The Casanova Embrace (33 page)

"My God, I love you, Eddie," she said
breathlessly. She could feel his breath coming in short gasps as she moved her
fingers over his body, undressing him, her animality mindless. She moved
herself onto him, bending her torso to insert him, still standing a few feet
from the door. He said nothing, the hardness thrusting inside of her, the full
force of her body seeking to suck him into her, not only the male organ, the
whole of him.

"Eddie. Eddie," she heard herself moan, feeling
the great internal explosions, their faraway rumbling, the volcanic force, the
lava moving in a hot mass through her body, an eruption of joy. It was joy. She
knew. The joy of him. Why?

It was some time before intelligence returned and she lay
in her bed watching him, his eyes, she knew, focusing inward, at something that
she could neither touch nor understand.

"You think, Eddie," she announced suddenly,
seeking an oblique rebuke, some beginning of punishment. "You don't
feel." He must have sensed the admonishment.

"That's not true at all." He was protecting
himself now, she knew.

"You are governed by your mind." Anne had
confirmed that. The idea of Anne emerged, bringing with it the pain that she
had successfully kept at bay. Her mind was operating clearly now and she felt
she could touch her own cunning. She must be cautious, she decided, remembering
Anne's words. I will have to go fishing in his brain.

"I wonder what I really mean to you."

He turned toward her, stroking his chin in an uncommon
manner. She had not seen him do that before. He's full of surprises, she
thought.

"You mean a great deal."

How could he say that so blandly, she wondered, determined
to keep him on the defensive. She wanted to say: Am I the only woman in your life?
But the hypocrisy would crush her with guilt. Besides, she would not be
prepared for his lies. Not now. She held off asking about the woman who had
stood in the cold, waiting, fearful that he would connect the thought with her
previous question. Would I really die for him, she asked herself, knowing that
something was changing within her.

"Will I be traveling again soon?" she said
instead.

"Yes. In a few days."

"To the same place?"

"No. To San Antonio. We have worked out a change in
plans."

"And will others die because of what I will do?"

"Yes. But they will be enemies." His thoughts
were being deflected now. "The new arrangements have not quite been
completed. But everything is moving satisfactorily." He turned toward her
and patted her hair. "I am quite proud of you, Frederika."

"What about the woman that I told you about? The one
that was watching in front of the building?" It seemed appropriate to
broach the subject now, in this context.

He did not blanch or show any sign of sudden intrusion. She
observed him closely, watching for signs, but none came. He is a superb actor,
she decided, wondering how well she, too, was doing.

"It was nothing," he said. "I had mistakenly
thought she might be one of them, an agent. But I checked carefully and now I'm
sure it was only a coincidence."

"That must have been a relief."

"Yes," he said. "Unfortunately such things
increase one's sense of paranoia. In this business, one always lives with
it." He stopped patting her hair. "Did it frighten you?"

"Yes."

"Well," he said offhandedly. "It's all right
then."

He seemed suddenly relaxed and, she wondered, perhaps
off-guard.

"What is it that you do to me?" she said, her
curiosity genuine, although she could feel the tender spot of her humiliation.
It was a thought worth exploring, since it contained the kernel of her truth.
She had every right to ask why, she decided. For herself. Perhaps he could
explain it. She had dared not ask Anne.

"I don't know," he said, frowning, obviously
puzzled. It was, it seemed, a thought that even he dared not pursue.

"Do you ever think about it?"

"Yes."

"Has it happened before? With other women?" By
his reaction, she knew that the barb had penetrated something inside of him.
She hoped there was a wound, that she had drawn blood.

"I cannot say for sure."

"But what do you suspect?"

"How can I answer such a question?" There'd been
a brief flash of anger.

"Have you observed it before? A reaction like mine,
for example."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do," she protested. "Surely there
have been other women who have felt this ... like me, felt the power of
you."

She sensed his discomfort. He got up from the bed and paced
the room, his smooth body like liquid moving through space. His nakedness began
to numb her mind as she watched the tight buttocks reflected in the light,
smooth as ivory, and the dangling organ. He is beautiful, she told herself,
overwhelmed by the sight of him. How can he possibly explain it? she wondered.
I can't explain it myself.

"Explain it, Eddie," she taunted. "Surely
you can explain it."

"There is no explanation."

"There has to be."

"All right then." He paused, watching her, then
shrugged. "It's a mystery. That's the only explanation."

"So there have been others," Frederika said, in
full pursuit now, the scent in her nostrils. It had suddenly become more
important to know. To know was everything.

"What does all this mean?" Eddie said, turning
toward her now, his eyes flashing, brows knitting, his agitation rising.

