The Casanova Embrace (22 page)

"You Americans do not understand us. We are an example
of the failure of civilian government. It is, thankfully for you, beyond your
comprehension." His leg continued to rest against hers; then it began to
move in a steady rhythm. She could feel his anticipation. Yet she wanted
suddenly to talk about terror, thinking of Eduardo and his anxieties.

"We read all sorts of things about your intelligence
services."

He stopped the movement against her leg. His eyes opened in
surprise and she wondered if she had gone too far. Then the stroking began
again, and she returned the pressure to reassure him.

"The activities of our intelligence services are much
exaggerated. We must protect ourselves as you do. The French, the Americans,
the Israelis are amazingly efficient. And the CIA is everywhere. Why should a
country like Chile be singled out? We have been given few alternatives."

She retreated into the familiar cliché of
trivial femininity.

"I don't understand such things. I only know what I
have read in the American press."

"We live in a dangerous world, Madame LaFarge."

"Marie," she added quickly.

"Marie," he seemed to savor the name as if he
were tasting the first sip of a rare wine. Then she felt his hand touch her
thigh. Even he must have realized that he had gone too far. He dropped his
napkin, then quickly bent to retrieve it, watching the faces around him. But no
one noticed, and he quickly moved to converse with the ambassador's wife on his
right, his leg not leaving hers. He seemed to have increased the pressure, an
accurate gauge, she thought, of his excitement.

She touched the spot between her breasts where she had
placed the device, then began to talk to a little man on her left, who appeared
to be hard of hearing. He smiled benignly. She knew he had not heard a word she
uttered.

After the dessert, which she ate with unaccustomed
eagerness, more out of nervousness than desire, the ambassador clinked his
glass and stood up. He cleared his throat and, watching her, began what seemed
like an elaborate toast to his guests, who were all characterized as distinguished,
the ladies portrayed as elegant and beautiful. He looked toward her pointedly
as he made this reference and she felt Claude's eyes resting on her, his pride
certainly unbounded as if he were receiving a compliment for a pet orchid that
he had grown himself. It was all so brittle and insincere, without any meaning
for her, irrelevant to her new life. This is absurd, she thought. Yet she knew
her face was beaming up at him, hopefully glowing with admiration.

When he sat down, his leg immediately took up its
accustomed place and she bent over and whispered to him, "You were quite
marvelous." But his reaction was deterred by another man who rose to make
a countertoast, also complimenting the beauty of the ladies, but his eyes were
on the wife of the Chilean ambassador, who certainly deserved the accolade.

Finally the guests rose and the men and women were
separated in the old tradition, the women off to the front drawing room for
coffee and the men to a back parlor to enjoy brandy, coffee and cigars.

"I know it's all very archaic," the ambassador
said, "but we follow the tradition. Sometimes we get complaints, but after
all, diplomats may be allowed some leeway in following the amenities."

She shrugged. He was obviously embarrassed now that the
moment of truth had arrived, stealing a glance at his wife among the group of
departing ladies.

"I hope it is the appropriate time for me to collect
my special good fortune." She wondered if she had inadvertently winked,
for he immediately blushed and led her quickly to the foyer.

"The house was built with perfect symmetry," the
ambassador said. "The two drawing rooms are identical, as you can see,
although the colors and furnishings are deliberately different." He seemed
to have assumed a formal approach and she wondered if he were actually
frightened that his private tour might be misconstrued by an observant guest.
It was only after he had passed through the drawing room, out of sight of the
others, that he began to loosen up.

"And this is the library," he said, taking her
arm, squeezing it, then in a quick motion sliding the door shut. With his back
to the high doors, she could see his arm move behind him and turn the lock.
Quickly, she looked toward the end of the large library to what Eduardo had
explained was the entrance to the study. But before she could turn her head
back to face him, he was pressed up against her, his lips searching for hers.
She let him kiss her, felt her lips pried open and his tongue shoot into her
mouth. A hand slid itself down into her bodice and caressed a nipple.

"I'm wild for you, Marie," he whispered.

"Please. Not now. Your guests."

Gently, she moved him away. His face had flushed a deep
scarlet.

"And what's in there?" she asked, feigning
breathlessness and patting her hair. At first, he seemed puzzled by the
question.

"In there?" She wondered if he would understand
the implication of her inquiry. Where it's safer, you ass. Must I say it? He
came toward her again and put his arms around her, kissing her neck.

"It can't be safe here," she said.

"I've locked the door."

"Still.... "He kissed her again and she let her
hand fall limp, feeling his hardness against the backs of her fingers.
"Please. I am afraid."

Again, she managed to release herself and moved toward the
door of the study. He pursued her and as he kissed her again, she turned the
handle. The door was locked. She felt a sudden burst of anger and pushed him
away.

