The Casanova Embrace (9 page)

She put a hand on his forehead, hoping to quiet him.

"Let me help, Eduardo." The touch of her seemed
to cool him. How she longed to be a part of his life. "I can help,"
she insisted. He looked at her thoughtfully.

"Why?"

"You, Eduardo. What is love without sacrifice?"

"It is too dangerous."

"For you, I will do anything."

"You don't understand, Marie. This is not a game. I am
a marked man. They watch me. It is not safe to get involved."

"But I am involved."

He paused, watching her, inspecting. "We shall
see," he whispered.

She should have been frightened. That seemed the logical
reaction. She should have thought first of her own exposure, the potential
breakup of her life with Claude and the children. That had once seemed the real
danger. Somehow it had all become reversed. She actually imagined the joy of
dying with him. What is life without him now? My God, what am I thinking?

"Love me, Eduardo. Just love me."

She lay on the bed watching him dress. It was part of their
rhythm now.

"If only I could be certain that we would meet on a
particular day, at a particular time. It is terrible to live with such anxiety.
I could cope better with my life if I knew."

"It is impossible."

"Perhaps I could cover over every day at a certain
hour. I will clean this place up. I will cook for you. There is so much I want
to give."

"I am sorry, Marie," he said, turning to her, his
silver-gray eyes calm in the early-afternoon light filtering through the
half-opened blinds. "It is impossible." He hesitated,
"...now." Had she heard him accurately?

The hint of a future with him gave her courage. If he
asked, would I give up everything, she wondered. My man. This is my man. Lying
there, she knew what decision she would make.

Having made the decision, she drew even further away from
Claude and the children. There was, she knew, an element of militancy about it.
Even madness. But I am Eduardo's woman was the only reassurance needed and she
would repeat it over and over again to herself.

"You must join me for lunch at the State Department
today," Claude said the following Monday morning. Again, she had somehow
gotten through another week, mostly by maintaining silence and spending her
time reading books about Chile. She had decided to begin taking Spanish
lessons. The effect on Claude of her sudden turnabout from dutiful spouse to
indifferent stranger was profound. He was confused, but had chosen a course of
disciplined response. She observed this, but ignored it. What did it matter?
Claude was a relationship of the past.

"No. You go without me."

"But the other wives will be there, Marie. And the
Secretary of State with his wife." He seemed to be pleading. She noted
that pockets of fatigue had begun to show up under his eyes. But the
observation carried no feeling with it.

"I simply won't go," she said.

"Really, Marie. What have you got to do that's more
important?"

"I'd prefer to stay home. Read my books. And there are
household chores."

"Marie!" His body seemed to tighten and stretch
as he loomed over her. A fleck of saliva formed at the side of his lips.
"I demand that you come with me!"

"Demand?" She snickered, taunting him.

"You are my wife. I demand your compliance."

Compliance, she thought. How ridiculous! One would think I
was another country. She did not reply, moving away from him. It was apparently
a gesture more infuriating than speech.

"You damned bitch!" he shouted. "Are you
trying to ruin me? You have no right. You are killing me. You are destroying my
career!"

She had never seen him that angry, and while her mind told
her that she should pity him, she found herself actually enjoying the
spectacle. She remembered now all the little hurts and humiliations that she
had endured at his hands. On numerous occasions, he had publicly insulted her
in front of his mother. "If only she was better read, more informed,"
he had said. "An empty-headed ninny," he had called her. It was his
favorite epithet. Not to mention his criticism of her manners, especially after
a dinner or cocktail party. "You simply ignored the man sitting beside
you," or "You should not have slurped so much wine," or "I
saw the way you were eyeing that tall man," or "Couldn't you tell
that your brassiere strap was showing?" Recalling this gave her courage.
He didn't deserve her pity. He is revolting, she told herself, thinking of
Eduardo, remembering the ecstasy she inspired in him. Ecstasy, yes. She felt a
warmness suffuse itself inside her, an expectation.

