The Casanova Embrace (29 page)

"Feel something," he shouted. "Anything,
pain, pleasure, disgust!" He continued to move forward, her tissue
yielding, beginning to lubricate the passage. He felt her heartbeat's speed,
the pumping of her blood. Or was it his own. Then her body began to twitch, her
lips parted slightly as she gasped for breath. She was fully penetrated now,
her body opened like a flower, moving on its own power. Her eyes had closed. He
could not tell if it was pleasure or pain, or both. Was he feeling the power of
her race now, he wondered, the brutality of the unconquered, dominating by
their submission. He moved his body ruthlessly, feeling her squirm beneath him.

He felt his pleasure begin, a suffusion of energy at the
base of his spine, focusing its center in his loins, his hard piston moving
without mercy in the fragile form below him, vanquishing, self-contained in its
awesome power. Then she screamed, a long wail of anger, like an animal being
quartered while still alive. It was impossible to believe the sound could come
from such a tiny figure, but it continued, both frightening and exciting him,
urging his energy. Then he felt the pleasure come, an ejaculation that shook
him as if his blood had become a gusher, pumping through his veins with an
intensity that he had never felt before. Only then did her screams stop and he
lay on top of her, his pores dripping with the liquids of himself, their odors
mingling.

He could not tell how long he lay over her, still
penetrated. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him. Was the mindlessness
gone? Did he detect some communication? He disengaged himself and lay flat
beside her, staring at the ceiling. He could feel her eyes watching him, but he
did not turn toward her.

"Did I rape your soul as well, Miranda?" he said.
"And you, Uno, what did it matter who opened your womanhood? It would have
been done sooner or later. Genetic programming, some inchoate force that
sustains the race of humanity, the mysterious push of life. Do you know what
I'm talking about? Do I know? What is self-perpetuation?" He paused, moved
his hand to feel her flesh.

"Who am I, you ask?"

"I am Eduardo searching for the missing part of
himself. We are all searching for the missing part of ourselves."

"And have I found it?"

"I thought it was Miranda. It is a delusion. As you
know. You are not Miranda. You are a primitive. One step above an animal. And
if I have given you my seed, we will propagate a strange race. Whose genes will
dominate? What does it matter?"

"Have I been unjust to you? Exploited you for my own
pleasure?"

"Yes, I admit that. I am just as vulnerable as the
next man."

"Did I enjoy the manipulation."

"Yes, I took pleasure in it."

"And did I move you?"

"We shall see."

He got up, gave her her smock. She dressed and they drove
north again. He did not talk to her and she sat, as she had sat yesterday,
watching the road, her eyes expressionless. He no longer wondered about his
motives. He wanted her away from him. She had somehow become the focus of an
evil in himself, a terrible vulnerability. He wondered what she might tell the
old padre.

Darkness came. He moved the car off the highway and onto
the dirt road, bumping along, headlights ablaze to light the way. He drove
cautiously. Occasionally an animal would find itself trapped in the circle of
the headlight's illumination. There was a full moon, which helped his vision.
When he felt he was close enough to the trail that led upward to the
Cordillera, he opened the car door and signaled for her to leave. Obediently,
she stepped out of the car, and for a moment, like a trapped animal, she
appeared in the circle of light. As he backed the car away, the beam moved and
Uno disappeared. The car headed back toward the highway.

He arrived back at his house as the sun poked its way above
the peaks of the Cordillera. Exhausted, he threw himself on his bed. The smell
of her was still pervasive, and although it triggered the memory of her, he
fell into a deep sleep.

Three days later he found her squatting in his doorway, a
fragile lump of flesh. Her feet were raw and bleeding, and he carried her into
the house, washed and bandaged them. It was different now, he knew. Somehow
what he had done to her had exorcised him, and although he felt a sense of
shame, he no longer felt any desire for her. Something had come over him, he
decided, and until he saw her in his doorway, he had almost begun to believe
that it had all been part of a dream.

He had thrown himself with renewed vigor into the party's
work, and Miranda seemed less of an obsession than she had been. Until now, he
had actually imagined that he was free of her.

He let her sleep on the couch, fed her, and allowed her to
stay in the house when he was off at party headquarters. During the next few
days, he kept his co-workers away and did not answer any phone calls. He did
not talk to her as he had before, and when her feet had healed, he again drove
her to where the trail began. It was daylight then, and when he let her out at
the foot of the trail, he motioned with his arms for her to leave.

"You must go back," he cried. She stood immobile,
her dark face a mask. In the way the sun angled over her face, he could see the
harbinger of her future face, wrinkled, prunelike, lined and dry like burnt
cork. He motioned furiously with his arms.

"Go back."

