The Casanova Embrace (7 page)

He did not have long to wait. His father had resumed his
work, replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scratching his pen
along the pad. Isabella's knock was furtive, barely audible to his father,
although Eduardo had heard it clearly. Then it came again, a bit more
assertive, and his father raised his head. "Come in," he called. He
looked over his glasses as the pale and frightened Isabella entered the room.
She had apparently put on her best dress, although she was barefoot, and
brushed her long hair. Eduardo's heart lifted when he saw her. His father waved
her forward and contemplated her. Her head was lowered, her eyes watching the
floor shyly. But her carriage was straight and her young breasts strained
against the tightness of her dress. If only he could hold her now, Eduardo
thought. Surely, when she sees how I have protected her, she will let me hold
her in my arms, he thought with excitement.

"You are Isabella?" his father asked gently.

Isabella nodded. Señor Palmero watched her for
what seemed like a long moment. It was a look of contemplation. He took off his
glasses and moved slowly in front of his desk, standing over the frightened
girl. Reaching out, he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face.

"You are quite charming," he said. Isabella stood
rooted to the spot. Her face was visible now, the eyes still lowered.

"You must not be afraid," his father said gently.
"I am here to help you, to protect you."

Why doesn't he mention me, Eduardo thought. His implicit
faith in his father's wisdom was not shaken. He will tell her soon.

"I believe it was an accident," his father said.
"Am I correct?"

Isabella nodded, her eyes still lowered.

"I believe it was not your fault."

Isabella moved her head from side to side.

"And I know that you would not like to be sent
back."

Isabella moved her head from side to side again.

Señor Palmero paused, his eyes moving furtively
around the room. He stepped away and slowly moved toward the door, securing the
latch to it, talking as he walked. Eduardo was confused.

"Sometimes the mistress becomes overwrought when she
sees her possessions broken. It is perfectly natural," Señor
Palmero said, returning to face the girl, who had lowered her head again when
his palm had removed its support.

"You must not be afraid," he said quietly.
"I am the master of this house and will not hurt you. Do you believe
that?"

Again he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand.

"Do you believe that?" he repeated.

Isabella nodded. What is he doing, Eduardo thought. A panic
seized him as he saw his father's hands touch Isabella's breasts, cupping them,
pinching them lightly. Isabella's eyes continued to look downward. But she did
not move. Father, please, he shouted within himself.

"You understand I will not hurt you, Isabella?"
Señor Palmero said. She could not nod now, his hand under her chin
prevented it. Then his hand moved downward to her crotch, caressing her,
slowing lifting her dress, showing her bare legs.

Eduardo felt his heart pumping. No, he wanted to shout, but
the word was lost in the gurgle in his chest. He watched, riveted, as his
father lifted the girl's dress over her head, revealing the small body, the
flesh like light burnished copper, the thatch of hair at the crotch jet black.
His father worked his hand between the girl's legs now and she began to
undulate, hesitantly, then with greater abandon.

"I will not hurt you, Isabella," his father
repeated again and again, unhitching his belt, then lowering his pants,
revealing a huge phallus in full erection.

"Do you know what this is?" he said. A deep flush
had risen on his face. He did not wait for her response. "Have you ever
had this in you?"

The girl shook her head. Her eyes were open now and she
looked at the object with some interest.

"You must kiss it, then," the father said, as the
girl got on her knees and began kissing and stroking.

My God, Eduardo shouted within himself, sensing his brutal
betrayal. He wanted to run, to hurl himself over the cliff to the crashing
ocean below. But his legs would not move. He wanted to cry, but tears would not
come. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't find his voice. Worse, he could not
tear his eyes away from the sight. His father's eyes were closed now and the
girl was moving instinctively, mesmerized, her tongue licking the shaft of his
father's penis. Finally, he turned away, sensing the superhuman effort of his
will and the beginning of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Justice, he
sneered, spitting into the wind, feeling the moisture return, sensing the
essence of his disgust.

