The Casanova Embrace (15 page)

He would remember the moment, of course. His mind would try
to unravel the mystery of the sudden attraction, like a hook shoved into his
body, as if he were merely a carcass to be hung on a rack.

Later, agitated, he had gone back to his own apartment in
Santiago brooding over his inaction in not explaining himself to his father,
annoyed that he had been deflected. Could he know then that the distraction
would last a lifetime?

He had, by then, already allied himself with the political
left, who had eagerly welcomed a son of the oligarch. He had joined with the
FRAP forces against Frie, had met Allende, and was already composing unsigned
articles for the party journal. His father deliberately avoided the subject, a
wise man. "You are plotting the destruction of your own family," he
might have said. Which, in a way, was curiously true.

So politics had been merely an undercurrent. The meeting
had accomplished little between father and son. Only the sudden attraction for
Miranda had made the meeting memorable for Eduardo. He could not get her out of
his mind, nor out of his body. It was as if she had, like some invisible
substance, seeped into his pores and spread through his cells, commanding his
attraction. The brief memory of her flesh touching him could send him into a
paroxysm of autistic passion with visible, very physical reactions.

He began to haunt the places she was known to frequent. It
was relatively easy to find out where they were since she was of great interest
to the press, the beautiful, vivacious, wealthy, untouchable princess of the
Ferraras. Occasionally at a dance or a night club, or at a party, he would nod
her way, receiving in turn her cool acknowledgment, devoid, he was certain, of
any interest on her part.

He began to save her clippings and paste them on the inside
of his closet door, hidden from the eyes of his occasional visitors, a gallery
for his private pleasures or guilt. It was annoying to be so helplessly
obsessed, he knew. Nor did it help his self-esteem, since personal discipline
was an important factor in his make-up, up till then a source of pride.

His father, a man of infinite subtlety, continued his
pressure, perhaps sensing his son's vulnerability. Did he know? Eduardo
wondered, a curiosity that filled him with dread, since the idea of it could
summon up the early pain of Isabella.

One day his father arrived at his apartment unannounced.
Eduardo had just come home from a party meeting, drained from exhortations
since he'd had to whip himself into participation, an added strain that
certainly had diminished his effectiveness. He was morose and had barely taken
off his jacket when his father arrived. The older man was fresh from the
exhilaration of some negotiation, although it was odd that he would arrive
without the courtesy of a call in advance which would have put Eduardo on his
guard.

"You look terrible, Eduardo," he said, surveying
his son with that stifling sense of proprietorship. Knowing it was true,
Eduardo ignored the observation. He wanted his father to leave. He was an
intrusion. Alone, he could contemplate Miranda, summon up his private image of
her, the sensual, supple beauty. Sometimes he could almost reach out and feel
her hair, its softness caressing his fingers.

"I have been working hard," he said finally, to
shift his father's concentration on him, or, at least, interrupt his visual
surveillance. There was, obviously, something special on the older man's mind.
He hoped it would not be the law thing.

"I worry over you, Eduardo," his father said
suddenly. He was not going to be circuitous tonight, hardly subtle. Eduardo
braced for a frontal assault. He knows, Eduardo thought, thinking of Miranda.
He felt his face flush.

"Would you like a drink, Father?" Eduardo asked
half rising in his chair. His father waved away the idea as if he were brushing
away a stubborn fly. It seemed serious business.

"They are using you, Eduardo."

So it was political, Eduardo thought, relieved. Sooner or
later it would have to come to that. A rebellious son might be a political
tradition, but it was supposed to phase out early, like a disease that had run
its course. Someone had sent him, Eduardo suspected.

"I have never tried to interfere, Eduardo."

"That is true." It was true only on the surface,
perhaps to his father's perception. Actually, from Eduardo's point of view, the
intrusion had been massive.

"As an intellectual exercise it was amusing," his
father said. "Compassion is a noble emotion, but the reality requires far
more pragmatism. Your Allende and his group are trying to destroy us."

