The Casanova Embrace Read online

  Soon cars were moving normally and people had ventured back into the street, observing the spot where it had happened, then moving on to accustomed chores. The men of the Executive Police with their blue-trimmed uniforms resumed their posts. A recall of the morning events would chase boredom for a few hours, then it was back to the stultifying emptiness of their official duties.

  Dobbs walked to his car. So far, he had observed nothing amiss. But it was still too early to be sure.

  What was there in Eduardo ... he began to think of him as a companion ... to inspire such ... he hesitated ... awesomeness? He needed to refresh his mind, consult the files, review the total picture. It was not the conclusion he was concerned about. That had already been determined. What had this man possessed? Why had it eluded him until it was too late?

  He was still turning it over in his mind as he suddenly discovered that he had mistaken a turn and was heading the wrong way on the Beltway.

  II

  It was one of Marie's special private pleasures to recall the exact moment of her first observance of him. Later, it would become a ritual of their lovemaking, like an after-dinner drink savored with all the concentration and subtleties that the taste buds could muster.

  It had happened at a crowded affair at the Roumanian Embassy. There was always an eclectic group, since Roumania could bridge the invitational gap of ideologies. One could find representatives of antagonistic countries and factions calmly sipping champagne together as if what was happening in the real world was merely a fictional device for a movie script. It was politically appropriate, she later agreed, for Eduardo to be on their invitational list, since it gave him the opportunity to continue to provide visibility for the ill-fated Allende regime.

  He was standing in a corner of the ornate room, deftly removing tidbits from the buffet table, searching swiftly but carefully, with a practiced eye for the most interesting culinary concoction. Then, with special grace, he had propped the plate on the tips of the fingers of his left hand and proceeded to eat with the calm assurance of one who had obviously had long experience at the buffet tables.

  She had watched him from across the crowded room, an idle curiosity, since she was stuck with a most boring man from the Department of State whose words she could barely hear above the social din. Her husband, the Minister Plenipotentiary of the French Embassy, gesticulated with his usual intensity in a group of other foreign diplomats. There goes Claude again, she remembered thinking, turning slightly, spilling a drop of champagne on her pink Cardin, the one that was lent out of his collection to publicize French wares. She had looked up swiftly, caught his eye, then with feigned embarrassment but real relief she excused herself and went off to the ladies' room. She had felt his eyes watching her as she moved away.

  "And then?" It was his ritual response whenever she recalled the moment, her head nestled in the crook of his bare arm, the hard muscle a pillow, as she played with the hairs of his chest.

  "Then you passed completely out of my mind."

  "Completely?"

  "Well, I was concentrating on the removal of the champagne stain."

  "But I did notice that you had disappeared."

  "How could you? You were so busy stuffing your face."

  "My digestion has nothing to do with the male antenna."

  "And what a beautiful antenna."

  Her hand reached down and fondled his penis. She felt its awakening response. Then she removed her hand.

  "It was the furthest thing from my mind."

  "But a seed was planted."

  "Perhaps I loved you then, from that moment."

  "You romantics. You exaggerate everything."

  "How then can you explain this?" She reached again for his penis which had hardened now. She looked downward and watched it grow, fill out with its mysterious movement of blood, an enigma. "I was an innocent. I had never been unfaithful. I have been married fifteen years. I felt myself grow wet with yearning."

  He reached downward for her organs, confirming the result of suggestion.

  "You see. I am still that way."

  "Purely chemical. Purely a physical reaction." He chided her playfully as two fingers massaged her nipples.

  "When I came back you moved toward me. I saw you from a corner of my eye. Then I looked at Claude. I don't know why. Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps I knew what was happening. But he was busy being intense and impressive. He is quite impressive, you know, quite eloquent."

  "I'm sure he will be an ambassador at his next posting."

  "He will be important someday. Quite powerful and influential. I must never embarrass him. It will destroy him." She felt her eyes begin to mist and a throbbing in her chest, a sob urgent to be heard. But she held it in, crushed it with her will.