Dobbs shook his head. Was there some clue here, he
wondered, moving the file away with the tips of his fingers as if it were an
object of some revulsion. He stood up, walked across the large office,
returning only when he felt the press of time.

It was not easy for Marie to separate her two lives. Her
mind was filled with thoughts of Eduardo. She fantasized about being with him,
relived her experience in his apartment, tried to feel and touch him in her
imagination, sometimes with uncanny success. But her main fear was that
someone, her children, Claude, would see into her thoughts. If only she could
tell them how beautiful it was, tell someone about it.

Perhaps it was a form of compensation, but she seemed to
work harder at being a mother and companion for Claude. She marveled at her own
toleration of her husband's egocentricity and bad temper. When anything had gone
wrong with his day Claude had a tendency to bring home his hostility and
edginess. He would pick fights with her, criticize her, insult her. Normally,
she drew on practiced reserves.

"You mustn't take it out on me."

"I'm not. I'm merely stating the obvious. You are not
informed. You don't read the newspapers enough. It is frustrating to come home
to a wife who is ill-informed."

This was a familiar refrain. But she had her defenses.

"My job is to take care of the children. Maintain our
home. My priorities are different than yours."

"I will outgrow you," Claude would warn, his eyes
blazing with anger, focusing his wrath and frustration on her. The implied
threat had always struck a note of fear.

Now, she was more tolerant when this theme surfaced again.

"I will try to read more, Claude," she would say,
defusing his anger by her feigned contrition. She would be amused by this line.
What does it matter, she thought. I have my other life.

At night, before she could empty her mind and fall asleep,
she would think about Eduardo, his loneliness and the power and strength of his
sexuality. But if there was happiness in the memory, there was sadness in the
yearning.

After three days, when he did not call, she began to grow
anxious. Without a telephone, he was simply unreachable, and it took a great
effort of will on her part not to return to his apartment house, although she
would deliberately plan her chores to drive past it. She had had lunch with him
on Tuesday. Finally he called on Friday. Hearing the phone ring, she knew
instantly that it was him.

"Marie?"

"Eduardo?"

There was a whisper in his voice, as if he were frightened
that he would be overheard.

"I called you yesterday, but left no message."

"I was out," she said. "That was very
wise." There was a long pause. She heard his breathing.

"Can you see me?" he whispered. The words seemed
furtive, exciting her interest with their urgency. He needed her. The
assumption filled her with joy. She had actually made plans for a luncheon with
the wives of her husband's colleagues. But that, like everything in her life
now, was tentative, a charade, filling the time between Eduardo.

"When?" She had also lowered her voice. Was it
possible that her phone was tapped? Claude had warned her. "Be careful
what you say," he had confided. "We cannot assume that they are not
listening in."

"Who?"

"The CIA. It is a standard practice with us in Paris, although we have equipment to detect it. But it is not foolproof."

"What could I say that would have value?" she had
responded. Now, she knew. The telephone, indeed, could be the enemy.

"Today. At noon." She thought for a moment,
hesitating, her mind filled with the logistics of refusing to go to the
luncheon.

"Of course." She had wanted to say "my
darling," but held back, proud of her cunning. The phone clicked off. She
dialed another number, apologized, talked of special chores that had come up.
She had rejected the idea of telling them she was not feeling well. It might
get back to Claude. In this way, she would be telling them somewhat of a truth.
Some chore, she thought, laughing gaily as she sprang up the stairs.

As she drove to his apartment house, her mind and body
filled with anticipation, she found herself looking into the rear view mirror.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. How could Claude know? How could anyone
know? Nevertheless, she parked a block from the apartment house and walked the
rest of the way, turning quickly as the eyes of the deskman washed over her
briefly. Not wishing to be announced, she quickly reached the elevator,
thankful that she was the only one in the cab.

