The Casanova Embrace (17 page)

"It's not really as complete as I would like," he
continued. "The college libraries are far better and, of course, there is
the Library of Congress. But I like the solitude here. Don't you agree?"

Holding her arms stiff against her sides, she balled her
fists tightly and stubbornly now, persisting in facing down the door. It was a
manufactured tension, she knew. She wanted to respond to him and was summoning
all of her courage now.

"What a lovely day. Don't you think? It reminds me of
Santiago."

Santiago, she thought. Was it in Spain?

"In any case, winter is better than summer in
Washington."

Then he was silent and she continued to stare at the door.
But her ears were alert now, waiting. She had wanted his silence and now he was
obliging. Finally, she turned. He had moved downward a few steps and was
lighting another cigarette. The match flared, but she could barely see the
flame in the brightness. Then the smoke curled thickly from his mouth and
nostrils. As he puffed, he looked up, his eyes set off by a brief spark, a
glint, accentuated by a teariness from the smoke's irritant. She found herself
looking at him directly now.

"This hasn't happened before," she said, as if
her lips were moving without her control. He shrugged, then smiled. She noticed
that his mustache was neatly clipped. She had never studied a face in such detail
before, wondering suddenly if her reading had conditioned her to notice details
with greater concentration. He did not appear to be looking at her face with
the same interest. A flash of the old insecurity began. She had an urge to pat
her hair, but resisted.

"I'm wondering how long we should wait."

She resented the "we," then realized that she was
secretly pleased. Down the street, she could see her house. There is still time
to escape, she told herself. Still time. But now it was her legs that were resisting.

"Maybe it's a holiday?" he suggested. "What
is today?"

References to time seemed an intrusion. She did not know
what day it was.

"I don't know," she mumbled.

"Damn!" he said suddenly. "Of course, it's
Washington's Birthday, or at least a day designated as Washington's Birthday. I
read somewhere that it's a legal holiday." He laughed. "We are two
fools," he said tossing his cigarette on the pavement and stamping it out
with his heel. It was, of course, what she dreaded most, the twist of fate, the
odd happening, the surprise. Sweat beads had broken out on her back, chilling
her.

"Well, since the day is spoiled, how about a cup of
coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee," she said quickly.

"Tea then," he joked. Was he mocking her, she
wondered. He watched her. She knew now that he was noticing, contemplating. She
became frightened now and remained silent. Finally he shrugged.

"Well, then," he said. His body seemed to move
slightly in a courtly bow as he turned and started down the street toward
Wisconsin Avenue. She watched him walk, his back straight, his step light and
graceful.

"Wait!" she called. Her arm had left her side, a
gesture to draw him back, as if it did not belong to the rest of her body. He
turned, walked back part of the way. Her hand reached for her hair, an old
gesture.

"I live just up the block." She pointed to her
house, the windows glistening in the morning sun. "Over there. And I think
we might find some tea." She doubted that and watched his hesitation with
fear. Perhaps he can tell I am lying, she wondered, sure of her fear now. He
looked at his wrist watch. Observing, she knew it was an empty gesture. It was
a sign of her old way of thinking. I know what he is saying and doing, but what
is he really thinking, what is his motive? She was back in the world of the old
hypocrisies.

"Why not?" he said. Quickly, she regretted his
decision. He could have saved her, she thought. He could have declined. She
heard his footsteps clicking along behind her as she gained momentum, fighting
the urge to break into a run.

As always, the door was unlocked. When Jack was alive the
doors were always double-locked with a security system of electronic tripwiring
hooked into the nearby police station. She had had all that taken out and
discovered, in her new life, that she did not have a single moment of fear.

Until now! She felt a hollowness in her stomach as she
heard his footsteps entering the house, a new sound. She felt the floors creak
in this new odd way.

"Quite an interesting place," he said. "I
have passed this house many times."

"I'll see if I can find some tea."