"Listen to me when I talk to you!" Claude was
shouting. "I will throw you out on the street." He started to move
toward her. Was he getting ready to strike her? She braced herself, prepared to
take the blow. If he strikes, she vowed, I will kick him in the groin.

But he stopped short suddenly, standing stiffly, searching
for control.

"Have I done something?" he said, his throat
constricted, the words hoarsely spoken. "Is there something I have done
wrong?"

"Really, Claude. You are making a 'cause
célèbre' over nothing."

"Nothing!" His anger rose again. "You are
deliberately hurting me!"

"Because I won't go to your silly luncheon?"

He looked around him helplessly.

"Is this my wife talking?"

"Go to the luncheon yourself. Tell them I'm sick. Tell
them anything."

It was beginning to weary her. There could be no resolution
now. There could only be his continuing tirade which left her completely
unmoved. It is like watching a stage performance, she thought. She heard his
voice, repetitive, grating, and tried not to listen. Finally he strode out and
angrily closed the door behind him, shaking the glassware and bric-a-brac
throughout the house. She was thankful the children had already gone off to school
and that the maid had not yet arrived.

Surprised by her calm, she sat on the dining room table and
sipped coffee. The focus of her thoughts was on Eduardo, triggering a delicious
sense of expectation. As if in reply, the telephone rang. She got up, walked
swiftly, felt joyous because she was certain that it was he.

"I will be there, darling," she said into the
receiver. There was no question in her mind that it was he. I feel it, she told
herself, hearing his response. You see.

"Are you getting psychic?" he asked. She sensed
his amusement.

"I feel you," she said.

"About noon?"

"Of course." She heard the click, but kept the
phone to her ear, her eyes closed, trying to imagine his closeness.

Again, she did not park the car in the apartment lot,
finding a space about a block away. She wore a kerchief and large sunglasses
and walked past the desk clerk quickly. The deliberate surreptitiousness made
her anxious and she longed for the day when such pretense would not be
necessary. She had, she knew, conquered her fear of Claude. His discovery would
be just a matter of time. Even that morning she had longed to tell him.
"You are not my man." She wanted to shout it at him. "You were
never my man." But she had held back. There was, after all, some
pragmatism left within her. Her mother had once said and she had remembered:
"Don't throw out your dirty water until you are sure you can have clean
water."

Before the door had barely closed, she reached out for him,
held him, clung to him. Tears spilled out of her eyes. He moved her away from
him and looked at her.

"You are crying," he said, kissing the tears,
actually licking them with his tongue.

"It's because. I am so happy."

He kissed her eyes now, her cheeks, gave her a long
lingering kiss on her lips, his tongue darting inward as she sucked it.
"You are my life now, my darling," she whispered.

She reached for his hard penis, unzipped his pants,
kneeled, caressed, kissed his hardness.

"My beautiful Eduardo," she cried. "My
wonderful, beautiful Eduardo." A tremulous shiver began inside her and she
knew the waves were beginning to come, delicious wonders happening to her. When
finally she drew his hardness into her, she felt herself floating on an endless
sea of pleasure and when his own release came, she knew she was on the verge of
fainting with the joy of it.

When she became calm, she knew that she had lost track of
time, had actually been outside of herself. Each time was better than the time
before. How greedy I am for him, she thought.

"Can I possibly go on living without you?" she
whispered. She could feel his gaze on her. He was smiling.

"Is it that strong?"

"Beyond all words."

He shrugged. He seemed younger, boyish. She patted his
forehead and smoothed his hair. Turning his eyes upward, he stared at the
ceiling.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered.

He was silent for a long time. When he spoke, the words
seemed ejaculated, as if they had been accumulating in his brain, pressurized.

"I am thinking about my own futility," he said.
"And those bastards who seek to destroy me. But I will fool them. I will
cling to life and I will have my revenge. I will taste their blood and it will
be like wine. I will drink it. The streets of Santiago will run with it and we
will all get drunk on it."