He was waiting for her in the apartment, had apparently
heard the elevator and opened the door. Although her agitation had increased as
she came toward his apartment, she calmed herself in his initial embrace, which
set off all the triggers of her sexuality, an instant reaction. He was wearing
nothing above his waist and feeling his bare flesh so unexpectedly gave her a
warm surge of pleasure. She felt his breath against her ear, then a whispered, "I
have missed you," which made her press more tightly against him, reaching
for his erection, feeling the wonder of its hardness. She admitted now that
part of her anxiety had been that it would not be the same this time, that what
she had felt during their first meeting was merely the explosive tendency of a
pent-up, frustrated woman. I have been dormant for fifteen years, she had
insisted to herself, knowing that she meant dormant since birth, unrealized, a
neuter. These new feelings had resurrected the search within herself. Feeling
him now gave her the validation that she was, indeed, still alive. Someone. A
woman.

"You are my man," she told him, running her
fingers through his hair, down over his bare back into the envelope of his
trousers at the small of his back, down over his hard buttocks. Again, as she
had done last time, she knelt before him, unfastened his trousers and pulled
them down, then his shorts, kissing and caressing him. "My beautiful
man," she cried, feeling tears rush down over her cheeks. "My
beautiful man." It seemed, even then, like some primitive litany. She felt
his hands on her hair, but he said nothing. In the midst of this act so foreign
to her experience, she observed herself, a spectator. And the spectator,
marveling at the total loss of her inhibitions, nevertheless felt pride in the
participant, in her humanity and passion. I want him to come in my mouth, she
told herself, her tongue compelling and urgent on his erection. Such an idea
had always inspired a sense of nausea.

Then she felt the throbbing as he neared the moment of his
pleasure, which increased her own passion, the wave beginning inside her again,
as it had done the last time.

"Yes. Yes," she heard him say as she repeated to
herself, my man. My man. My beautiful man. Then she tasted his libation. It was
the way she thought of it, his libation to refresh her body and her spirit.
Like wine is Christ's blood, she told herself, reveling in what she imagined
was his sweetness. She had never wanted this before, not ever.

And it did not exhaust him. Quickly his energy began again
and they were together in his bed, enjoined, thrashing about, loving, kissing,
feeling, smelling, as her orgasms came in recurring crescendos, like a
waterfall plunging from terrace to terrace. Later, she lay in the crook of his
arm, her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, soaking in
his aroma, his aura.

"You have made me a woman," she said, looking
upward at the ceiling, groping inadequately for words to explain it. "At
first, I thought it is not possible that this could happen, that it was all
propaganda, that women's feelings were merely the figment of man's imagination.
I thought it was all lies."

"And now?"

"Now I know it is beyond my wildest imagination.
Beyond my dreams of it."

"We create the right biological chemistry," he
said, laughing.

"It is more than just physical," she began again,
knowing that it was impossible to fully explain, only to know. "This. Here
and now is my real life. The rest is a sham."

"Nonsense. You have your husband. Your family. Your
life." Perhaps he was merely underlining the impermanence of their
relationship. The thought quickened her caution. But it was futile. She could
savor her vulnerability. Such a truth would be like a bullet in her brain.

"But my real life is here. With you." She lifted
herself on her elbow and brushed her lips against his. Then she lay back and
looked up at the ceiling again.

"Eduardo," she said. "Explain this to me.
What is happening here?"

"We are a man and a woman." He shrugged. She
could sense his annoyance.

"You must tell me, Eduardo." She detected a sense
of pleading in her tone. But she really wanted to know. She must know.
"You are a man of the world, a man who has experienced life, a man of
wisdom. You know, Eduardo. You know better than I. I've been a woman in a
harness for years. First, it was my mother. Then Claude. Then the children. But
you know, Eduardo."

He patted her shoulder and kissed her hair.

"You exaggerate my wisdom. Once you start to explain,
you will talk it all away. We have needs, appetites. They sometimes take over
our logic. I understand only that I am a man in limbo, an exile. My esteem
probably needs special care. I have lost my country. There is something about
you that you carry in yourself that seems to satisfy these needs. That eases
the pain."

