The Casanova Embrace (18 page)

"I must say," he said, "I hardly expected
this."

"No," she said, putting a finger to his lips,
"no talk." They remained silent for a while, she standing above him,
watching his eyes. Soon, he said, "I really must be going."

She hadn't expected that; the sense of loss became
magnified. There was a touch of panic. She continued to hold his fingers.

"Really, Anne." He whispered the strange name.
Who is Anne, she wondered. "Really, Anne, I must go."

"But where?"

He laughed, watching her.

"There are things that I must do. There is a whole
life out there."

"What do you do?" She had the right to ask that
now, she told herself. There was this sense of possession now. He looked at
her, contemplating her again, stroking his chin.

"I have my work," he said.

"Work?" It seemed somehow an intrusion. He shook
his head, laughed, slapped his thigh with his one free hand and stood up.

"My principal business is the freeing of Chile."
She felt the pressure of his hand and let it slide out of hers.

"Of course," she said.

"And yours is the reliving of Balzac." She had
forgotten.

"Of course." But she was wondering now if that
would be enough. That was the old life. Now, it was Anne's world. But she had
not learned to live with Anne yet, which was why she had remained silent when
he had finally let himself out. Nor did she rush out after him with some
admonition on her lips like: "But when will you come again?" Instead,
she sat in the wing chair, where he had sat, a space that she had never
occupied before, wondering how she would be able to get back to the safe
routine of her previous life. Then she cried. She could not remember the last
time she had done that.

Getting through the rest of the day and the night required
all the willpower she could muster. She prolonged her evening meal by eating
more than usual. The unaccustomed intake left her crampy and uncomfortable and
she tossed and turned in her bed until the sun rose. The Bach was grating and
she finally shut it off. Then she couldn't concentrate on her exercises,
alternating between cursing him and loving him in her mind. Who is Anne? she
asked herself repeatedly, but the answer was an echo of silence.

She returned to the library, nodded at the librarian,
assuming the same thin disinterested smile that she had practiced so many times
before. Her heart was pumping with agitation, and her knees had, oddly, lost
their smooth motor reflexes. He was not there. Searching amid the stacks, she
peeked around corners until she was certain he was not there. Then she went to
the Balzac shelf and pulled down one of the books at random. She didn't look at
the title, but took her accustomed place, patting the spine of the book on the
table to assure that it would stay open.

Alert to every sound, her ears discovered the noise of the
place. Once so silent, the library was now a cacophony of disjointed sounds,
among which she tried to identify his movement, his footsteps. She heard the
ticking of the big clock on the far wall and the breathing of the librarian,
even the swirl of her dress, a strong "wooshing" sound. It was
maddening, a terrible intrusion on her concentration. Nineteenth century Paris
was remote in the opened pages of Balzac. Finally, after an hour had passed,
she stood up and approached the librarian.

"Why is it so noisy here?" she asked. Her voice
seemed a roar as it emerged from her lips.

The librarian looked at her, tipping her head in an
attitude of disbelief.

"Noisy?"

"Yes, there is far too much noise."

There was still enough logic in her to feel embarrassment,
and without looking at the librarian again, she went out into the street and
stood in front of the building, looking both ways. Perhaps if she walked toward
Wisconsin Avenue, she might see him. She started down the street with swift
strides. But she could not see him there either. Then she returned to the
library, hoping that, perhaps, he had arrived from the opposite direction. He
wasn't there.

Again, she tried to concentrate on the opened book, but the
words swam meaninglessly before her eyes. Standing up, she went to the stacks
and took another one, then tried again to concentrate. If he doesn't come, I
shall have to scream, she told herself, and then, miraculously, he was there,
poking around in the familiar stacks, gathering his material, placing his note
pad at his usual place at the table.

"You're late," she said, feeling the sense of
possession again. He looked at her, said nothing, and smiled. Thank God, she
told herself, feeling the new sensations begin again.