His words frightened her, as she envisioned the literal
embodiment of the image he had contrived. What did that matter, she wondered.
What did any of it matter as long as they were together. But she remained
silent. His inner rage had intimidated her. Whatever he does, I will do with
him, she vowed. She wondered if, despite the terror in his heart, he felt the
need for her, as she needed him.

Suddenly he sprang from the bed and repeatedly banged a
fist into his palm, his lips mumbling indecipherable words.

"What is it, my darling?"

He continued to flay his fist in his palm. His eyes seemed
glazed, his lips twisted and tightly fixed. After a while, his anger spent, he
relaxed and lay down beside her again. She saw glistening perspiration on his
forehead and upper lip, feeling the cooling process as her fingers caressed
him.

"It is like fighting Goliath," he said.

"But David won."

"At least he had a weapon, a slingshot, and he knew
how to use it." He tapped his forehead. "I have only this." Then
he pointed to her. "And you."

"Me? Am I a weapon?"

He smiled. But it seemed a mechanical gesture, not warm.

"Everything I touch becomes a weapon."

"I would die for you, Eduardo."

"Die?" He shook himself. "Who asked you to
die?"

He said it gently. She wondered at first what he meant.
Then she turned the question inward upon herself and it was unanswerable. Who
indeed? She had lived the contented, mostly conventional life of a diplomat's
wife. The whole focus of it was to support her husband's ambition and her
children's welfare. How irrelevant it all sounded. Yes, she decided. She was
quite prepared to make any sacrifice for Eduardo. Even to die.

That night she moved out of the bedroom she shared with
Claude and into the spare room. Claude stood against the wall, leaning on it,
posturing under a patina of bravado to hide his humiliation. She felt no pity
for him.

"I won't stand for this tantrum much longer," he
said, searching for his old sense of imperiousness. The threat seemed empty,
without conviction, which annoyed her. Then do something, you stupid man. This
is just the beginning of your defeat. I will torture you.

"I vow that I will leave you if this persists."
She remained silent as she gathered her clothing, emptying her drawers. She
wanted him to recognize the finality of it.

"At least you might think of the children," he
said flatly. It was, after all, his last refuge. She snickered. He must think
his children matter to me.

"I warn you." He pointed a finger at her but she
walked right past him, her clothing piled in her arms. He followed her to the
guest room. By then, all pretense had disappeared. His eyes had brimmed with
tears, which she saw peripherally as she put her clothes in the dresser. She
marveled at the lack of pity in her heart, as if he were a total stranger.

"If only I could understand," he said, sniffling,
his voice cracked with emotion. She knew he was making a great effort to
control himself. "At least, you owe me some explanation."

"There is none," she said finally, tired of his
watching her, annoyed at herself for not telling him. Could he be so stupid as
not to suspect?

"You realize that you are ending our marriage,"
he said. "Is that what you want?" His voice was barely audible.

"There is no marriage here."

"But why?" He was pleading now. Was it the moment
to tell him, to confess? It was, she knew, not out of regard for his feelings
that she held back. Somehow, she reasoned, it would hurt Eduardo. Even Claude,
his manhood challenged, might be capable of revenge, of harm. Say nothing, she
told herself. Not now.

"This is all pointless, Claude."

"I have a right to an explanation."

"You have no rights. Not any longer." She stared
at him, her eyes deliberately fixed on his face, observing his confusion and
his pain, unmoved. It must have become unbearable to him. He turned and walked
out of the room, slamming the door behind. She felt elation, freedom.

See, Eduardo, she screamed within herself. I have made my
commitment. To you. Forever.

The game of nations, Dobbs knew, was an exercise of
enormous complexity, like playing chess on the deck of a sailboat in a gale.
One had to think about the pull of the tide, the whip of the wind, and the
subtleties of roll and pitch as the pieces slid in disarray, to be reassembled
from memory while the matrix of the original play etched and faded in the mind.

Within minutes of the explosion, agents had obliterated
all, hopefully all, of the trail signs. Electronic eyes and ears, fingerprints
in his apartment, any telltale signs. The FBI would find nothing. But I know
how he died, Dobbs assured himself. And, yet, knowing this was not enough. He
had to know why. How, otherwise, could he explain to himself how wrong he had
been?