Finally he got into the car and angrily reversed it, moving
it over the road. The wheels had kicked up a huge cloud of dust and he could no
longer see her in the rear-view mirror. Stopping the car, he let the dust
settle, waiting to see if she had gone. In the thinning cloud, he saw her,
squatting now, a speck beside the road, immobile, waiting. Another curse, he
thought, as he put the car in forward and slowly approached the girl. She
watched him come, stood up and waited, while he got out of the car and slammed
the door, hearing the echo in the hidden canyons.

Looking up, he squinted into the peaks of the Cordillera,
the snow-capped wonders glowing like platinum swords stabbing into the sky. He
felt his own smallness, his inability to control his own destiny. Annoyed with
himself, he started up the trail. She moved with him now, a few feet behind,
her legs surer than his on the rocky trail. If there was pain in her newly
healed feet, she showed no visible signs. After three hours, he reached the
village, saw the steeple of the ancient mission in the dusk and retraced his
steps to her father's shack.

The father squatted near the glow of a fire, outside of the
shanty, the flames playing a shadowy dance on his face. As before, Uno squatted
a few feet off, watching them, showing no expression in her face, although the
reflection of the fire made her eyes glow like embers.

"I've brought her back," Eduardo said. Her father
looked up at him. Only his head moved, the sinews of his neck etched by the
firelight. He shrugged.

"And I want you to keep her here."

Her father looked at the girl.

"She did not suit you. You should beat her."

"I'm not a savage."

The father shrugged. "Then I shall tell the padre to
keep her. The padre knows."

"Knows what?"

"That she has become your woman."

"She is not my woman."

The father looked at her, rattled some words in a foreign
tongue.

"She is your woman," he said.

"I have no woman," Eduardo answered, looking at
the girl, her primitive foreignness disgusting him. "Is it money you
want?"

The father nodded.

"And you must keep her here. She is not to follow me like
you made her do last time."

He looked at the girl, then at Eduardo, who could tell from
the man's apparent confusion that the long hike to Valdivia was her own idea.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded
pile of bills. Squatting beside the man, he showed him the money, which he
divided in half.

"You will get this now," Eduardo said. "And
the other if she does not return."

The man nodded. Eduardo looked briefly into Uno's face. It
told him nothing.

"In three months. Remember, if she comes, you will get
nothing."

He did not look back, walking swiftly away, groping through
the brush to the downward trail, lit only by the light of the moon. It was
after he had been walking for nearly an hour that he heard the scream. He told
himself it might be a beast in the throes of a deep pain. But he knew better.

In three months, he sent one of the young men among the
party workers into the village with the other half of the money. When the young
man returned, he confirmed the delivery. If he wondered why it was done, he
said nothing. As for Uno, Eduardo blocked her from his mind, although sometimes
in his dreams he would hear the scream again and would awake in a cold sweat.

In the gray light of the early morning, Anne watched his
face. The tiny hairs of his beard had begun to sprout like the first shoots of
a spring garden and she wondered, with delight, if she could count them,
including all the hairs of his mustache. After all, wasn't that, too, the
measure of her knowing him? His breath was easy and the flutter in his eyelids
told her that he was dreaming. She was suddenly jealous of this private world
of his. If only she could scoop him up and lock him into a cage forever.

Perhaps her staring had awakened him. His eyes opened
quickly, not in gradual stages, as she imagined his awakening might come. He
was instantly alert, alive. And it triggered something deep inside of her. She
threw the covers aside and looked at his naked body, the member erect, ready,
as if she had willed it that way. She discovered, too, that she was ready and
she straddled him, feeling every sensation of the descent into her and the
instant eruption that had been caused. What occurred was quick, a sudden gust,
a new assault on her senses. Her body shook for a long time and her heart
pounded.

"You see," she said after a while. "Is that
answer enough?"

"I wonder," he said, and she contemplated the
extent of his own pleasure in her.

"I will do it today," she said, feeling the need
to prove that what he had asked was on the very top of her consciousness.

"What must be done?"

"I have to call my investment counselor."

"All you need do is transfer funds. He will probably
have to do some liquidation, and surely he will try to talk you out of
it."

"Then I will threaten to remove my account. See, I am
not totally ignorant of business matters."

He seemed pleased by her response. She had even forgotten
her investment counselor's name. She hadn't talked to him in at least a year.

"Then you must consult a gold broker and provide your
own vault space to which the Krugers will be delivered. I estimate that we will
get nearly seventeen hundred Krugers, depending on the price of gold at the
moment. It will probably weigh about one hundred pounds."

The concentration on technical details amused her as she
watched his excitement mount, feeling pleasure in it. He sat up and folded his
hands together.

"I'll get two leather bags. That should do it.
Yes," he said, as if the thought were complete now. "In two days
would be ideal. Ideal." He seemed relaxed and she wondered if she had
truly begun the process of keeping him with her always.