She left him in the big high-ceilinged parlor, but she
stole a look at him from the kitchen, fidgeting in front of the fireplace,
looking about the room. She knew there would be no tea, but she did feel
compelled to bring something. Opening the refrigerator, she took out a carton
of milk and poured out two glasses, laughing at herself, remembering how silly
it would have been in the old days. Then, she would have rushed to bring ice as
well. Liquor had always been available, regardless of the hour.

"Hair of the dog?" It was Jack's voice returning,
a voice that had been silent in her mind for so long.

When she returned to the front parlor, she noticed that he
had taken a seat in the old wing chair. Jack had hated it, preferring the
overstuffed leather chair at the other end of the room.

"No tea," she said. The smile of her recollection
had remained on her face. She put a glass of milk beside him on the table and
took a seat on the couch opposite him.

"So," the man said. "You have lived in this
lovely place for a long time?"

"Yes." Time again. Her mind was not used to
calculating. "Perhaps ten years," she said tentatively.

"My name is Eduardo Palmero."

"Spanish?"

"Chilean."

"Chilean." Another surprise, she thought. Her
mind had insisted on his Spanish antecedents.

"Actually, my father's people were originally
Italians. But it is a common mistake."

There was a long silence. He reached over and brought the
milk to his lips, sipped, then conscious of having put a rim of white on his
upper lip and mustache, he reached for his handkerchief and patted. It was then
that she realized how much she wanted to touch his face.

"And you?" he asked.

"Me?"

"A name. Your name." He appeared boyish. A nest
of wrinkles covered his forehead in a frown.

"McCarthy," she whispered. But he had caught it.

"Ah, Irish. We had a great leader named O'Higgins who
helped free us from the conquistadors. There are monuments to him all over
Chile. We love the Irish."

She wanted to tell him her first name. Penelope. Penny.
Even the idea that the name belonged to her had been a measure of her will. She
had simply rejected it, obliterated it from her consciousness, except as a
practical matter.

"Anne." It was her middle name. By giving him that
she thought she might continute to retain her distance from the other Penny.

"Anne," he repeated, contemplating her now as she
sat bunched up on the couch facing him. She tried to see herself through his
eyes. A woman, almost fifty. Brittle as dry tinder, a body without softness,
like a ripcord from her exercises. Cut-off hair. Thin skin, wrinkling. And
menopausal. It embarrassed her to think it. But he was not simply observing
casually now. He was inspecting and she felt an odd excitement begin.

"You live alone in this big house?" he asked.

"Yes." She looked down at her hands. She wore no
rings. "My husband died." His inquiry should have been resented, but
she was oddly pleased. She felt the urge to find a mirror and rush up to it and
view herself, fix herself. There was inside of her this desire to be
attractive, to attract him. She noted physical signs in herself. The nipples on
her small breasts had hardened. What is happening?

"And you go to the library every day?"

"Yes." Again, she could not resist. "I am
now reading Balzac."

"From end to end?" He smiled.

"From end to end."

"How marvelous!"

She felt her growing delight. "You think so?"

"In school I read Père Goriot and
Eugènie Grandet. I remember them well. How wonderful it must be to
find the time to see that world. Paris in the 1800's."

"Yes." So, he could understand, she thought. And
what of him, she wondered, feeling a sense of sharing intrude, this thing she
had shut out of her life. It was the moment, she believed now. She could move
forward into a new ground, thin ice, full of uncertainty, vulnerability,
terrible risks. Or backward to the tight, structured calm she had worked to
achieve. She felt frightened, disgusted with herself for her lapse of
discipline, knowing that it would be wrong to move forward, to reach for
forbidden fruit. But her will had been eroded. She felt her nostrils flare. It
was an extraordinary observation of herself, she decided. Perhaps her body was
making a decision despite her mind. But hadn't she erased her femininity?

"And you?" she asked quietly, digging her fingers
into her thighs. She was offering herself now, she knew, was moving forward,
frightened.

"Actually, I am writing a pamphlet."

"And the subject?"