Fingering the files, he opened another. It was a Uruguayan
transfer, another stitch of information in the intricate fabric. Latin America
was one vast American intelligence pool, he mused, snickering again at all that
human rights political talk. This was the real world, he assured himself,
tapping a finger on the first page of the report. Two faded photographs lay
face up, clipped to the papers. Looking closely, on the top of the picture he
saw the faces of two young men smiling back at him.

On the left was Eduardo, about twenty. It was 1956. Beside
him was a taller, more assured youth, arrogantly swaggering into the lens,
dripping with self-importance. He turned the picture, seeing the name, Raoul
Benotti. He had died in that plane crash in Venezuela, the one that had been
bombed.

Dobbs knew that Benotti had been marked, fingered for
execution. He had followed the trail of the executioner, had watched as Eduardo
orchestrated his unique weapons, the women, aiming them with telling accuracy.
But how had he set the charge within them? That was what he had to know.

The picture was taken at Punta del Este, just outside
Montevideo, where the families of the oligarchs of Chile, Argentina, and
Uruguay watered in splendor. It was also the mating ground for these families.
They would pile into the hotels and villas overlooking blue waters and
incredible white beaches, with retinues of chaperones, servants and assorted
retainers, to exhibit their wealth and progeny.

While families frolicked, the Latin male exercised his
venery and the ornate bars and beach clubs sported traditional lures, women in
search of fleeting affluence among the wealthy princes, married and unmarried.
The other picture clipped to the file was of a young woman, Elena Mendoza, then
twenty-one. One could see the villainous smirk of the conquistadors, barely
softened by the splash of Indian blood which gave a slight slant to her eyes.
There was a brief notation that she had died of pneumonia in a Chilean prison
six months after the coup, but not until they had extracted what they had
required, set before him now, as casual as hors d'oeuvres at an afternoon tea.

Women, always women, Dobbs hissed silently, feeling his own
malevolence crying out from somewhere inside his petrified libido, as he forced
his concentration on the words.

It was not the first summer that Eduardo had visited Raoul,
whose family rented one of the larger villas in the south end. But their
boyhood games had graduated from the surf as playground to the nightclubs and
bars, where, goaded by the risen sap of their young manhood, they might follow
the scent of chucha, pussy.

To Eduardo, whose motives had already become obscured by
political passions, Raoul, with his smooth good looks and casual
self-confidence, was beyond comparison with what Eduardo felt was his own
meager portion in that area. Raoul, he was assured by the prince himself, could
seduce a stone, and was eager to exhibit his prowess at every opportunity to
the audience of his spellbound friend.

He was even, as Eduardo was to witness, skilled in
extracting honey from the protected hives of the oligarchs, whose panting
princesses could always find ways to dodge their duennas for a few passionate
moments with Raoul. Or so it seemed.

"That one," Raoul would say, as they sat idling
on beach chairs, ogling the big-titted girls with their trailing duennas,
parading before them along the surfline as if they were flesh in a slave
auction. "I fucked her in the cabana. Like an Arab. They guarded the
entrance while I sneaked under the tent." He howled with joy. "I also
fucked her maid and her mother."

"Her mother?"

"See that one there." He pointed to a patio in
the distance, where a woman in a gauzy dress stood into the breeze, her body
outlined by the wind. "She is the hottest potato in the sack." He
laughed again, proud of the pun.

"Somebody will stick a knife in your ribs,
Raoul," Eduardo said.

"What is life without danger?" he replied.

"I envy you," Eduardo said sincerely.

"There is an art, a rhythm to this business,"
Raoul said, prodded by the compliment, lifting a bronzed, muscled arm to wave
to a girl heading their way.

