But she held it in, crushed it with her will.

"I brought you a glass of champagne."

"You came over with two. I could barely catch my
breath when you came near me. My knees began to shake. I swear it. I wanted to
refuse your offer of the glass. I felt that my fingers would be clumsy and I
would spill some more on poor Monsieur Cardin's creation."

"But you took it and your hands didn't shake."

"It was a commitment even then. I must have
subconsciously wished to take anything you had to offer."

"I said something silly," he responded shyly as
his body moved downward, his lips brushing the soft skin of her belly.

"You said: Come we must toast beautiful women."

"Isn't that ridiculous?"

"I felt myself blushing and I knew that something was
happening."

He moved downward further, his lips touching her pubic
hairs. She reached for his hard organ, caressed it, kissed its head and shaft.
She felt him tense, the hardness increase.

"It was the beginning of a madness. I hardly knew
myself. I am a woman now," she said. "You have made me a woman."

He kissed her organs, titillating her clitoris with his
tongue. She responded in kind, reveling in her newly found animality, this
volatile chemistry that she had not thought possible. Then he was over her,
maleness incarnate. She waited with quivering expectation, a bit of flotsam on
an angry river, following the crashing tide. She wished she could stand outside
herself and observe what was happening, what he was doing to her, so that she
could enhance the experience of it. The sob began again, turning into a low
moaning as his hardness entered her, filled her, and her heartbeat accelerated,
the joy of it suffusing her body, her soul, every nerve end alert to his
maleness. She floated on the rushing river, feeling the surge of ecstasy, a
repetitive thrash of waves, washing over her as he continued to plunge inside
of her. I do not deserve such a gift, she imagined she was telling herself,
vaguely acknowledging the guilt of it, but no longer caring.

Actually, what she had been reobserving was the reality of
the moment of their meeting, not the surface details. He had, indeed, offered
the toast, duly made and ritualized. But, standing there in the crowded room,
he had been quite ordinary, merely, she had thought then, following the
protocol of the event. Of course, she noticed his eyes, silver specks in the
gray, luminescent. How could she have avoided the compelling eyes?

"I am Eduardo Palmero," he had said. His English
had little trace of accent, although the precision revealed it had been studied
and was not an original tongue. Holding out his free hand, he took hers. She
remembered the light pressure, but felt the fingers' strength. The touch was
delicate but powerful.

"Marie LaFarge." She had hesitated, looking again
over at where Claude was standing. "My husband is the French
minister."

"Ah, Madame LaFarge."

"Don't say it," she said, laughing, knowing she
was showing her good white even teeth. It seemed a breach of the formality. But
she had already begun to feel his closeness. "I don't knit."

He smiled. His teeth were also good and very white, against
a skin slightly dark in tone, softened by the trim black mustache and the
flared nostrils, another enigma in the dark face. These were details she was
absorbing consciously. The touches of gray at the side of his head of full
hair, slightly curled, the thin nose, a median size between aquiline and
patrician. He was approximately six feet, slender, a man aging with grace. One
might say oozing with charm, an errant thought at the time, since she did not
want to think of his spontaneity as contrived.

"Italian?" she asked.

"My father's side. My mother was Spanish. Actually, I
am a Chilean."

"With the Embassy?"

A brief cloud seemed to pass over his face, dulling the
eyes, wrinkling the forehead, tightening the lips.

"No," he said coldly. "I am, for the moment,
persona non grata."

She knew at once. The wife of a diplomat is trained to
understand. And living with Claude one dared not even seem ignorant of the
games of nations, as he called them.

"Roumania," she said, sipping the champagne to
mask embarrassment. "Yes, I see."