  "I brought you a glass of champagne."

  "You came over with two. I could barely catch my breath when you came near me. My knees began to shake. I swear it. I wanted to refuse your offer of the glass. I felt that my fingers would be clumsy and I would spill some more on poor Monsieur Cardin's creation."

  "But you took it and your hands didn't shake."

  "It was a commitment even then. I must have subconsciously wished to take anything you had to offer."

  "I said something silly," he responded shyly as his body moved downward, his lips brushing the soft skin of her belly.

  "You said: Come we must toast beautiful women."

  "Isn't that ridiculous?"

  "I felt myself blushing and I knew that something was happening."

  He moved downward further, his lips touching her pubic hairs. She reached for his hard organ, caressed it, kissed its head and shaft. She felt him tense, the hardness increase.

  "It was the beginning of a madness. I hardly knew myself. I am a woman now," she said. "You have made me a woman."

  He kissed her organs, titillating her clitoris with his tongue. She responded in kind, reveling in her newly found animality, this volatile chemistry that she had not thought possible. Then he was over her, maleness incarnate. She waited with quivering expectation, a bit of flotsam on an angry river, following the crashing tide. She wished she could stand outside herself and observe what was happening, what he was doing to her, so that she could enhance the experience of it. The sob began again, turning into a low moaning as his hardness entered her, filled her, and her heartbeat accelerated, the joy of it suffusing her body, her soul, every nerve end alert to his maleness. She floated on the rushing river, feeling the surge of ecstasy, a repetitive thrash of waves, washing over her as he continued to plunge inside of her. I do not deserve such a gift, she imagined she was telling herself, vaguely acknowledging the guilt of it, but no longer caring.

  Actually, what she had been reobserving was the reality of the moment of their meeting, not the surface details. He had, indeed, offered the toast, duly made and ritualized. But, standing there in the crowded room, he had been quite ordinary, merely, she had thought then, following the protocol of the event. Of course, she noticed his eyes, silver specks in the gray, luminescent. How could she have avoided the compelling eyes?

  "I am Eduardo Palmero," he had said. His English had little trace of accent, although the precision revealed it had been studied and was not an original tongue. Holding out his free hand, he took hers. She remembered the light pressure, but felt the fingers' strength. The touch was delicate but powerful.

  "Marie LaFarge." She had hesitated, looking again over at where Claude was standing. "My husband is the French minister."

  "Ah, Madame LaFarge."

  "Don't say it," she said, laughing, knowing she was showing her good white even teeth. It seemed a breach of the formality. But she had already begun to feel his closeness. "I don't knit."

  He smiled. His teeth were also good and very white, against a skin slightly dark in tone, softened by the trim black mustache and the flared nostrils, another enigma in the dark face. These were details she was absorbing consciously. The touches of gray at the side of his head of f
ull hair, slightly curled, the thin nose, a median size between aquiline and patrician. He was approximately six feet, slender, a man aging with grace. One might say oozing with charm, an errant thought at the time, since she did not want to think of his spontaneity as contrived.

  "Italian?" she asked.

  "My father's side. My mother was Spanish. Actually, I am a Chilean."

  "With the Embassy?"

  A brief cloud seemed to pass over his face, dulling the eyes, wrinkling the forehead, tightening the lips.

  "No," he said coldly. "I am, for the moment, persona non grata."

  She knew at once. The wife of a diplomat is trained to understand. And living with Claude one dared not even seem ignorant of the games of nations, as he called them.

  "Roumania," she said, sipping the champagne to mask embarrassment. "Yes, I see."