"I want to know about you, Eddie. You have told me
nothing. Surely in the forty-odd years of your life there are things that have
happened which have shaped your character. There have been relationships."

He stopped his pacing, shrugged and lifted his arms, palms
outward in a typical Latin gesture of mock surrender. He was even smiling,
showing the broadest smile she had ever seen him display. Was he mocking her,
she wondered, half-expecting him to voice the comedian's stock reaction to
contrived feminine triviality ... "Women." Did his eyes search for
the ceiling, his head shake with male tolerance, as he expressed the theatrics
of exasperation?

"I want to know," Frederika pressed.

"Know what?"

"About you, Eddie. Your life." Her voice rose.
"I have a right to know." Did he detect the edge of panic, she
wondered, instinctively certain that she had gone too far. She saw his smile
disappear.

"Right?" he asked.

"Surely I have that right.... "She felt her voice
falter as he glared at her. Did she really? she wondered, remembering Anne and
her alleged rights. He is shared territory, she realized suddenly, the reality
painful. My God, I will lose him.

"I love you, Eddie. I just want to know." She was
conscious of the plea in her voice, the sudden softness. The new attitude
seemed to blunt his anger.

"I will tell you everything, Frederika." He took
a deep breath. "But not now. There are other things on my mind now. There
is an important operation in the making. It is intricate."

"Is this what I am part of?" she asked, fearful
that her outburst might have caused her cancellation in the plan.

"Of course."

He came back into the bed. His skin had absorbed the chill
and he was shivering. She smothered him with her warm nakedness, the touch of
his flesh compelling.

"It is a mystery, Eddie," she said, holding him
tightly along his back, fitted snugly against her. She squeezed him hard, the
pressure making him grunt.

"Yes," he said. "I told you."

It was dark when she heard him moving around the apartment.
Hey eyelids fluttered briefly, as she feigned sleep, listening to the familiar
sounds. Then she felt his breath on her face, the brief kiss on the forehead,
barely touching her skin. He was tiptoeing across the floor. The door opened,
creaked slightly, and closed, and she was out of bed in a moment, reaching
quickly for her jeans and a sweater. Tying a scarf around her head, she found a
pea jacket in the closet. She was sure he had not seen it. Nor had he ever seen
her with a scarf around her head. She also had sufficient presence of mind to
grab a pair of old unused glasses from a drawer as she sped out of the
apartment, running down the stairs and into the street.

Her mind was working quickly now, turning over
possibilities. If he had a car nearby, she could not follow him, although she
would be sure to take the license number. But he always seemed to be on foot,
as if distance was not a problem. Which meant that he lived close by.

It was still evening. The day, as always with Eddie, had
sped by quickly. She had thought it might be early morning, sometime close to
dawn. But a clock in a nearby storefront told her it was only eleven. She had
missed work and had failed to call in, which meant putting an added burden on
her co-workers. Perhaps they would fire her. There was a sudden twinge of guilt
as she hesitated in the street, looking south toward M Street. She saw him
moving across Wisconsin Avenue, turning toward Massachusetts, heading west.
There was little foot traffic and she could see him clearly in the moonlit
night.

Keeping her distance, she crossed the wide street and kept
him in sight. He was moving with swift strides, obviously sure of his
destination. Occasionally, he would look behind him. She did not hesitate,
secure in her disguise, proud of her cleverness. She followed him tenaciously,
thankful that her work had conditioned her legs for speed and distance. She
smiled at the idea that her job had, at last, served some useful purpose
besides merely providing a living.

She saw him turn and enter an apartment building, making
mental notes, sure that she had the identity of the building fixed in her mind.
It was a large building, sitting high on a slope overlooking Massachusetts
Avenue. She remembered being inside it once, when she was looking for an
apartment. When she reached it, her eyes swept the facade. Many lights were on.
She could see people moving about inside some of the apartments. She speculated
cautiously. One mustn't jump to conclusions. Who lives here? Is he alone? Is
there someone else? She waited in the shadows for perhaps a half hour, then
proceeded into the lobby of the building. An indifferent young man slumped
behind the desk, reading a book. In the moment before she attracted his
attention, she had looked over the lobby, checking details, searching for the
apartment's directory.

"Is there a pay telephone?" she asked pleasantly.
He pointed to a far wall. Nearby were the mailboxes and the directory. It would
be too simple. The directory confirmed her instincts. His name was not listed.
But that could have been his own choice. It was not simple to rent an apartment
in Washington. They checked you out. She cursed her stupidity for not asking
the man at the desk a direct question. But they, too, were trained to be
suspicious. Then, as she reached the phone, she discovered that she had not
taken any money, nor had she bothered to bring Anne's number. You are America's
worst detective, she told herself, and for the first time, she felt a sense of
risk.