"Human freedom." She could feel his energy surge.
"Human rights. They are disintegrating everywhere. Chile is merely one
example. Without freedom there will be nothing. You see.... "He cleared
his throat. She half-listened as he told her about Chile, Allende, his
government service, the fall, his imprisonment. She tried to absorb it, but it
hardly mattered. He could have been reciting the alphabet. "We were trying
to create something in Chile that would be a model for the world. Marxism with
freedom. We were not simply going to reorder ownership. We were going to create
a free society without greed and acquisitiveness, with sharing." He was
standing in the center of the room, a fist clenched, banging into his palm. She
could sense his own belief in his inner nobility, although she listened to his
words as an abstraction. He moved to the couch and sat down beside her.

"Sometimes I forget myself," he apologized.
"I become too absorbed in the dream, in the pain." She felt his
presence, his closeness. He lifted an arm and looked at his watch. Moving her
arm, she touched the back of his hand lightly. Then her fingers opened and she
held it. Her mind was growing blank as she held tightly and watched him. He was
silent, contemplating her. She felt the terror of her own uncertainty now, the
lack of confidence in her womanliness. He will reject me now, she decided,
disengaging her hand from his. But he reached out and grasped it again.

"You are a fine looking woman, Anne," he said
quietly, watching her. She imagined he was penetrating her face with his eyes.
He is talking to someone else, she thought. He is really imagining that I am
someone else.

"Really, Mr. Palmero." She felt her
coquettishness. This is silly, absurd, she thought. But he was stirring her.
Something was happening.

"Classic," he said. "A quiet maturity."

"Yes. Maturity." She agreed. She did not want to
guard herself and looked downward. To her surprise, she found herself looking
at his crotch, imagining his nakedness. Will I faint, she wondered, feeling her
heartbeat accelerate. She wanted to turn back, felt her will disintegrate. Then
he suddenly reached for her breasts. Her response was now without mystery,
blatant and aggressive. She felt a churning somewhere in the middle of her and
she knew she was on the verge of release from herself. She knew he was sensing
it, responding to it. Her mind was conscious of his sudden activity as he
reached for the buttons of her slacks. Vaguely, she heard the sound of ripped
material as he removed them and with them the cotton pants as her legs spread,
the whole center of herself crying out for completeness. Her eyes were closed,
but she wanted to see him, only it was too late because he was inside of her
now and her body was without mind, a thing running on a power beyond her
control.

She felt herself moving on the edge of a windstorm, pushed,
helpless, and the wind was passing through her, billowing her body, filling it
taut, moving it with a crashing hurricane force, beyond control. Then a sound
came. Was it the savage force of wind or her own scream? Since she had
forgotten how to conceptualize time, she knew only that what she had
experienced was ending slowly, the wind dissipating, like dead leaves gliding
to the ground. His weight on her was delicious, warm, powerful, and his flesh
against her bare torso soft and sweet. Then a hardness began inside of her
again and what had occurred was repeated, then ended slowly again. Somehow,
when she was alert to her sense of place again, the light had changed in the
room, the morning brightness gone.

He had gotten up and somewhere she heard water rushing. She
lay still, unmoving, her legs still spread, as if now this would be her primal
position, forever open to him, waiting. Finally she got up, gathering her
clothes, and went to the upstairs bathroom where she washed, then went to her
room for a fresh change of panties and slacks. Leaving the room, she paused,
saw herself in the mirror, looked closely, inspecting her face. The skin was
taut, not nearly as wrinkled as she had imagined, and her hazel eyes were
turned green now in the new light. Her cheeks, drawn tight over her cheekbones,
were flushed, her lips puffed. She smiled at herself, noting her own
satisfaction. Was she beautiful? For a moment, her fingers were caressing the
skin of her face. Then she heard movement below and she hurried down the
stairs.

"You are an exciting woman," he said. He was
sitting again on the wing chair, watching her come toward him. Under his gaze,
she felt different, transformed. She stood over him, holding his hand.

"Eduardo," she said, kissing his fingers.