"Will you come to see me later?" she asked,
hoping he would not detect the urgency in her voice. He watched her face, his
gaze lingering, the long lashes shading the gray silver-flecked eyes.

"Perhaps," he said. "If I can finish the
task I've set for myself today. I am behind schedule."

The tentativeness frightened her. She wanted to insist.
Again, she sat down and attempted to read her book, watching him as he worked,
swiftly, with deep absorption. Seeing him calmed her, and although she could
not regain any concentration, she was content to sit there near him.

Normally, she would have returned home for lunch, but now
she refused to move, feeling him beside her, watching the clock, which she had
hardly noticed before. Time had captured her again and she found herself
watching the pendulum swing and the barely perceptible movement of the clock's
hands. Once, he lifted his head and smiled briefly, then returned to writing
furiously on his note pad. Finally, at three o'clock, which must have been the
hour he had set for himself, he stood up, returned the books to the stacks,
stuffed the papers in his brief case, and turned toward the door. She rose and
followed, remembering her sweater, but leaving the books on the table,
something she had never done before.

"You were working very hard," she said when they
were in the street. The weather had turned colder, which produced a glazed mist
in his eyes.

"I am hurrying to finish," he said, standing
there, his weight moving from one foot to the other.

"Would you like to come to the house?" she said,
her eyes shifting in embarrassment. He looked at his watch and she felt the
panic of an impending rejection. Then, summoning unaccustomed coquetry and
masking her anxiety, she said, "I make a terrific glass of milk." He
laughed, suddenly engaged.

"Ah, yes," he said. Then he looked at his watch
again. "But I can't stay too long."

They walked toward the house and she put her arm in his,
squeezing the upper part, feeling the heavy muscle. She had not seen his arms
naked and now she tried to imagine what they looked like.

"For a while there, I thought you weren't going to
come."

"I had other business earlier. But I'm determined to
finish this pamphlet before the week is up."

A week, she thought. Three days actually. It was Tuesday.

"And then?"

"There is a great deal to be done," he sighed.

The sense of time was now oppressing her. Inside the house,
he put his brief case down and started toward the wing chair, but she held him
back.

"Let me show you the house," she said. Perhaps if
he filled the house, stamped his presence on it, he might be tempted to change
the schedule he had created for himself. It was possible to ignore time, she
had learned. Holding his hand, she moved through the house, the study, the
kitchen, the maid's quarters, now vacant, another parlor, then up the back
stairs.

"These old houses are quite mysterious," she
said, feeling like a young girl, remembering vaguely having done this in some
big house in another life. On the second floor, she showed him the sleeping
rooms, all neatly kept, fresh sheets on every bed. Despite the fact that no one
slept in the beds, she had changed the sheets weekly and carefully dusted and
polished. Each room smelled sweet. Finally she came to her own bedroom, with
its high canopied bed with crinoline edging. Jack had always despised it. No
wonder, considering his affliction.

"This is mine," she told him, turning toward him,
her body moving tightly against his. It seemed instinctive on her part,
deliberately, aggressively suggestive. I must have him now, in this bed, she
told herself, feeling her body's sudden craving as her hands reached for him,
caressing. His nature responded and she could feel him hardening and soon he
was kissing her, filling her mouth with his tongue.

"Let me undress you," she whispered, removing his
jacket, then his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, slipping his T-shirt over his
head, then unbelting him, unzipping, rolling down his shorts, watching,
caressing, touching the smooth hardness of his erection. He stood there, an
object to be observed, and she was acutely aware of his enjoyment of her
attention. He has a right to be proud, she told herself.

"Now you," he said, as he began to help her
undress while she wondered if he would be as pleased as she. She continued to
stroke his erection. Then, when she was naked, she stepped back, catching a
glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her body was firm and slender, her stomach
flat, her buttocks tight, her breasts small but still upturned.