To her delight, he stayed with her throughout the day and
the next night, and they moved about the house together like an old couple
grown used to each other. She called her investment counselor in New York. She
had looked up his name in her papers, a Mr. Handelman. She was proud of
herself, hoping he would admire her decisiveness as he listened to her talking.

"I don't care about the future of the gold market, Mr.
Handelman. Just effect the transfer and arrange the details of the
transaction." She smiled and held the phone upward so he could hear Mr.
Handelman's agitated voice.

"Please, Mr. Handelman, just carry out the transaction
and arrange the vaulting at Riggs' Dupont branch." She had just remembered
her safe-deposit boxes lying there in the big vaults, the clutter of her life
and possessions, jewelry, deeds to property, birth certificates. Meaningless
geegaws, she told herself, watching Eduardo. "Now there is value," she
whispered, pointing to him.

"What?" He hadn't understood.

"I was studying comparative values."

When she hung up, they called the stores for food to
restock her kitchen and when it arrived they both packed her cabinets. Then she
cooked steaks and they ate ravenously in the dining room.

"What lovely china," he said.

"Just things."

Toward the end of the day, she could feel his restlessness
begin and she steeled herself for what she knew was his coming departure. She
detested the idea of it, but quieted her greed for him. We had better move in
slow steps, she assured herself, remembering his reaction of last week. After
all, he will have to come back for the gold.

"I just want you to know, Anne," he said as he
faced her near the door, holding her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
"You cannot know how grateful ... "His sudden inarticulateness
surprised her as he stumbled forward. "Someday the people of Chile must
know what you are doing ... the people. They must know."

He enveloped her in his arms and she felt him kissing her
hair, and then he was gone and she was alone in the house. She watched him walk
down the quiet street to Wisconsin Avenue.

When he was out of sight, she turned up the stereo, the
Bach tape sending its sinuous sounds throughout the house as she moved her body
to the complex rhythms. She literally felt that her bones creaked as she
struggled to bring her dormant muscles back to life. The idea, she knew, was to
physically evade her longing for him, exhaust herself so that her mind might
stop imagining, questioning where his was. Aside from his cause, that
obsession, what else was there in his life? Finally she was too tired to
continue and she fell exhausted on the couch. Perhaps she would be lucky and
sleep until he came again.

Which he did, of course. She had grappled with the details
of getting the gold into her vaults, which meant she had to take an
unaccustomed taxi drive to the Riggs branch on Dupont Circle. The Krugers came
in carefully wrapped rolls, and after the guard moved them into a cubicle, she
transferred them into two large steel safety-deposit boxes. When she came home,
she sank into a chair in the front parlor and watched the light fade. Then the
phone rang.

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"Then tomorrow we will do it."

"Yes."

She sensed his hesitation.

"I need you now, Eduardo."

"We must be careful.... "he began, then,
whispering, "The telephone is not safe."

"Please, Eduardo."

He seemed to contemplate his response. She could hear his
hurried breathing. The hollowness of the sound indicated that he was in a
telephone booth.

"Someone is following me."

What was he saying? What is this mystery?

"Then come when it's dark. I'll leave the door
open."

"All right." The word was curt, final. The
telephone went dead abruptly.

Sensing her power over him, she felt somehow corrupt.
Perhaps if she had made the sum smaller and doled it out like food, he could be
sustained by it indefinitely. She wondered what her possessions were really
worth and dialed Mr. Handelman's number.

"I was just going out, Mrs. McCarthy," he said.
His voice was distant, cold. He must have concluded I've lost my mind, she
thought.

"What are my holdings worth, Mr. Handelman?"

"Nearly five million." He answered instantly, as
if he had just calculated the amount. "We have been very fortunate."
He paused and added with a touch of sarcasm. "But if you continue to be
headstrong ... Gold is a ridiculous purchase at this time."

"Five million, you say." She ignored his brief
lecture. This did not count the jewels. Another half a million, she calculated,
remembering the heirlooms that had come down from Jack's family and her own. I
will tell Eduardo when he comes, she decided, putting down the phone after a
courteous dismissal.

She had not contemplated her wealth for years. In her
hostess days, she had spent lavishly, but not without a firm hand on the
pocketbook. Nothing in her life, she knew, had ever been pursued without
obstinate single-mindedness. Poor Eduardo, she thought, half in jest, fearing
that if he could read her thoughts, he might think it the beginning of his
diminishment and suspect her of some form of castration. She was amused at the
idea. Power did have its compensations.

That night she watched him enter her house, leather bags on
either shoulder. He unhitched them and put them on a chair. Then she clung to
him, felt his arms guiding her to the couch. She sat beside him, touching him,
unable to keep her hands from his flesh. His mind, she saw, was agitated,
concentrating on other matters.

"It is all settled. The wheels are in motion," he
said. "Are you certain that there will be no problem with the gold?"

"I can't imagine any."

