The Casanova Embrace (28 page)

"You speak Spanish?" Eduardo asked. He did not
use the same tone of deference he had used with the padre.

"Why?" the old man asked in Spanish. His teeth
were rotted and his lips snarled as he spoke.

"I--" Eduardo hesitated, feeling the girl's
father's eyes searching him. Is he reading my mind? Eduardo wondered. There
seemed an edge of cruelty about the man's fierceness. "I am interested in
telling the story of your village," Eduardo said. The words seemed hollow.
He looked briefly at the girl, who turned her eyes to the ground. He tore his
gaze away.

"What story?" the man said. He picked up a tin
can from the hard ground and drank from it. It seemed a kind of beer, a
greenish liquid that dripped from both sides of his chin. He did not bother to
wipe it away, letting the droplets linger until they fell to his chest

"The Araucanians," Eduardo said stupidly. The man
drank again. Eduardo felt Uno's eyes watching him.

The man's eyes narrowed. He emptied the can and threw it at
one of the dogs. He was obviously drunk. The barefoot children had vanished
into the air, along with the scrawny dogs. Eduardo took his camera out of its
case and pointed it at the man, who put both his hands in front of his face. He
had imagined that the man was ignorant of cameras. An old fox, he thought. The
padre is right.

"I have money."

Eduardo felt his shame, looking briefly at the girl, who
again turned her eyes to the ground. He fanned the bills in his hands.

At the sight of the cash, the man's eyes opened wide.
"A story, you said," the man mumbled. It was obvious that he did not
comprehend.

"For a newspaper."

The man looked at him blankly, but held out his hand.
Eduardo gave him two bills. The girl's father looked at them closely, folded
them, and put them in the band of his pants. Then Eduardo lifted the camera and
began taking pictures of the hut, the rusting debris. Turning, he captured the
girl in his lens again.

"You want to fuck my daughter," the man said, his
face a blank. He looked at the girl and spat into the ground.

"You filthy bastard," Eduardo said. He was not
sure the man had understood. His features registered no reaction.

"She has had no man."

"No thanks to you." He was still not sure that
the man understood him. He had put the money back into his pocket and began to
move toward the girl. Her father stood up and followed him. Standing over the
girl, he lifted her to her feet. Her face, like her father's, was mute. Or he
did not know how to read their signs?

"The padre keeps the men away," the man said.
"I am her father. I can give her to you." He spoke to the girl in the
strange language. The girl merely lowered her eyes. He could not determine what
he loathed more, his own temptation, or the man's callousness.

"I will tell the padre," Eduardo said. The man
ignored him. He moved the girl in front of him and squeezed her breasts.

"Good," he said.

Eduardo grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him
away. But the man kept his balance and snarled at Eduardo.

"She is only a woman."

"And you are an animal."

"But I can see that you want her." He had lowered
his voice. His eyes blazed like coals. "And you have money."

Eduardo wavered. He looked at the girl, felt his own
desire, and his own compelling need to understand what was driving him. Yet, he
could tell himself that she was in need of protection from this vapid life on
which she was impaled. There are good instincts in that, he assured himself.
Who is the greater monster, he wondered, watching the man who eyed him now.

Eduardo thrust his hand in his pocket and threw all the
bills on the ground, scattering them. The man groped for them like a bird
pecking at a handful of scattered feed. Eduardo watched him with contempt,
waiting until he had gathered all of the bills in his hand.

"Tell her," he commanded, his voice harsh.

The man looked at his daughter and spoke to her. She looked
at Eduardo, but her face told him nothing.

"I will be good to you," he said gently, knowing
that she could only understand his tone, not his words. Despite his disgust
with himself, he felt special joy in the knowledge that he could possess her.

"And that." The man pointed to the camera, which
Eduardo unhitched from his shoulder and gave to him.