She thought of Anne, tenacious, driven Anne. Let Anne do
the dirty work, take the risks, she decided. Why not? Anne was the older, less
attractive, more unsure. Her loss was greater, Frederika assured herself
bravely, knowing it was a lie. She felt the doorman watching her and picked up
the receiver, moving her lips in a charade, then hung it up again. Passing him
again, she smiled pleasantly and moved out into the street, noting the address
and name of the building on the sign outside. "The Berkshire. 4100
Massachusetts Avenue."

Walking swiftly, her heart pumping heavily, she got to her
own building, hurried to her apartment, and dialed the phone. Anne's voice
responded quickly, after one ring. So she is anxious, Frederika thought. As
well she should be.

"I followed him," she said, her breath still
gasping from exertion.

"He was there?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause, a sign. She could feel the tension
across the line.

"I followed him to an apartment house on Massachusetts
Avenue. The Berkshire. You know it?"

"Yes."

"But I was afraid to ask if he lived there. His name
was not on the directory."

She was waiting for direction now, for Anne's will to
assert itself.

"What shall we do?" she asked finally. Her own
weakness galled her.

"I'll call later," Anne said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Find out."

"How?"

"I'm not sure."

There was a firmness in her voice, a resolve. It triggered
Frederika's suspicion. She remembered how Anne had persevered in standing in
front of her own building. Can I trust her? she wondered. Trust! It seemed
suddenly ludicrous.

"You will tell me everything, Anne?"

"Of course."

"We are in it together now, Anne."

"Yes."

"I want to know everything you know. Everything."
She had wanted to say "please," but could not bring herself to that.
There seemed nothing more to say, but she delayed hanging up, expecting Anne to
do so first. Anne's breathing came across the line. Frederika could sense that
something was gathering in her mind.

"Was it the same?" Anne asked at last.

Frederika understood instantly. "Yes," she said,
hoping that the word could hurt. "The same."

The telephone clicked off and Frederika stood for a long
time, the phone still at her ear, until the odd beep began, recalling her sense
of place and her emptiness.

Passion observed is different from passion experienced,
Dobbs admitted reluctantly. Such an axiom could take, had taken, the science
out of this business, the sense of deduction. It would have had to be
instinctive, and he knew he had no instinct for this. You cannot track what you
cannot see. Especially what you cannot feel. That had been the secret of his
success in this bureaucratic jungle, the feel of something before it occurred.
Not that he had never been wrong before. Just not this wrong.

He missed the signposts. He had been contemptuous of the
zealousness of the DINA agents, interrogators, analysts, informers. In their
reports were embedded the subtleties, the shadings that, taken together, could
provide the revelation. And now that he had participated in the full process,
was he closer to its key than before? Eduardo, in his place, would have not
lost the scent.

Pushing aside the batch of files, Dobbs stood up, walked
the length of his office, then sat down again. They were the files that
contained the material on Eduardo's political career, to which Dobbs had
originally attached so much importance. Eduardo had never run for office. His
role had been as a kind of Machiavellian advisor for the Allende group.

After Valdivia, he had returned to his wife, who by then
had borne him a son. His son. The seduction had borne fruit. Remembering
Miranda's remarks to the interrogator, Dobbs marveled at how she had controlled
her contempt. But then, she would be a toady to power. She would always do her
duty. Somehow Eduardo had gained the upper hand by his own willed indifference,
enough at least to dissimulate, despite the dry rot of their condition. And while
he moved in the circles of power, she must have restrained herself, playing the
role with him. Yet after Allende's fall, he had been among the first to be
interned. He had barely been able to move a block from his home. Without doubt,
she had betrayed him. Dobbs had no trouble with that deduction.

Having destroyed the lists, he knew he had outwitted them.
They had been hidden in the room behind the wine cellar, easily eliminated by a
single match, which quickly created the conflagration, making the room, with
its specially constructed flue, one big fireplace. Getting out of the palace
was a lucky stroke. Allende had insisted on his martyrdom and had stayed. He
had kissed him on both cheeks, stained with the tears of his defeat and
self-pity. Continue! That was the only word that had filtered through Eduardo's
consciousness. So he had continued by destroying the evidence of the
continuity, the lists. Now many of the names were locked in his head, the
network of people they could depend on, those who had not surfaced, the cadre
that were kept out of the public eye.

It was necessary only to survive, to avoid the demise of
his brain, his memory. Above all, he must preserve that.