  "Brothers under the skin," he remarked cheerfully with a slight movement of the glass toward his Roumanian host. "At least the exile gets a chance to eat and drink." He smiled again, moving closer, his eyes probing deeply now. She knew now she had fully gained his interest and it was flattering to her. She was being a flirt again, she realized. Claude would chide her about that, especially after a party when he had had too much to drink, which triggered his jealousy but made him amorous. The idea of it apparently excited him. "You flaunt yourself," he would say in French. Their intimate moments seemed to demand it. "It is all in your imagination," she would reply, but he was already close to her, his breath coming swifter, his face flushed. "There is a limit." It seemed a game, as if he were deliberately bringing himself up to a boil. "I am a true and faithful wife," she insisted. "You should be proud that men find me attractive." By then, he was fondling her. "You are a woman. You do not know what is in men's minds." What occurred was swift, violent, and, on his part, passionate. She wondered why nothing he did moved her. It was the major disruptive influence in their lives. She had mothered two children for him, did his bidding as a dutiful diplomatic wife, surely did not embarrass him, was supportive and outwardly loving. But he did not move her. For many years she had resolved that this is the way it really is. That there was something in her that could not be moved, a patina of cement, beyond which feeling could not penetrate. It was not only with Claude. No man had ever really moved her. The fact of it had made her seem dry and brittle to herself. Frigid. It was terrible to live with such an idea, she had decided. What was all the fuss about, she wondered. It was nothing, empty.

  "There are many of us in this town," Eduardo had assured her, perhaps sensing her interest. Her eyes roamed his face. It intrigued her to see the moods flash across it, like lightning on a midsummer afternoon.

  "Chileans?"

  "Exiles. Mostly American citizens now. The world map has changed so radically in the last thirty years that the exiles can hardly tell from which country they have been exiled. At least, we in South America know where we are from."

  She wondered if there was an edge of humor to his remarks. Tempted to enhance it, she nevertheless remained silent. It was her diplomatic training. One never knew the cast of mind of a person of different nationality, Claude had warned. Different languages created different nuances. Words might be easily translatable, but not the value of the words in emotional terms. Guard yourself, he had warned. You might be speaking English, but you are thinking in French and he is thinking in his own language.

  "We are revolution-happy," he said, smiling. Then the lightning came again and the smile faded. "Ours was the only real revolution since the conquistadors were thrown out. Sooner or later, we will win. We have just lost the first round." She noticed that his hands had balled into fists and he seemed to be wrestling internally with his rage.

  She was fascinated, she admitted to herself, but she had no desire to hear his story now. It was inappropriate to be heavy in an event like this. Diplomatic receptions were essentially for surface talk. One nibbled at the leaves and left the roots alone.

  "And you, Madame LaFarge?" he asked, unwinding, his anger fading.

  "I am a diplomatic wife. We have spent the last fifteen years roaming the world. West Germany. Canada. Hungary. Cambodia."

  She noticed that guests were beginning to leave and that Claude had glanced her way, nodding, the thin smile a harbinger of what she might expect later. This man was monopolizing her attention and it was getting obvious. She must excuse herself and reach her husband's side, a diplomatic maneuver. She held out her hand.

  "It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Palmero," she said. He took her hand in his and she felt the power and electricity of his touch, an unmistakable surge of sexuality. This is absurd, she told herself. But her knees did shake and she could not deny the flow of her juices. What is it, she wondered, a wave of confusion breaking in her mind.

  "We must meet again," he said, holding her hand and looking into her eyes, the invitation blatant. It was the moment to deny it, to exercise deliberate indifference, to pour water on the hot coals.

  "Yes, we must," she responded, knowing that she had exposed her essence. It was a totally new sensation, an enigma. My God, is this me, she wondered, withdrawing her hand and moving across the room to her husband's side. He introduced her to his companions while she watched Eduardo Palmero cross the room, graceful and confident, hardly the defeated exile that he wished to portray.

  Later, when they arrived home, Claude admonished her playfully for her flirtatiousness. But he was secretly proud, she knew. Luckily, he had not taken much liquor.

  "Who was that fellow?" he asked.

  "Some South American," she said with feigned indifference.