"You bastard," he said again, unable to look at
his face, moving away, but first making sure that Uno was following. He heard
her soft padding walk behind him as he followed the path in the direction of
the mission. At the edge of its wall he retraced his steps down the burro path
he had ascended earlier. Balancing himself on the jutting rocks that lay on the
trail, he turned back occasionally to observe her following him. She was
watching him now, he knew, and her eyes no longer looked downward when he
looked directly at her.

In two hours, they reached his car, parked along the dirt
road that led to the main highway, ten miles to the west. She sat beside him in
the front seat, watching the roadway. He was certain she had not been in a car
before.

It was, he knew, the most bizarre act of his life. It
offended every moral bone in his body. In many ways, it was an offense against
himself.

"I will not hurt you," he said. She showed no
emotion, her eyes steadily watching the roadway as night fell slowly over the
Cordillera where she had spent the whole of her previous life.

"I will be good to you," he pleaded, not looking
at her. "I need someone to love." It seemed a cry from the depths of
himself and, for a moment, he felt the power of his confession. He was certain
that she did not comprehend.

The car slowed in traffic along the two-lane highway as
they moved closer down the coast to Valdivia and he did not arrive at his house
until nearly dawn. She had dozed fitfully, but in an erect position, and was
instantly alert when the car had stopped.

"This is my home," he told her. "Your
home."

He had not touched her up till then. Now he took her hand,
surprised at its smallness, and led her into the house. She showed no fear, her
face reflecting the same even expression, as if she lived behind a veil that
screened out emotion.

He felt stiff and exhausted, his energy sapped. Because he
was not sure of her and was genuinely frightened that she might run away, he
brought her to his own bedroom. He could not bear to let her sleep on the
couch, like some dog. He pointed to the bed and she walked toward it. Then she
dropped to the floor and stretched out at its foot.

"No, not there," he cried, bending over and
lifting her onto the bed. She lay there, flat, her arms folded like a corpse.
He smiled down at her gently, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Then he
locked her in and stretched out on the couch. Luckily he was exhausted, his
mind drained of intelligence. Plunging into a vacuum, he felt his body slip
into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke he felt the panic of strangeness and it took
him a few moments to regain his sense of place. Remembering Uno, he felt the
pores of his body open. What had he done? He felt the enormity of the crime
against himself, against her. He had bought her as if she were a commodity to
be traded or bartered against her will. Was it his own selfishness? The need to
replicate Miranda? Or was he subconsciously delivering her from the life of
drudgery and despair, the futile charade before she would enter the kingdom of
heaven. If that was the truth of his motivations, he could live with that.

And, after all, he had not touched the girl, not invaded
either her body or her soul. It was a cleansing thought. Enough to provide the
courage to open the door of his bedroom.

She was still there on the bed where he had left her,
looking darker against the sheets than he remembered her yesterday. Her eyes
were open and, as before, expressionless.

"Good morning, Uno," he said pleasantly. At the
sound of his voice, she got off the bed and stood before him, a small,
perfectly proportioned doll. He observed her closely, seeking to discover what
in her had reminded him of Miranda.

"Come here," he said gently, moving his hands in
pantomime. She drew closer to him, barely inches away, and he could smell her
odor, like that of an animal. Then it occurred to him that she had not relieved
herself. He took her arm and guided her toward the bathroom, realizing that she
had never seen a plumbing appliance. Even the priest had used the outdoors, as
the animals did. Taking her arm, he led her gently to his overgrown garden, a
miniature forest. She understood and squatted behind a bush, and discreetly he
turned his eyes away.

It was Sunday and, for the first time, his consciousness
absorbed the sounds of the bells clanging around the city. She heard them, too,
hesitating as she came toward him again, her ear cocked in attention.

"They are calling the slaves for their shot of
subjugation," he said. Guiding her to a chair at the kitchen table, he
searched the cupboards for food. He found bread, cheese and fruit and made some
tea. She did not begin to eat until he sat down at the table. He watched her
and she reminded him of a squirrel, nibbling away with her front teeth, looking
blankly ahead of her.

"Later, I will take you back to the village," he
said. "I can't imagine what possessed me." He drank his tea and
watched her.