"Not destroy. Redistribute."

"Euphemism. Take from us. Give to them." A slight
flush mantled his father's cheekbones, showing the anger beneath.
"Property belongs to him who can hold it."

"It is a shortsighted view," Eduardo said.
"You know that, Father. You cannot continue to take. It is pointless to simply
amass, while others starve."

"Well, then we must feed them."

"They are also looking for dignity."

He was careful not to appear scolding. He could not find
the courage to confront his father, the patron.

"It could get nasty," his father said.
"Chile, as we know it, would go down. Your people are agitating too much.
Allende is a fool, a stupid dreamer. He cannot change human nature."

"We must have a counterbalance for excessive
greed."

The barb found its mark and his father stood up. He was a
tall man and his full height was always an intimidation, since Eduardo was
still shorter by a head. He felt the old fear again, the power of his father.

"You must stop this, Eduardo," his father
commanded. Is it simply a personal embarrassment or are they beginning to feel
the pinch, Eduardo wondered, sensing his own elation and guilt.

"I am committed," Eduardo said respectfully.

"Committed? Do you really know what your commitment
is?" He knew the question was rhetorical. "You are committed, my son,
to your family's destruction. Without property we are nothing. This is the
ultimate reality. To be landless in Chile, without wealth or property, is to be
nothing. I have not worked this hard for my family to be nothing." His
father's rage was like a descending storm brewing in a dark cloud.

"I insist that you stop this," his father said.
It was a command that even his father knew would not be obeyed. It was merely
the throwing down of the gauntlet, the test. Already he was sure a far subtler
plan was at work. My father knows his son, Eduardo sensed, girding himself for
other methods of persuasion.

"I am sorry, Father," he said. The older man
straightened his jacket. He was fastidious in his dress. Do I love him? Eduardo
asked himself. Affection had never been demonstrative in the family, although
he believed that his father truly loved him, perhaps as he loved all his
possessions. Yet he had destested all the females in the household.

"You are his favorite," his mother had insisted.
It was a point on which he needed great reassurance, especially after Isabella.
"You are the future. Your sisters are nothing to him." She paused and
tears had filled her eyes. "And me, as well."

"Try to understand," Eduardo said, as his father
moved to the door. The older man paused, put out a hand and gently stroked
Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo wanted to touch his hand, but held back.

"You will understand only when you have your own
son," his father said gently, turning and letting himself out of the door
without another word. He will not give up so easily, Eduardo thought, wondering
what the next onslaught would be.

Thoughts of Miranda eased all pain, except the pain of
longing for her.

Occasionally, he would go home for the weekend, more out of
obligation and guilt than desire. Sometimes all efforts at persuasion failed to
lure him back. His mother, in an effort to recapture her self-esteem, had taken
to throwing huge parties, mostly to display her wealth and to assure the world
that the Palmeros were, indeed, one of the great united loving families of
Chile. Eduardo would avoid these despite his mother's entreaties. They were
lavish events, huge buffets, formal dress, dancing to the continuous music of
rotating orchestras, a flaunting of wealth and affluence that disgusted him.
Perhaps, from his mother's point of view, it was necessary to create these
events merely to get his father home, since it would be unthinkable, and his
mother knew it, for his father not to appear.

"You must come," his mother had insisted one day
a few weeks after his father's unexpected visit.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"I insist."

"Really, Mother. I am only an embarrassment." It
was a tack he had decided to take as his political role had increased.
"The radical son has no place there. It stands for everything I am
against." He could sense the wheels of persuasion grinding in her mind.

"Everyone will be there. Simply everyone." He
might have ignored the entreaty, but something tugged at the back of his mind.

"Who?" It was a question he would rarely ask.

"Lots of young people. Raoul."

They had gone different ways by then. Raoul had entered the
military.