"Nothing you can think of. The gold is in the boxes at
the Riggs branch?"

"Yes."

"And there will be no problem about gaining
access?"

"Eduardo. It is mine. It is my property."

He put his head back against the back of the couch and
closed his eyes. Beneath the lids, his eyeballs twitched.

"This is a tense business," he said. She put her
hand on his forehead. It felt warm and she wondered if her touch soothed him.

"It will be fine," she said, kissing his cheek.
He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.

"I am very grateful, Anne. Truly grateful."

Gratitude seemed a thin reward and, for a moment, she felt
a stab of anxiety. Why doesn't he speak of love? she wondered, but she let that
pass.

"Come to bed," she whispered. It seemed like a
command and she watched his hesitation. "Come to bed," she said
again, her hand unbuttoning his shirt and groping for the flesh of his chest.
"Now." It was power. She reveled in it.

Holding his hand, she led him up the stairs. And then they
were naked in bed. She could not get enough of him.

"Do you forgive me my greed, Eduardo?" she said
as she watched him fight drowsiness.

"Of course," he said and soon he was asleep and
all she could hope for was a place in his dreams.

Moving the gold from the safe-deposit boxes was, as she had
predicted, quite simple. They had taken a taxi to the Dupont branch, ordered it
to wait, and she walked into the bank with Eduardo at her side, signing the
admittance slip to the vaults without incident.

"This is my husband," she felt compelled to tell
the guard as he opened the heavy door and led her to the boxes. When she had
turned the key in tandem with the guard's master key, Eduardo helped her remove
the boxes to the cubicle, where they emptied the Krugers into the two leather
bags, which he rehitched over both shoulders.

"It is a beautiful heaviness," he said as they
walked through the bank outside into the bright sunlight. The taxi waited and
they both got in. It moved slowly through the traffic, heading toward
Georgetown. He looked outside through the rear window.

"What is it, Eduardo?"

"One can never be certain." She followed his
gaze, seeing only the stream of traffic. It seemed so far from the reality of
her situation. But she did not have time to explore the thought further, for
Eduardo tapped the driver on the shoulder as the cab moved through the
thickening traffic in Georgetown.

"Pull over, driver. Let me off here."

The taxi swerved to the curb and Eduardo kissed her on the
cheek.

"I will call," he said.

"I don't understand," she began, with genuine
bemusement. It had not occurred to her that what was happening was possible.
Why was he leaving her?

"I will call," he repeated, opening the taxi
door, slamming it shut, then heading toward Wisconsin Avenue. The taxi moved
forward, and soon he was lost in the crowd.

Within moments the panic began. "Please stop,"
she said, tapping the driver's shoulder.

"But I thought..." the driver began. She put a
twenty-dollar bill in his hand.

"Keep it," she said. He stopped the cab and she
got out, hurrying in the direction that Eduardo had taken. Moving swiftly, she
turned up Wisconsin Avenue, focusing her eyes for distance, surveying the
moving crowd ahead.

Her panic grew as she walked. The crowds moved slowly.
Eduardo! She wanted to cry out, to shout his name. She walked up Wisconsin
Avenue to Calvert Street, then crossing the street, went south again to M
Street. Eduardo had melted, disappeared.

"I will call," he had said, and she clung to this
as her talisman. Of course, he will call, she convinced herself at last,
refusing to yield to her panic. I have conquered it, she told herself proudly
as she finally headed toward her own house.

But the victory was too tentative to sustain itself, and
before darkness came again she was starting to waver, questioning her own grip
on herself. She remembered his question. Why me? And she could not explain it.
As long as she lived, she was certain she would not be able to explain it. Only
that it had happened. That it was there. The need for him was palpable,
overpowering, embodying not only sexuality, which was part of it, but the
entire force of the man. Why me? She suddenly cried out aloud, feeling
excruciating pain, a hurt without specificity.

He did not call for two days, most of which she spent in
bed, searching for sleep. But she was determined not to slide into the old
abyss, and each moment conquered gave her the courage to hold back the forces
of despair.

The sound of his voice effected a magical cure. She sensed
his ebullience. "We have done it," he said.

"Done...?" She paused, pondering his meaning.
"How wonderful."

"Thanks to you."

"When are you coming, Eduardo?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "I will come
tomorrow." There was a long silence as neither of them spoke.
"Early."

"But why not now?" she said.

"I will come early," he repeated. Then the click
came and the buzz of the disengaged line began.

She awoke after a deep sleep, savoring the delights of
expectation, feeling the juices in her body flow, a raging river frantically
searching for the sea. She was also beginning to take pride in her own sense of
discipline and courage, getting through the moments without him without panic.
She jumped out of bed, switched on the Bach, and began a series of strenuous
exercises, doing them in double time, enjoying the swift movements, the
strength of them, an affirmation of her body's control.