The Casanova Embrace (20 page)

"I will not fail you, my darling."

"I am sure," he said.

"Thank you, Eduardo," she said hoarsely, kissing
the flesh of his belly. Before she left, he wrapped the device in tissue paper
and put it in her hand. She held it tightly for a long time before she finally
put it in her purse. "I will show him how clever I am," she vowed.

That night in her own bed, she did not feel the same tug of
emptiness. Now there was a sense of mission, participation. Claude, of course,
must be manipulated to be her instrument of entry into the Chilean Embassy.
Anything is possible for Eduardo, she assured herself.

"Good morning, Claude," she said pleasantly as he
arrived at the breakfast table. It was the first time in weeks that she had
actually taken any notice of him. He seemed to have bloated slightly and there
were dark circles under his eyes. The children had already been packed off to
school and she had taken great care with her morning toilette. Not a hair was
misplaced and she had dabbed herself with the scent Claude had liked and which
she had deliberately abandoned. She had, up till then, rejected anything that
gave Claude pleasure.

His face suddenly brightened, although she could tell he
had quickly rallied his defenses. It had never been Claude's way to be taken in
easily. He was naturally cautious. He would test her first.

"You look very charming this morning, Marie."

"Thank you, Claude."

The smell of freshly perked coffee was heavy in the room.
Coincidentally, the sun was shining and the day clear, a fitting background for
the illusion of harmony that she wished to convey.

"Lovely," Claude said as he sat down, the folded
newspaper beside him on the table. She sat down in her usual place, feeling his
gaze. He is confused, she thought. After a while, he withdrew his hand and
sipped his coffee. Enough for now, she thought, feeling the excitement of her
deception.

"You seem quite different today, Marie," he said.
She could sense his subtle sarcasm. It was, after all, safer for him to be
cautious.

"Perhaps it is because of the wonderful morning,"
she said, her eyes deliberately averted, as she lifted the coffee cup to her
lips. He continued to observe her, the newspaper ignored.

"Is there something you would like to say,
Marie?"

"Perhaps later," she said pleasantly, turning to
him now, offering the faint hint of a smile. Slowly, she warned herself. You
are such a pompous ass, she mused as she looked at him, wondering if she were
wearing a proper expression.

"I would like that, Marie," he said, his hand
sliding near hers across the table. With an effort, she kept it still.

"I suppose we have lots to talk about."

"Yes."

His hand touched hers and again she resisted the desire to
move it away. Then the full weight of his hand was on hers and he was squeezing
it. Although her indifference was absolute, she could feel his emotion. The
fool, she thought. After a while, he withdrew his hand and sipped his coffee.
Enough for now, she thought, standing up and moving toward the kitchen.

"Marie," he called. She stopped and turned,
conscious of improving her posture. She felt her breasts strain against her
brassiere and knew she was deliberately emphasizing their fullness.

"Yes, Claude."

"We will talk later."

"Yes."

Getting through the day required an enormous effort of
will. If only Eduardo would call, she thought, feeling the need for
reassurance. Make it up with Claude, he had told her. And then? But she had not
dared to ask that question. She was now part of Eduardo's life, of his work,
and that was a step forward, perhaps a tiny step from the present limbo.

That evening Claude came home with a great bouquet of
yellow roses and a bottle of champagne. There seemed to be some sentimental
currency in it and she remembered that it was one of the elements of his
courtship, yellow roses and champagne. How ridiculously contrived, she thought.
At dinner, she kept the scene deliberately cheerful. The children talked of
their day with great enthusiasm and she forced herself to listen, feeling
Claude's eyes on her, watching for any signs of retrogression. Without his
realizing, she deliberately delayed the children's departure for bed. It was
Claude who intervened finally. When they were alone, he opened the champagne.

Please help me, Eduardo, she pleaded to herself as Claude
handed her the champagne, clinking the glass with his.

"To better days ahead, my darling," he said,
sipping the champagne and watching her with a silly, glazed, fawning look. She
tossed off the champagne in a single gulp, hardly tasting it. He quickly poured
her another glass. The expected lightheadedness seemed slow in coming.

"Is it over, Marie?" he asked tentatively,
touching her arm, caressing it, still fearful of rejection.

"I'm not sure, Claude," she said. Better to be
tentative as well, she had decided.

"These last weeks have been the worst of my life,
Marie. The worst."

She wondered why she could not summon pity. Only contempt.
Holding out her glass, she let him pour her more champagne. He did it eagerly
and she knew that he, too, was being calculating, deliberately plying her. I
will do this for Eduardo, she thought. By the time the lightheadedness began,
he had moved toward her and summoned the courage to hold her in his arms.

"Perhaps I have been too self-centered," he said.
"I will change, Marie. You'll see. I have been thinking it over these last
few weeks. It is all my fault. I promise I will change."

She endured his fondling, and the fear of showing
indifference forced her to increase her outward response. The objective, she
told herself, was to get through this as quickly as possible.

"It will be beautiful again, my darling," Claude
said. She could feel his mounting excitement, encouraging its acceleration by
caressing his genitals. The touch disgusted her, but she did not falter. She
listened for the quickness of his breath, the swift pounding of his heart. His
hands groped into her body. She imagined that he was interpreting his own ardor
as spontaneity and she fed the fantasy by increasing the strength of her
endearments.

"Can we?" he asked.

"Yes."

She had wanted to say later, but it had passed beyond that
point and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. Removing her pantyhose,
she lay on the couch. Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander while she
mechanically drew him inside of her. She was thinking of her girlhood and
suddenly she missed that part of her life, before Claude, her father's strong
hand in hers, walking on the Champs Elysées, the smell of flowers in
the Tuileries, the view of Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. She had been
safe then, beyond abuse, beyond this. She might have lost herself in these
memories if Claude had not hurt her. She was dry and tight, like a virgin. It
was detestable, revolting. Thankfully, he did not last long, falling on her in
a heap. She waited. His breath became regular again and his heart slowed, she observed
with clinical objectivity. She made no move to crawl from under him, waiting
for him to act.