"And do I give you joy, Eduardo?"

"Of course.... "he paused, then smiled. "How
did you say it? Beyond my wildest imagination."

She pinched his ribs playfully.

"I think you are making fun of me."

"Fun? In Spanish it is reirse de mi." I prefer
the Spanish. It seems to say more."

"In French it is tu t'amuse avec moi."

She felt a giggle begin in her chest, expelling it, feeling
the parameters of time begin to disappear, and with them, all sense of her
other life.

"Why can't we just be here, like this, like now,
forever?" She looked up at him, watching. He said nothing and she sensed a
growing paranoia in herself. The future loomed, filled her mind. A future
without him seemed sterile, a living death. Could she cope with it, she
wondered.

"What happens now?" she asked, sensing impending
panic.

"Now?" He sat up and looked at his wrist watch
which lay on the pile of papers on his night table, under the lamp. "Now
we get dressed and disappear." He slapped her buttocks and stood up.

"So soon?"

"I have things I must do."

"But surely.... "She began checking herself, the
outside world, the details of their disparate lives rushing in on them. She
watched as he went to the bathroom, heard the rush of water. Then he came out and
began to dress. She felt suddenly angry, angry at time, at him, at herself.

"This place is a mess," she said as he brushed
his hair. "You must let me tidy it."

"No need," he whispered, hesitating briefly in
his response.

"Really, Eduardo. It can be made more liveable."

"It is simply a place to hang one's hat."

"You would be surprised how cozy I can make it."
She moved upward on the bed, rested on her knees, and reached out to touch him.
"Really, my darling. I can do it for you. Just give me the key. You
needn't trouble yourself about it. I can fix it up. Buy you things."

He put the brush down on the dresser, the sound of its
impact on the wood a sure signal of his irritation.

"I like it just the way it is," he said.

She saw his annoyance, knew she was causing it, and stood
up to placate him, hoping that she might draw him down again. She reached for
his crotch. But he moved away.

"I am late," he said, moving toward the door. But
he stopped, came back and kissed her hair. "Forgive me. I am testy,
already thinking of other problems. Perhaps some other time we will discuss
it."

"When can I see you again, Eduardo?"

"I'll call you."

"When? Tomorrow? Next week? What day?"

"It's difficult to make permanent plans. My life is so
transitory."

"But my life is tied to yours now. Without you I
wander in a maze."

"There is no other way. Not now. Not yet."

There seemed a faint glimmer of optimism, a shred of future
permanence. It was not enough assurance, she knew. She watched as he started
toward the door again.

"I will call you."

"But when?" Was she nagging?

"You mustn't ask." He looked at her for a moment,
then turned.

"I love you, Eduardo Allesandro Palmero," she
cried after him. But the door had already closed and she was certain he had not
heard.

She did not rise from the bed immediately after his
departure, but lay there, her eyes resting on the hardened nipples of her
breasts. Then she got up and reached for his brush, holding the handle, feeling
the lingering warmth of his hand. The sense of loss seemed overwhelming and her
eyes filled with tears. She looked at the brush, which suddenly became the
focus of her anger. She threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp
cracking sound, then fell to the floor. My God, what am I doing? What is
happening to me? She dressed quickly and left the apartment.

It was, she thought, an odd coincidence, although she
admitted the possibility of cosmic influence. This thing with Eduardo had
opened up new dimensions of spirituality. Life was, after all, not only what
met the eye. Which is what she felt when Claude informed her that night that
they would be at the Chilean Embassy for dinner.

The French ambassador, he had explained, was invited, a
small group, sixteen guests, on the following Saturday night. But the
ambassador had been called away suddenly and he, as next in command, was
designated to take his place. There, she thought, the cosmic influence. She
yearned to tell Eduardo. Claude was in good spirits, a fact she resented since
she preferred that he would bring home his irritations and thereby give her a
greater opportunity for dissimulation. Instead, he was in a particularly good
humor, although a little pedantic.