She certainly must have smelled the smoke. In the
breezeless day the ash settled over the roof and the trees, while he stood in
the heat of the door, seared but content. If he had not been there to confirm
their destruction, he might have avoided the horror of the next few months. An
escape route had been carefully mapped in advance, a series of safe places
where he could hide until he could cross the Peruvian border.

He had, of course, no illusions. Her revenge would come
with his betrayal, and it was quick. Hardly out of the house, in the work
clothes disguise he had prepared, he had been whisked into an armored car and
brought shackled hand and foot to the barracks, to the whitewashed room without
windows, stifling because it was deliberately unventilated. He knew this room,
of course. Hadn't they used it themselves? Paranoia was no respecter of
ideology. They kept him in the room for hours. A single bulb illumined the
starkness. He sat on a stool, in front of a heavy table. Naturally, he knew
what to expect. It was all a contrivance. Soon Raoul would come, he knew. The
Army was in charge now.

Eduardo heard the door open, then Raoul's snapping military
footsteps. He had always been well shod. The cement floor emphasized the
perfection of his shiny boots.

"Eduardo." Raoul patted him on the back and
stepped around the stool to the chair behind the table. "I feel absurd
about this."

Only two weeks before they had stood together clinking
glasses of champagne, recalling the old days. It was odd, he remembered,
thinking to himself, indulging in nostalgia, as if the end were coming. They
were plotting even then. It was, of course, a clue. The country was in turmoil.
But they had not realized that it would be the Army that would betray them.

"It is finished, Eduardo," Raoul said, lighting a
cigar. "We can get this over quickly and avoid any further unpleasantness.
Then I can get you out of the country." His good looks had mellowed. There
was gray at his temples. The face had retained its craggy beauty, although the
eyes seemed flintier, hardened. Eduardo's back ached from sitting on the low stool.

"Allende went too far. We had no choice. You were
destroying the structure of the country," Raoul said. It was ridiculous
hearing him say this. "I am apolitical," he had always protested. A
soldier.

"Burning the lists only complicates things for
us," Raoul said.

"Lists?"

"It was known," Raoul said. "We missed it by
seconds. It would have made matters so simple. It would have spared this
embarrassment. We are friends, Eduardo."

"We were friends."

"Always politics. What is politics? One is as bad as
another. You were ruining us all. Even your own family. Were they any better
than us?"

"That's all academic now. At least we tried."

"You brought us to the brink of disaster."

"Now it has come."

"A little bloodletting. It is part of our heritage. We
must preserve what we have built." Raoul stood up. "All we need now
is the names, as many as you can remember. We don't mean to harm them, just to
know where they are. We will watch them. Just as you watched your enemies. A
simple exchange."

"Do you think that I will simply regurgitate them?
That you will charm me out of them? Just as you have always charmed women to
give you what you wanted?"

Raoul smiled. "One uses the tools that God has
given."

Eduardo could never shake the awesome envy. Had Miranda
been one of his conquests? Such a thought had occurred to him before. He had
dismissed it then. The bond of friendship was sacred. Considering his present
situation, his faith in such an idea was considerably shaken.

"I knew," he said maliciously, wanting to test
the assumption.

"Knew?"

But his courage failed. It would be pointless to know.
Raoul's mindless passion would, as always, make his own seem trivial. Raoul's
mouth was open slightly. The cigar jaunty in his teeth. He paced the room, then
turned, blowing smoke into Eduardo's eyes. Eduardo observed him, determined to
remain numb.

"I will call in a stenographer and you will give us
all the names you can remember." He walked toward the door, his heels
snapping again on the hard cement.

"Don't bother."

"You're not serious."

"Have you ever known me to lie?"

"Eduardo. This is no game. You know all the devices.
In an hour I can have you wishing you were dead. Spare yourself. It is not
worth it. We have no time. We are simply protecting what we have won."

"You will kill them. And those you do not kill, you
will use. Believe me, Raoul, you will not get any names from me."

"We shall see." He opened the door and left the
room.

Knowing what to expect did not make it easier. First they
would try to break his spirit with uncertainty, starvation, psychological
mischief. Then would come the devices, the dreaded electrical conductors
attached to the genitals. It would all be quite businesslike. There would be no
real hate in it. The pain would be merely institutional, a brain opener. If that
failed, they would inject him with drugs, destroy his will to resist. In the
end, he knew, he would tell them something. Yet, above all, he understood the
power of the will. Hadn't he willed himself to resist all feeling? Now he must
find the will to resist telling them everything, to be selective, preserving
what could be useful in the future. They will think they have gotten all of it,
although he knew they would be insatiable. But he would make them work for what
they got.