"It will be different," he said.

"Of course," she responded, wondering if he could
sense her revulsion.

She moved out of the spare room and back into their bedroom,
finding that it was possible to endure anything for the sake of one's
objective, Eduardo's objective. I am playacting, she told herself, an idea
which sustained her. Claude's sexual appetite seemed insatiable, and she
endured it with a strange sense of pride. His deprivation had been total, and
he had not, out of spite, she was certain, allowed himself the relief of
another woman. That would be typical of Claude to deliberately savor his
suffering, to increase his self-immolation. If only he could know of her
noninvolvement. Someday she would tell him. How deliciously castrating it would
be.

"I feel like I've been raped by an army of
barbarians," she told Eduardo a few days later when they were together
again in his apartment. He put a finger on her lips.

"You mustn't talk about it," he said.

"Not talk about it," she protested, feeling anger
even as she caressed him. "It is loathsome. I can barely live through it.
I feel violated."

"He is your husband."

She looked up at him. "He is nothing to me."

"Then perhaps we had better forget about it." He
was pouting now, and she contained her rage.

"You're not jealous?"

"If it is too much to endure.... "His voice
trailed off. But the implied threat struck home.

"If the roles were reversed, I would kill you for
it."

"Kill?"

A shadow passed over her face, triggering her own fear.
"I could not bear the thought of you with another woman."

"Another woman?" He seemed surprised. Was she
being too intense? Was she going too far?

"I am jealous of every moment you spend without
me." The new idea appeared to break the tension. "I will endure it
only until I have done what you have asked," she said quickly.

His face brightened. He put out his hand, smiling. She took
it, squeezed it, like two people sealing a business deal.

"Agreed," he said. She felt her anger subside.
But somehow the deal seemed incomplete.

"And after?" she asked quietly.

"After what?"

"After I have done it."

She watched him, frightened again. He was, she knew, trying
to formulate an answer, but she dared not hear it.

"Please, Eduardo. I am sorry. It's not necessary to
answer that." He seemed relieved. "I cannot bear being away from
you."

But the idea of their future together would not go away.
The more she endured Claude, the more it plagued her. I can't live like this,
she told herself. Yet, she took solace from a new thought. If she proved
herself, if she showed Eduardo how clever she was, how cunning, he would
overcome his own caution. He is afraid for me, she decided. But when he sees
how efficient I am, how fearless, he will not resist our being together always.
Let Claude take the children. Nothing mattered now. Only Eduardo.

It did not take her long to persuade Claude to work at
securing an invitation from the Chileans. They had begun to do the party circuit
again and she had sought out the Chilean ambassador at these events,
ingratiating herself with coquetry and what he must have observed as a
surprising knowledge of his country.

"It is my great ambition to visit your country,"
she told him.

"You will fit in nicely," he said. He was a tall
man, barrel-chested, with well cut clothes and an obvious interest in women.
When she discovered this, she became boldly flirtatious. "The women of
Chile are the most beautiful in the world."

"It is the men that make them so." What a perfect
retort she had contrived, she thought.

He seemed to puff himself up like a proud bird, and she
pressed her advantage. She suddenly yearned for Eduardo to stand beside her
invisibly and see her in action.

"We used to believe it was the climate," he said.

"There is a lot more to the environment than the
weather."

He caught her drift, obviously a man experienced in such
byplay. She was amused by his naïveté. Can't he tell I am
playing with him?

"Only a country where men appreciate women can gain
such a reputation," she pressed. "And, of course, the women must feel
the truth of it to allow it to perpetuate."

"I will accept that for our hemisphere." He
winked and bent over, whispering in her ear, "If you'll allow that the women
of France reign in your hemisphere."

"We do have a reputation of sorts."

"So I have heard. Is it deserved?"

"I hope so." She hesitated and looked into his
eyes. "At least, I do my part." She could see a slight flush begin
near his jowls, and she marveled at her own forwardness. This will be easier
than I imagined, she decided.

But when the Chilean invitation came a week later, the
victory was merely pyrrhic. Eduardo had not called and she was helpless with
anxiety, almost to the point of revealing the full force of her irritability to
Claude, who seemed to be watching her microscopically for any sign of relapse.
His attentions were stultifying, smothering. On the morning that the invitation
arrived, she dashed out of the house after the children had gone to school and
drove the car to the parking lot of Eduardo's apartment building.

She waited for three hours, watching the entrance, feeling
foolish and conspicuous. Suppose he has been killed? Or kidnapped? He had
described his danger and had warned her to stay away from him except when he
told her to come. She sat there in the car, sick with worry. Then, unable to
endure the anxiety, she got out and walked quickly to the apartment house,
averting her eyes from the desk man and rushing toward the elevator bank. A
couple came in behind her in the elevator and she rode to the top of the
building before coming down again to his floor.

In front of his apartment she knocked quietly, pressing her
ear to the door. There were no sounds from within. She knocked again. Still no
stirring within. Then she rang the buzzer and still no answer came. A woman
passed through the corridor. When she was out of sight, she dipped into her
pocketbook and, finding a blank envelope, scribbled a note on it, slipping it
under the door. "I have news," she had written, wanting to say more.

It was not until she returned home that the full impact of
the panic seized her. How can I stand this, she asked herself, pacing the
floor. Where is Eduardo? That evening they went to a reception at the State
Department honoring those who had given gifts to the Adams room on the top
floor. She was listless and withdrawn, barely spoke to people, hoping that she
looked attentive despite her indifference.