"You have the body of a young girl," he said,
reaching for her.

Then they were in her bed, and the joy of him being there
with her was overwhelming. Before he could enter her, her body responded with a
kind of massive seizure of pleasure, an orgasm that drew its essence from the
pit of her being, a gale wind now repeating itself when finally he had entered.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, knowing that she was discovering
herself, a new self, Anne!

Later, she watched him. His eyes appeared to be seeing
something at the top of the canopy, but she sensed that he was looking inside
of himself. The reality of time was fully existent in her mind now.

"Do you really see me as a young girl?" she
asked.

His concentration was deflected and he looked at her and
smiled.

"You are a young girl."

"I'm forty-nine."

"Now, you are talking chronology. I'm talking about
what my eyes see and my flesh touches." He gently put the flat of his hand
on her stomach.

"And inside?"

"Very young and very beautiful."

"Would you please say that again?"

"Very young and very beautiful."

"Thank you." She kissed his cheek. A tear rolled
out of her eye. "Do you mean that?"

He hesitated, then ignored the question.

"I'm forty-two," he said suddenly. There was an
air of regret in his manner. "Age is an enigma."

"An enigma?"

"I feel young and old at the same time." He hesitated
and looked at her, on the verge of revelation, she thought.

"Once, forty seemed old," he sighed.
"Chronology has lost its meaning. I have found more strength in myself
than ever before in my life." He was not talking directly to her. There
was a distance, a barrier. What does he mean? she thought. "Maybe it is
anger, the search for vindication, revenge, that gives me this odd
energy."

"Revenge?" Still, she had not engaged him.

"Or maybe it is the sense of impending death."

At the mention of death, she swallowed hard, gasped. He
must have felt the shiver run through her.

"I have a great deal to do.... "He was guarding
himself now. He closed his eyes and she watched his eyelids flutter for some
time, kissing them, as if the act might still them.

"Stay with me, Eduardo," she said suddenly. She
felt panic, that terrible repetitive sense of impending loss. Her voice
startled him and he rose in the bed. She could sense his preparation to take
leave.

"You have to go?" She said it for him. How can I
keep him here forever, near me forever, she asked herself.

"Yes." He kissed her forehead and bounded out of
bed. She watched his strong back move, the buttocks beautifully rounded. As he
turned to pick up his clothes, his genitals swayed. To her, it was an odd, beautiful
sight. She lay back observing him.

"Can you feel that this is your home, Eduardo?"
she asked.

"You mustn't think in those terms, Anne."

"It is not thinking. It is simply a fact of
life."

He shrugged, ignoring her, tightening his tie.

"I am yours now, Eduardo. There is nothing I won't do
for you." She stood up and walked to him, her face close to his now,
watching him in the mirror. "There is nothing that I have, that I own,
that is not yours." The saying of it was exhilarating, important. Anne
could do things like that. Not Penny.

When his tie was straight, he turned toward her, kissed her
on the lips.

"You are talking nonsense."

"Like a young girl?"

"A very young girl."

She paused, watching him. He looked clean, hard, sure of
what he was.

"You will be at the library tomorrow?"

"Yes. All week."

"And after, will you be with me?"

He hesitated.

"Perhaps," he said. Then he was gone. She
listened for the sound of his movements down the stairs, opening the door.
Running to the window, she watched him walk swiftly toward Wisconsin Avenue.
She wanted to cry again, but this time the tears would not come.

That week he did come every day, and by the end of it, her
life had completely metamorphosed. She no longer did her exercises and she
could not concentrate on her reading, sitting instead at the library table,
seeing him through the pores of her body, resisting the temptation to look at
him, fearful of creating a distraction for him. The sense of time had fully
returned. Even her eating habits had changed and she had stocked her
refrigerator with foods from her other life. Gourmet foods, caviar, exotic
cheeses, a crown roast. She had found a recipe for chocolate mousse and had
stayed up half the night creating it.