"If only you could be Miranda," he said, the idea
inflating him. "My little dark, ebony Miranda." He paused. "Why
is it such a complexity?" He reached out and patted her head. She
continued to eat. "I shall tell you all about my private hell. Then I will
take you back to the village, where you will live yours."

When she had finished everything on her plate, she looked
down, contemplating its emptiness. The smell of her filled the room, running
out of her pores, a gaseous presence. Leaving her there at the table, he got
up, went to the bathroom, and filled the ancient tub with warm water. At least,
I will send her back clean, he thought, but the idea of her small naked body in
the tub had begun to move his sensuality. He felt his penis begin to harden.

When the tub was filled, he brought the girl to the
bathroom and undressed her. At the sight of her perfectly formed body, his
penis rose to fullness. Her breasts were small, but high, the nipples
protruding from large, dark puddles. He felt them, kissed them, watched them
harden. He deliberately averted his eyes from her face, wondering if she felt
anything.

"Are you frightened?" he asked. She had worn
nothing under her gray smock, and although the scent of her disgusted him, it
also excited him. She had a tiny thatch of hair at the base of her motte and he
could not resist kissing that as well. Lifting her, he put her in the tub and,
soaping his hands, moved them over her body until her skin slickened. His
fingers gently probed and cleaned every part of her body. He could not
understand his passion to suddenly cleanse her. Perhaps it was his own heart,
his mind, or his soul that he wanted to cleanse. What am I trying to wash away?
he wondered. The girl was docile under his touch. He wondered again what she felt.

"What do you feel?" he asked, remembering
Miranda. Was it this lack of response that reminded him of Miranda? He washed
her hair, soaped her again, titillated the tight, small crevice between her
legs, massaged her nipples until they stood.

"So there is something inside," he thought
joyously, lifting her from the tub. She was light, hardly an effort, and he
wrapped her in a towel and patted her, watching her eyes now. They looked at
him blankly.

"You are my little doll," he said, drawing him to
her, enveloping her in his arms, wondering if she had ever received such love,
such warmth.

"You must feel that I love you," he said, hating
his ridiculousness. "Will you be Miranda?" he asked, as a supplicant.

Carrying her to the bed, he unwrapped the towel and put her
on it. The old smell of her was still on the sheets and soon her body was
immersed in it again. Undressing, he stood before the edge of the bed. Her eyes
watched his erect penis.

"So here is something," he said, sensing the
madness of it. He looked about the room. Was someone watching? He walked to the
window and pulled the blinds. The light in the room was muted.

Standing beside her again, he lifted a fragile hand and put
it on his penis, making it stroke him.

"This is my manhood," he said. "It has a
life of its own, mindless ... like you." He wondered if she was really
mindless.

Then he disengaged her hand and spread her legs, putting
his tongue in the little crevice. He could not distinguish whether she was wet
from him or herself.

"Does it move you?" he asked suddenly, watching
her.

"Would you feel anything if I cut your heart
out?" he said. He squeezed one of her erected nipples. Her expression did
not change.

"You don't feel pain either?" he asked.

He lifted her to a sitting position and put his hard penis
between her breasts, pressing them around it. He moved her arms around him so
that her hands held his buttocks, and leaned her head against his belly,
caressing her hair.

"Do you love me, Miranda?" he asked the silent
room. He could feel the coolness of her breath against his skin.

"You must love me forever," he said. "I
insist on that. You must not let me love alone." Then he made her lie flat
on the bed, as he kneeled over her, directing his swollen penis against the
tiny pink gash.

"Surely you have seen this before," he said
suddenly, oddly clinical, absorbed in the process. "Sooner or later it all
comes to this," he said, feeling a sob gather in his throat. He moved
forward, feeling her small opening part, wondering why she did not cry out.

"You must love me," he cried, feeling a sob
gather deep inside him. "Miranda," he cried, moving forward, the
weight of his body plunging the hard penis forward, slowly penetrating, feeling
the pain of it.