"Not here."

"I want you," he said.

"Not here," she replied firmly. She could see the
bulge in his pants and, looking up at his face, noted his confusion. Reaching
into his pocket, he drew out a key chain and quickly opened the study door.
Eduardo would be proud of her cunning, she thought. Had he known that the door
would be locked? She moved into the study, searching for signs of familiarity
as she converted the pictures in her memory to the reality of the room. The
ambassador shut the door behind him and clicked the lock with some flourish,
designed to alleviate her fears. She moved quickly to the bookcases behind the antique
desk. He did not lose a second in pursuit, gathering her into his arms again,
pressing his lips tightly against her own, his body pressing against hers as
she searched for a place to put the device. His hand groped at her buttocks and
she could feel the relentlessness of his erection now. There was no escape, she
knew, as she spotted a place for the device inside the jacket of one of the
books. She managed to turn in his arms and place her back against him. His arms
came around her, feeling for her breasts, and she reached backward for his
erection.

"This is madness," she said, turning her head
toward him, but still facing the bookcases.

"I must have you," he murmured. "I
must."

She bent over and lifted her gown, gathering it around her
waist and leaning forward. With one hand she gripped the edge of a bookcase.
Anticipating the situation, she had worn no encumbering underthings. She heard
the sound of his zipper and then he was groping for her, plunging his erection
in the general direction of her parts. She was dry, but reaching for him, she
managed to insert him. She bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out in
pain. I must endure this, she told herself repetitively as she reached into her
bodice for the device. Then, finding it, she slipped it quickly under the dust
jacket of a book. Behind her, his body moved like a piston. This must end.
Please! Fortunately he reached a climax quickly, and he stepped away, releasing
her.

She turned and let her dress fall, smoothing it. His face
was beet red and he was sweating profusely.

"I can't tell you how much pleasure...."

"Quickly," she said, taking his hand and leading
him out of the room. She noted that he still retained enough presence of mind
to relock the study door. He passed through the library, unfastened the latch,
and they moved back into the foyer.

To her relief, the powder room in the foyer was empty and
she stepped in. Her knees were shaking and she was seized with a sudden fit of
nausea. The recently eaten dessert seemed to turn sour in her stomach and she
gagged, disgorging the half-digested mess into the toilet. When she recovered
herself, she cleaned herself up, repaired her makeup, and went back to join the
guests. In the foyer mirror she noted that all her rouge could not hide the
unaccustomed whiteness, the pallor. Had Eduardo expected this, she wondered as
she forced a smile and entered the drawing room to join the ladies.

As she sat in the carpeted waiting area in the Pan American
section of the Miami airport, Frederika Millspaugh felt like someone outside of
herself, a different person. She was wearing a pink jumpsuit, a blonde wig,
large round-framed sunglasses, and a white scarf around her neck. Beside her on
the floor lay an elegant Louis Vuitton brief case. It was all totally out of
character, someone completely different from the person inside.

As she waited, she tried to amuse herself by imagining that
she was the person that she was depicting, this someone else. On the plane down
from Washington, she had actually answered the hostess in a southern accent.

"Ah would indeed lak some coffee," she had said,
bringing her voice to a higher pitch. That was, of course, the only thing she
did say on the journey, although the man next to her tried to engage her in
conversation. But Eduardo had warned her about that. "Talk to no one. No
one," he had emphasized. Trying on the clothes he had brought her, she had
actually made him laugh with her posing and gestures. She had even made him try
on the blonde wig. With his mustache and dark face, he looked ridiculous.

"The perfect picture of the Chilean
transvestite," she had said.

That had set him off and he doubled up in a spasm of
laughter and she imagined what he might have been like as a young boy. For a
moment, the burden inside him seemed lifted and he was unguarded.

"What was Santiago like when you were a boy?"

"Beautiful." His eyes seemed to probe backward in
time. "We played soccer in the green fields framed by the snowcapped
Andes. We wore white uniforms with red numbers, and red and white striped
socks." He must be seeing it all in color, she thought, watching his face.
"The field was actually on a high plateau and we could see the waves
breaking in the distance along the white beaches."

"It sounds a lovely setting for a school."

"Yes." He paused. "Sometimes.... "he
seemed reluctant to continue, as if he might reveal too much. "I can hear
the sounds of the boys. Eduardo! Eduardo! Kick this way. This way." He
imitated the voices in a high falsetto. "I was good, always in the center
of the action. And sometimes, when I was very good, the boys would carry me on
their shoulders. Nothing since has ever given me the same exhilaration, the
same sense of achievement."