  Claude took her in his arms and pressed his pelvis against hers. She felt his hardness and she was imagining that it was Eduardo, and there was, she knew, more feeling in her response. Despite this, she remained unmoved.

  Weeks passed and it still would not go away. She performed her daily tasks by rote, her mind fogged. The children were cared for and fussed over, suitably swathed in what she imagined was motherly love, disciplined, and otherwise parented. At times, they must have sensed her strangeness.

  "What is it, Mommy?" Susan, her ten-year-old, would ask.

  "It?"

  "You have hung my skirt in Henry's closet."

  "I can't imagine what I was thinking."

  But she knew what she was thinking since she carried in her head always the graceful image of Eduardo Palmero, probing the message that he carried in his gray eyes with their flashes of silver. At times, when she was not pursuing some task, his image would become more animated as if he were calling to her from somewhere inside her brain. I am thirty-five years old, she would tell herself, not some dumb teen-aged ninny. I am a woman of the world, she assured herself, although secretly she knew that she had remained an innocent. Claude LaFarge had not been her childhood sweetheart. Actually, she had considered herself quite experienced with men by the time she had met him. She was a student at the Sorbonne, living with her parents in their big house on Rue de Lyon. Her father was a prosperous surgeon. Her mother was totally devoted to him. They entertained frequently and lavishly and it was at one of their soirees that she had met Claude, a rising young diplomat with the foreign office in Paris. Even then he was intense, totally immersed in political matters, but in those days she had been attracted by that and, of course, he had, by every standard of class and position, the impeccable credentials for a perfect match.

  They had been married in the Cathedral of Notre Dame and spent their honeymoon in Marrakesh. Quickly, she rationalized the trauma of her sexual indifference. Her mother had hinted of it. Satisfy your man, she had confided. What more was there? Actually, she enjoyed being the wife of a diplomat, enjoyed living in foreign places, enjoyed her children. She enjoyed a happy marriage, she told herself. Claude was not indifferent and she sensed he was faithful and honorable.

  If there were secrets they were those special ones that mates normally kept from each other, glossed over, sometimes forgotten, rarely violated. Sensible pe
ople forgave them silently. Nor had she ever dared confess them to the priests when she was still religious. She could not tell him, for example, that her cousin Michel, thick-witted and dull, was the first male she had seen in full sexual excitement. To this day, Michel might have felt that he had seduced her, but she knew that it had been she who had been the aggressor, her curiosity that had gotten him into that state. She had even let him put it part way into her and had watched; his eyes were closed when he had his climax and she was fascinated by the sight. Nor would she dare to tell him about the other young men at school whom she had learned to satisfy by masturbation and sometimes orally. In those days, the guilt had been deep, although the pleasure to herself illusive. Actually, her hymen had been ruptured by Pierre Damon, an intern who worked for her father, in the back seat of his car, but it had--like all the other experiences--been relegated to secrecy. Looking back, as she sometimes did, she concluded it was nothing, hardly worth the expense of energy. Actually, as time passed, the secret memories took on an unreality, events that had never really happened, and she hardly thought about them, going for years without consciously remembering.

  Now she was remembering every detail and it annoyed her. This is not being me, she told herself. But what, after all, was "being me." Is this all, she wondered, reviewing her life with Claude and her children. And yet, it seemed so pedestrian a position to be in, a stereotype of the yearning, dissatisfied women in those American magazines geared to attract readers from those searching for "fulfillment." Am I like them? she wondered. A Frenchwoman was supposed to be different. She refused to let herself be depressed by such thoughts. Then why was she longing for another glimpse of Eduardo Palmero, and why was she experiencing physical signs of such longing? She would nervously survey the crowd at social events, at supermarkets, at restaurants. And when she walked the streets her eyes were always fastened on the people on both sides of the street, looking for him. She had even looked up his name in the telephone books of the District of Columbia, Virginia and Maryland. It was not listed.