"The uniform, you ass. Women go mad for
uniforms." He remembered his amusement at that remark, although he still,
in his heart, adored and admired Raoul, while hating his arrogance. His
associations were more political now. Raoul represented everything that he was
against, like his family.

"And beautiful young girls," his mother said,
almost lasciviously. Although it was rarely mentioned, Eduardo could feel the
pressure of his family's matchmaking. She rattled a long list of names from the
best families of Chile. "...Miranda Ferrara." She had thrown the dart
at the mark. Miranda. In his house. His hand began to shake as it held the
phone. He let her continue her persuasion, but he knew what his decision would
be.

It was incredible, even to him, that he could sustain such
passion for a woman who had barely muttered a phrase of greeting his way. It
was not natural, he decided, adding to his own anxieties. Was he doomed always
to love from afar? Of course, it was love, he admitted, although it was not the
sanitized version of love in books and movies. It was visceral, passionate,
erotic. He could masturbate and excite himself to shuddering orgasms by simply
imaging her body beneath its tight tennis things or conceiving that it was her
hand caressing, stroking, inducing his joy. Miranda. There was no way to drive
her image from his mind.

What would he give up for her? It was a new twist to his
obsessions and it began to haunt him now. And yet, sometimes he could feel a
deep backwash of humiliation over his own weakness and inability to expunge
her. She was, after all, the epitome of what he could easily believe was the
dry rot of the Chilean oligarchy, living a life of ease and leisure with not an
iota of social consciousness. Of course, he could be wrong about that. He had
never conversed with her, could not even find the courage to confront her in
the mildest of social forms, knowing that what he feared most of all was
outright rejection. It was a finality that he could not, would not bear.

The large house where he had spent his childhood was
festooned and geegawed for his mother's party, a lavish display of decoration,
food and liquor. Servants were everywhere, putting the finishing touches on the
vast display of wealth. They were still polishing the huge rock crystal
chandelier that hung from the three-story ceiling into the center of the large
foyer, a huge imposing and intimidating symbol of arrogant prosperity.

Dutifully, he visited his mother in her room, kissing her
cheeks and filling himself with the familiar scent of her. It was the smell of
her that bridged the gap between babyhood and maturity and it wasn't until he
finally breathed it that he knew he was home. Then he went to his old room,
which was kept as usual, as if he would soon return from boarding school. The
objects on the wall, his soccer awards, his old red striped soccer jersey,
pictures of a Mexican actress who had once captivated him, all seemed
meaningless as if the boy he once was had never existed.

He lay on his old bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking of
Miranda, listening to the sounds of preparation in the house, the voices of the
servants. He must have dozed. Then the ceiling was descending on him and he
felt his helplessness as it lowered, stopping suddenly, touching both his nose
and upright toes. In his panic, no logic existed and he felt his pores open and
the sweat begin to cascade down his back and sides. Stuck here, he could sense
his own rot beginning while all the old fears lost their meaning. Still, even
on the ledge of impending death, Miranda retained her luminosity and became his
single regret. He was certain that the idea of her staved off the final descent
of the ceiling and he remembered the power of its protection when he awoke with
a start, bathed in sweat and still shaking.

The music had begun and it might have been the first chords
that had released him from his dream. Getting up, he went to the adjoining
bathroom, showered in steaming water and began to dress in the formal attire
that the maids had laid out.

Without knocking, Raoul walked in, resplendent in the
uniform of a captain of the Chilean air force. He is beautiful, Eduardo
thought, intimidating in his wonderful physique, sculpted into his dress
uniform. His features had sharpened, the bone structure more defined now that
some of the baby fat of youth had disappeared. Eduardo was fussing with his
studs.

"So the proletarian is putting on his uniform."

"You look like a toy soldier."

They embraced in a gran abrazo, the surge of affection
between them still strong despite their different paths. But there was an
awkwardness now and Eduardo sensed that they would take refuge in deprecating
humor and wisecracks.