"That's Anna," he whispered, watching as the
graceful figure approached. "Her father is a German, an ex-Nazi." The
girl's hair was blonde, her eyes blue, underlining the credibility of his
identification. Raoul had a fund of knowledge about these things that was
awesome. "A stud must be extra careful," he had lectured.
"Jealousy is a double-edged sword. Besides, I wouldn't want to stud my
toe." He howled again, the sound trailing off into a suppressed giggle as
the girl approached. She kneeled beside him in the sand.

"This is Eduardo," Raoul said, jabbing a thumb in
Eduardo's direction as if he were inanimate, which was the way he felt. The
girl had eyes only for Raoul. Her gaze pugnaciously washed over his tight
bronzed body, resting briefly at the lump in his crotch which, Eduardo knew, Raoul
had deliberately accentuated by tightening his buttocks against the canvas
seat.

"The sun is strong today," Anna said, insinuating
herself into the arc of the umbrella shadow. Raoul reached out and stroked the
fine hairs of her arm. She did not pull it away and Eduardo imagined that he
could see the hairs rise in response. If he had done it, the girl would have
pulled away as if his fingers were charged with electricity.

It was a gesture of propriety, Eduardo knew, a staked
claim, since Raoul was hardly interested in conversing with the girl and
ignored her attempts at conversation or mumbled bored responses. The girl
didn't seem to mind. The great Raoul was touching her and that was all that
mattered.

"You will be at the party tonight," Anna said,
suddenly anxious. Eduardo watched the tightness form on her lips. It had been
the reason for her coming in the first place.

"You didn't forget?" she asked, the anxiety
palpable.

"Tonight," Raoul mused. He smiled. "I must
check with my friend."

"You can bring him, of course," the girl said
quickly.

"I go where he goes. He is my guest." Raoul said,
knowing he was torturing the girl, increasing the tension.

"Eduardo will be very welcome. There will be lots of
pretty girls." She had turned her blue eyes toward Eduardo, penetrating in
their entreaty, since Eduardo now held the key to the invitation.

"I go where Raoul goes," Eduardo said, feeling
his own malice. Raoul winked at him. "Very good," his wink said.
"Play with her." But Eduardo could not sustain his cruelty. "Why
not," he said.

"There is your answer," Raoul said, suddenly
tightening his hand around Anna's slim wrist, acknowledging her presence in a
more direct way. He swung his legs in an arc, spreading them slightly as he
flattened his feet in the sand, placing himself before the squatting Anna so
that she was crotch high. He could see her eyes dart to the bulge at his
crotch, grown larger now, as the stud had fixed on his target.

The girl seemed to sense the attention, perhaps feeling the
fledgling anxieties of impending forbidden pleasures. Raoul bent over and
stroked her bare shoulders. This time the girl moved, tore herself away, for
appearances' sake. Raoul was a blatant exhibitionist and enjoyed the perpetual
gaze the women lavished on his person.

"Let's swim," he said to the girl, reaching for
her hand. The invitation offered more than the obvious and Raoul turned and
winked to Eduardo.

"You, too, Eduardo. Come on, it's hot as hell
here." He looked at the girl. "And getting hotter."

Eduardo joined them, following them into the water. He
watched them dash ahead into the surf, Raoul's sinuous bronzed body arrogantly
assured, literally dragging the girl along as she giggled with expectation and
anxiety. The surf was calm now. Little rivulets of waves, miniatures of an
angrier sea, spent themselves impotently, darkening the edges of the white
sand.

They were out chest high quickly, snuggling together like
flotsam logs, entangled in each other's limbs. Eduardo approached them
hesitantly, diving like a porpoise, the intensity of his own activity designed
to mask his interest. Raoul had lowered the girl's shoulder straps and was
nuzzling his bare chest against hers. The waters hid what was going on below,
but they were blue and crystal clear and Eduardo swam close underwater to get a
better view. Raoul had freed his erection from the sides of his swimsuit and
had directed it into the crotch of the girl, who was obviously savoring it
through whatever sensations could find their way upward through her one-piece
bathing suit.