She tried to envision him as he saw himself, a heroic
figure, his young hard body, muscles tight under a marble-smooth skin, white
teeth shining in the sunlight. My God, I can see him, she thought, feeling his
sadness. How far from home he is. Then the image seemed to fade inside him and
no amount of questioning would restore it and his past slipped away from her.
Sometimes, after they had made love, her own floodgates would open and she
would talk endlessly about her childhood, wondering if he could imagine her.

"Braids," she began once. She could see herself
so clearly as a child of twelve. "My entire childhood seemed built around
braids. My hair was down to here then, and my father adored it and would not
allow Mother to cut it. So she braided it, day after day, hour after hour. She
would stand behind me braiding my hair and rolling the braids around my head.
Sometimes the braids were allowed to hang down, but once some kids put the ends
of the braids into an inkwell. We were in art class, and it wasn't until I got
home that I saw what they had done." She paused, wondering if he was listening.

Finally he said, "Was that the end of the
braids?"

"No." He is listening, accepting the gift of my
life. It seemed a presumption on her part to think so mythically, but it was
important to her sense of giving to tell him.

"The braids did not go until I was fifteen. I had a
boyfriend named Lenny. And he was just like the Lenny with the rabbits, big and
stupid, but beautiful to look at and touch. He didn't like my braids. So one
day I let him cut them off."

"Why?"

"I wanted to prove my love," she said. Perhaps it
had not been exactly like that, but it was the kind of romantic idea that
heightened the meaning of her life for her.

"Will we have to cut off your braids now?"
Eduardo teased.

Then she had tried on the entire disguise, complete to the
white scarf and the Louis Vuitton brief case. She felt silly, but he inspected
it with great care.

"Good," he concluded. "A typical
middle-class glamour girl on her way to fun in the sun."

"You don't think it's too conspicuous?"

"Conspicuous, yes, but not to the people who watch.
Definitely outside the realm of their profile for a conspirator, a
terrorist."

"Is that what I am?"

"In a way," he mused.

A shiver of fear ran through her. He had warned her of
danger.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"This is not a game. It is quite dangerous."

"It is your game, Eddie. That's what is important.
Will it be of help to you?"

"Of enormous help."

"Then that is what I want."

It was, indeed. She was part of him now, drawn in. And she
made him repeat the assignment over and over again, as if she hadn't remembered
every detail.

"You will simply take a flight to Miami. You will
arrive at noon. Go directly to the Pan American waiting room. You will sit in
the waiting room, in the row facing the counters. You will place the brief case
next to you on your left side. And you will be reading a magazine. Vogue.
That's all there is to it."

"And then?"

"Just sit there. Someone will sit beside you. A woman.
She will be there only briefly. Then she will get up and leave."

"And switch the brief case."

"Yes. Then you go into the ladies' room, change into
the clothes in the brief case, replacing them with the clothes you will be
wearing. Then you will take the plane home." He paused. She could feel his
reluctance to explain further. But she pressed him.

"And what's in this brief case?"

"It's better that you don't know."

"Why?"

"Then you can't be responsible."

"But I want to be responsible, Eddie. That's the
point."

"I'm sorry, Frederika."

She unzipped the brief case and took out a flat package,
holding it in the palm of her hand.

"Can I guess?" He took it out of her hand and
replaced it in the brief case.

"Really, Frederika. You mustn't take this
lightly."

"I don't, Eddie. It just seems that if I am carrying
out an important assignment, then I should know what I am doing."

"I promise I will tell you. But not now. I prefer to
spare you the danger of knowing too much. Perhaps if we tan achieve this
without complications, then the next time."

She understood. There was to be more. She felt relieved. So
now I am almost a part of it, she thought with pride. Defined purpose was what
had motivated her before. There was a cause, and although the ultimate
objective was unclear, she could understand the purpose and she could believe
in the idea of it. The people! When Eddie said it, the old feeling welled up
again and she felt that same sense of defined purpose.

"We do this for the people," he had said.

"The people of Chile?"

"Yes. But that is only the beginning. It must start on
the mainland in Chile and then it will swallow up the rest of South
America."

Yes, of course. But she could not decide whether her
compassion was real or merely manufactured out of her love for Eddie, her
willingness to sacrifice for him. Perhaps, she thought, it was best that she
did not know what was in the package. Not yet. Not now.

She turned the pages of the magazine without comprehension.
Her peripheral vision remained alert and her ears listened for every sound. She
felt someone sit down beside her and she forced her head to remain motionless.
It was a woman, as Eddie had said. The scent of her was distinctive. Then she
was gone. Frederika waited the appropriate time. Eddie had said ten minutes.
Then she rose, picking up the exchanged brief case. It was light. Walking
across the airport lounge, she went into the ladies' room and opened the case.
In it she found an outfit of blue jeans and sandals, into which she quickly
changed, stuffing the jumpsuit and scarf and shoes into the brief case, along
with the blonde wig and sunglasses. When she came out again, she felt more like
herself.