The door opened again and he was seized roughly under both
arms and prodded along between two broad shouldered guards with expressionless
flat faces, their Indian blood a reminder of some forgotten meeting. It was
only after they had brought him down a long flight of stairs and thrust him
into another room dominated by a long table that he could remember the face of
Uno's father. Features which said nothing always put him at a handicap. They
made him sit on the table, left him there. Hours passed. Finally he lay on the
hard surface, but the light above him was too bright. His eyelids could not
shut it out. But when his eyes were closed, he could remember sunlight, lying
face upward, hearing the thunder of the distant sea, the rustle of the high
grass that edged upward toward the Cordillera and Isabella's soft breathing
beside him.

He had not gone back to his parents' house until his father
was dying. It was a slow, lingering death, and although he wished he might see
the old man, his father had remained persistently adamant. Pride ran too deep
in the man that the son had betrayed. In his father's mind, he had committed
fratricide. They had called him only when the old man's mind had slipped into
chaos. And they had left him to be alone with him. He was a wizened bit of
flesh, shrunken, barely recognizable.

"You must make him forgive you," his mother had
said, her painted face grotesque beneath henna hair. He imagined he had seen a
note of triumph in her eyes, the unmistakable sign of the conqueror's victory.
Over the years, as his political ascendency matured, she had written him long,
pleading letters to preserve their properties and wealth. Answering, he had
gone into long polemics on the reasons for nationalization, land reform, shared
property, the destruction of the oligarchs. "You must not betray your
blood," she had written in every letter.

His father could not forgive him even if he wanted to. His
mind was too far gone, as was his power of speech. Bending over the hollow
skull, Eduardo had kissed his forehead. It felt like ice. Only the faint blink
of an eye told him that his father was barely alive.

"I forgive you," Eduardo had whispered. He had
wondered if his father heard. Did he see a brief nod? He wondered if he truly
loved the old man or hated him.

Then, suddenly, the illusion of sunlight dissipated. A tall
officer was blocking the naked light above him. Behind him came a young soldier
lugging a large tape recorder. He put it on the cement floor and attached a
microphone around Eduardo's neck. The officer seemed a pleasant fellow. He
smiled. Eduardo, surprised at his own reaction, smiled back. Why not, he
reasoned. We are in this together.

"I have no desire to hurt you," the officer said.
"I am doing my duty. I have been ordered to get you to provide me with the
names of those people who have remained underground and could be a threat
against the present regime. A simple request."

"You know I burned the lists."

"Yes. But the assumption is that many of the names
have been committed to memory."

"The assumption is incorrect. If I had done that, why
would I have needed the lists."

"That is another question." The, officer brushed
aside any further inquiry on this point, signaled the young soldier to start
the tape recorder, and began his interrogation.

"Let us begin. They need not be alphabetical."

"Alphabetical?" The idea seemed ludicrous.
Eduardo laughed. He had not felt such a sense of amusement in years. The
officer ignored it. He repeated the question.

"A name. Any name."

"Eduardo Allesandro Palmero."

"That's your name."

Eduardo laughed again. "Now we're getting
somewhere."

"A name," the officer repeated. He was no longer
smiling. Eduardo remained silent, closed eyes. He could not tell how long
repetition continued. He began to feel fatigue. He must have dozed. When he
opened his eyes the officer was gone.

His sense of time faded. His beard began to sprout and a
thirst began. At first he had been hungry and then that feeling had
disappeared. They were letting him construct a private hell.

The door opened again. He saw the sculptured, handsome face
of Raoul. He was smoking a long cigar, elegantly poised in his long fingers.

"What does it matter, Eduardo?" he said.
"Who cares?"

Eduardo shrugged. In the face of Raoul he saw the younger
man he had envied and adored.

"I would not betray you, Raoul."

Raoul shook his head, lowered his eyes. "I am not
asking you to betray me." He took a deep drag on the cigar. The sweet
smoke filled the unventilated room. As always, Raoul was casual, collected. How
Eduardo envied him this attitude.

"You should have been a poet," Raoul said.
"Politics was definitely the wrong profession for you. You always took the
wrong road. Especially with women. You never could understand women. You should
never have loved Miranda."

He was taunting him now. Perhaps, he is jealous of my
courage, Eduardo thought. There was a long silence. Eduardo felt Raoul's eyes
exploring him.

"They could kill you, Eduardo."

The boots clicked along the cement. The door closed. Later
the officer came back with the young soldier and the tape recorder whirred
again. Names? No answer. Names? No answer. The game must have gone on for
hours. Eduardo concentrated on other thoughts, seeking to remember the
landmarks of his pleasure. They were dim memories and he could not summon them.