Eduardo surfaced in confusion and embarrassment, annoyed at
his compulsion to be a voyeur, which he felt was somehow demeaning, unworthy.
He had surfaced quietly behind the girl's back. Raoul winked at him, smiled
broadly, enjoying his own performance. He raised one finger, a signal to remain
attentive, looked down at the girl, then swung her around to face Eduardo, his
hands cupped on her breasts.

"Look at the latest in bathing tops," he cried.
The girl struggled to free herself, but Raoul had her wedged against his body,
his erection, the startled Eduardo surmised, lying now in the furrow of her
buttocks.

"Please, Raoul," the girl protested, facing
Eduardo, her eyes rolling in exasperation. Eduardo tried to look away from the
tan hands wrapped snugly around the white melons on her chest.

"You like the style, Eduardo?" Raoul shouted.

"I'll scream," the girl pleaded.

"One scream and I will take the top back to the
store," Raoul said teasingly as he stuck his tongue in her ear. She
stopped struggling. Eduardo felt her humiliation and dipped his head in the
water to cool his burning cheeks.

"You shouldn't be upset," Raoul said soothingly
now that the girl had quieted. "He is my friend. A friend of a friend is a
friend. Tell him that you are also his friend."

The girl hesitated.

"Tell him ... or.... "Eduardo sensed the first
hint of malevolence. Surely the girl had also felt it.

"All right. All right." She turned her head
toward Eduardo. "You are also my friend."

"A good friend." Raoul coached.

"A good friend," the girl repeated. Raoul's hands
were kneading her breasts now.

Eduardo wanted to leave. You are being cruel, he admonished
Raoul, but would not voice the sentiment. He was not quite certain whether the
girl was being pained or pleasured, a reluctant or willing participant. Raoul
continued to smile, kissing her ear and cheek and winking at him.

"And there is something I would like to show the
friend of my friend," Raoul said.

"No. Please, Raoul," the girl said quickly,
squirming.

"A friend is a friend."

Her eyes looked skyward in exasperation.

"A friend is a friend." She shrugged. Was it
resignation?

"And here are the somethings." Raoul's hands
dropped below her breasts, holding her viselike over her rib cage.
"Dadaaa!" Raoul mocked a fanfare and the girls breasts, nipples stiff
in a ring of goosebumps, glistened pugnaciously.

He had shifted her body so that she would not be visible
from the beach. Eduardo stood transfixed, but only momentarily, then dived and
swam toward shore, looking backward only after he had gained the beach. They
were still locked together. He was curious at the reaction of the girl,
wondering if his pity was wasted. His answer was not long in coming as he
watched them walk out of the surf hand in hand.

"She is something, eh, Eduardo?" Raoul said.
Eduardo had closed his eyes, letting the sun dry him as he lay in the beach
chair. He squinted upward, saw the girl's smiling face, her hands playfully
jabbing at Raoul's forearm.

"You'll be at the party tonight," she said.

"And Eduardo?"

"And Eduardo."

Then she was gone and he could feel Raoul settle beside him
on his beach chair.

"If it was me," Eduardo said, "I would have
kicked you in the balls."

"Then she would have hurt her own hand," Raoul
said. He paused, slapping Eduardo on his stomach. "Someday I will teach
you about women."

"Teach me," Eduardo responded. "I have been
surrounded by them." But he knew that Raoul was right.

The patio of Anna's parents' home was decorated with long
strings of Japanese lanterns and a three-piece band scratching out American
dance music. A light breeze rustled the lanterns and the paper tablecloth under
the punch bowl and the hors d'oeuvres that stretched across a long table. White
was the dominant hue. The girls wore flowing white dresses and the boys white
linen suits. The guests were, as always in Punta del Este, the sons and
daughters of the oligarchs, a tight-knit group, more than welcome in the home
of this ex-Nazi who had squirreled a fortune into the boot of the hemisphere,
investing lavishly in the one commodity that gave him instant status, land.

Raoul, looking luminescent in his glistening white linen
suit, a blue silk handkerchief spilling out of his jacket pocket, surveyed the
group, knowing that the female eyes were watching him.