"Brothers under the skin," he remarked cheerfully
with a slight movement of the glass toward his Roumanian host. "At least
the exile gets a chance to eat and drink." He smiled again, moving closer,
his eyes probing deeply now. She knew now she had fully gained his interest and
it was flattering to her. She was being a flirt again, she realized. Claude
would chide her about that, especially after a party when he had had too much
to drink, which triggered his jealousy but made him amorous. The idea of it
apparently excited him. "You flaunt yourself," he would say in
French. Their intimate moments seemed to demand it. "It is all in your
imagination," she would reply, but he was already close to her, his breath
coming swifter, his face flushed. "There is a limit." It seemed a
game, as if he were deliberately bringing himself up to a boil. "I am a
true and faithful wife," she insisted. "You should be proud that men
find me attractive." By then, he was fondling her. "You are a woman.
You do not know what is in men's minds." What occurred was swift, violent,
and, on his part, passionate. She wondered why nothing he did moved her. It was
the major disruptive influence in their lives. She had mothered two children
for him, did his bidding as a dutiful diplomatic wife, surely did not embarrass
him, was supportive and outwardly loving. But he did not move her. For many
years she had resolved that this is the way it really is. That there was
something in her that could not be moved, a patina of cement, beyond which
feeling could not penetrate. It was not only with Claude. No man had ever
really moved her. The fact of it had made her seem dry and brittle to herself.
Frigid. It was terrible to live with such an idea, she had decided. What was
all the fuss about, she wondered. It was nothing, empty.

"There are many of us in this town," Eduardo had
assured her, perhaps sensing her interest. Her eyes roamed his face. It
intrigued her to see the moods flash across it, like lightning on a midsummer
afternoon.

"Chileans?"

"Exiles. Mostly American citizens now. The world map
has changed so radically in the last thirty years that the exiles can hardly
tell from which country they have been exiled. At least, we in South America know where we are from."

She wondered if there was an edge of humor to his remarks.
Tempted to enhance it, she nevertheless remained silent. It was her diplomatic
training. One never knew the cast of mind of a person of different nationality,
Claude had warned. Different languages created different nuances. Words might
be easily translatable, but not the value of the words in emotional terms.
Guard yourself, he had warned. You might be speaking English, but you are
thinking in French and he is thinking in his own language.

"We are revolution-happy," he said, smiling. Then
the lightning came again and the smile faded. "Ours was the only real
revolution since the conquistadors were thrown out. Sooner or later, we will
win. We have just lost the first round." She noticed that his hands had
balled into fists and he seemed to be wrestling internally with his rage.

She was fascinated, she admitted to herself, but she had no
desire to hear his story now. It was inappropriate to be heavy in an event like
this. Diplomatic receptions were essentially for surface talk. One nibbled at
the leaves and left the roots alone.

"And you, Madame LaFarge?" he asked, unwinding,
his anger fading.

"I am a diplomatic wife. We have spent the last
fifteen years roaming the world. West Germany. Canada. Hungary. Cambodia."

She noticed that guests were beginning to leave and that
Claude had glanced her way, nodding, the thin smile a harbinger of what she
might expect later. This man was monopolizing her attention and it was getting
obvious. She must excuse herself and reach her husband's side, a diplomatic
maneuver. She held out her hand.

"It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Palmero," she
said. He took her hand in his and she felt the power and electricity of his
touch, an unmistakable surge of sexuality. This is absurd, she told herself.
But her knees did shake and she could not deny the flow of her juices. What is
it, she wondered, a wave of confusion breaking in her mind.

"We must meet again," he said, holding her hand
and looking into her eyes, the invitation blatant. It was the moment to deny
it, to exercise deliberate indifference, to pour water on the hot coals.

"Yes, we must," she responded, knowing that she
had exposed her essence. It was a totally new sensation, an enigma. My God, is
this me, she wondered, withdrawing her hand and moving across the room to her
husband's side. He introduced her to his companions while she watched Eduardo
Palmero cross the room, graceful and confident, hardly the defeated exile that
he wished to portray.

Later, when they arrived home, Claude admonished her
playfully for her flirtatiousness. But he was secretly proud, she knew.
Luckily, he had not taken much liquor.

"Who was that fellow?" he asked.

"Some South American," she said with feigned
indifference.

Claude took her in his arms and pressed his pelvis against
hers. She felt his hardness and she was imagining that it was Eduardo, and
there was, she knew, more feeling in her response. Despite this, she remained
unmoved.

Weeks passed and it still would not go away. She performed
her daily tasks by rote, her mind fogged. The children were cared for and
fussed over, suitably swathed in what she imagined was motherly love,
disciplined, and otherwise parented. At times, they must have sensed her
strangeness.

"What is it, Mommy?" Susan, her ten-year-old,
would ask.

"It?"

"You have hung my skirt in Henry's closet."