It was late afternoon when she returned to her apartment,
expecting that he would be there, waiting. He was not. She found it odd. She
had assumed he would be there to share her experience. Besides, she was proud
of herself. Finally she dismissed his absence, knowing, surely, that he had
good reasons. Instead, she tuned her ear to the telephone, expecting his call,
the ring shattering the silence. He knew when she would be arriving. Certainly,
he also knew how necessary it was for her to tell him that she had succeeded,
succeeded for him, for his cause. Yes, he would call soon and she put any sense
of anxiety out of her mind. But when he had not called in the next hour, she
felt the onset of doubt. Still, it was not enough to upset her and she decided,
as he had instructed, to go to work.

She put on her waitress uniform, threw a light coat over
her shoulders, and went out. In the elevator she imagined she had heard a phone
ring, punched the next floor and ran up the stairs listening at her door.
Silence confirmed, she went to the elevator again.

She had hoped that the night's work would be a distraction.
Nothing seemed to help and she spent most of the evening looking through the
window, wondering if he had chosen to meet her at work.

"That's the third time you misstated an order
tonight," the omelet maker reprimanded.

"I'm sorry."

She went through three days of it. The anxiety became
unbearable. Something has happened, she was convinced. Allowing herself that
possibility somehow eased the pain, for it implied a third force was at work,
beyond his control. She dared not think that there was another reason for his
absence. Such a thought was too cruel for her to bear. Finally, she was afraid
to leave her apartment, fearing that she would miss the phone's ring. She
called in sick, spending her days and nights in bed listening. A number of
times she dozed off and awoke hysterical, barely able to get her bearings, the
thread of some forgotten nightmare clinging to her consciousness. He was being
tortured and she was watching him. His screams filled the air and they were
slicing away at his genitals with a knife and fork. My God, she cried when she
had recovered her sense of place and time. Where is Eddie?

It had not seemed odd that he had never told her
specifically where he lived. He has his reasons, she persisted. And she
accepted his only explanation. It had been part of her earlier conditioning not
to question.

"It is better that you don't know," he had told
her. But was it?

Was she right in her acceptance? Or simply naive? What did
danger matter now? She was committed.

When finally the phone did ring, she was so numb with
anxiety that she could not believe the sound and did not answer until the fifth
ring.

"Frederika." At the sound of his voice, she felt
her chest heave and she could not respond.

"Please, Frederika. Are you all right?" He
repeated himself until she felt herself quieting.

"Yes."

"I will explain," he said.

"I was out of my mind with worry."

"There was no other way. I had to be sure you were not
followed."

"No, I wasn't. I am sure of it."

"I had to be sure." There was a long pause.
"I will be there shortly."

"Please, Eddie."

"Yes. I am not far away. I will be there." The
phone clicked dead.

She got out of bed, her head pounding, trying to recover a
sense of balance. He was coming. That was all that mattered. For the first time
in days, she looked at the apartment, which was a mess. Sniffing the air, she
caught a staleness, some of which came from her own body. She dashed to the
shower, cleaned herself quickly, tidied the apartment, and was just tightening
her robe when she heard his key in the door.

He had barely set foot in the apartment when she reached
for him, pressed him to her, clung to him, her lips tight on his, her tongue
groping.

"My Eddie! My Eddie!" she cried, gasping for
breath.

"I wanted to come, but I was afraid for you. I had to
be sure you were not followed."

"Who cares?" she cried, opening her robe and
putting his hand on her breast. Why did this man do this to her? she wondered,
forgetting the pain. She began to undress him. As she removed his jacket, a
flat package fell to the floor.

"Another?"

"Yes."

Again, she felt the joy of sharing his life and the idea of
it made the touch of his flesh sweeter. When he was naked she began to kiss
him, determined not to let a square inch of his body escape her lips. Then she
crouched before him and pressed her breasts against his erection."

"My beautiful Eddie. My beautiful Eddie."

"You must understand," he said softly. She felt
her pleasure coming from deep inside of her, sensing his urgency as he moved
his body in swift jerking motions.

"I need you," she cried, feeling her orgasm
begin, washing over her with the heat of an explosive force. She saw his eyes
watching her and the joy of it was beyond even the experience of the other
times with him. Am I just a bitch in heat? she wondered.

Later, they lay in her bed and she still clung to him.

"I'll never let you go. Never." Then she kissed
him again from his head to his toes. "Every piece of you is mine."
Soon she felt herself relaxing, a sensation of floating, and her eyelids grew
heavy.

There was another voice in the room, accelerating her sense
of wakefulness. He was still beside her and she was suddenly aware of a tension
in him. The radio was on, and an announcer was reading the news. Rising on one
elbow, she looked in the direction of the sound, noting the time on the clock
radio. It was three A.M.