The Casanova Embrace (6 page)

"How sweet, my darling," she said softly.

"Are you better?" he asked, perching himself
carefully on the foot of the bed as she sipped her soup.

"Better, yes," she said between sips. "That
incident with the vase unnerved me, I suppose. I am calmer now."

"You must not get so upset. It was only a vase. A
material thing."

"An old possession is not to be taken lightly,"
she said, pointing the spoon at him. "Considering that one day you will be
the head of this family, we will all look to you to protect our
possessions." Like his father, she was obsessed with the idea of family
responsibility. The family, the blood, ownership ... that was her principal
obsession. The idea of it had been drummed into him very early.

"I understand that, Mama," he said. He waited for
her mood to change. "It wasn't really her fault," he said finally,
his throat constricting despite his strong attempt to appear nonchalant. He
knew he was testing the waters.

"Not her fault?" Her spoon, poised in mid-air,
dropped back into the soup. He had badly miscalculated. "Eduardo, you do
not know about servants. Don't be fooled by their apparent humility. They would
cut our throats if they could get away with it. Nothing is ever done by
accident. It is all deliberate. In my father's time, they would be
whipped."

He had heard that all before, but for the first time the
imagery was clear. He shivered, thinking of the small, helpless Isabella
kneeling in the soil. Behind his eyelids, he could feel the well of tears
begin.

"We must never forget who we are," said his
mother. "And we must never forget who they are."

He stayed for a while longer, then left, kissing his mother
on both cheeks. He had bungled it. He had failed her. He cursed his stupidity
and lack of courage. He should have demanded mercy for her. He was, after all,
a man.

Those among the servants who had chosen to protect Isabella
kept her out of the house and handled the flower arrangements for her. It was
not uncommon for them to wait out their mistress' wrath. Keeping her out of
sight might save her, although it was doubtful. Mrs. Palmero had the memory of
an elephant, and she was brutally vindictive and unmerciful. Meanwhile, Eduardo
visited her in the garden, reassuring his commitment.

"As soon as I am noticed, she will send me away."

"Not as long as I am here," he bragged.

"You are still only a boy," she mocked gently.

"I am a man."

His father's return was always an event in the household.
They had been told he was away on business. Since he was Chile's foremost authority on marine law, and much in demand, it was a logical story. Much
primping and polishing would ensue and his handsome father's appearance at the
end of the long polished table was always celebrated. However, it was not long
before the tension between his mother and father would begin to emerge beneath
the surface of their public attitude.

"Rio is glowing," his father said, describing the
city from which he had just returned. "At night the skyline looks like a
mass of fireflies."

"Fireflies are not the only insects that come out at
night," his mother would snap and the girls would lower their eyes in
embarrassment. His father's eyes would smolder and he would pat his lips
nervously with his napkin.

After a few days of accelerating domestic warfare, Eduardo
knew that his father was contemplating another trip. His lips had grown tighter
than when he had arrived and the pinched look under his eyes was more
noticeable.

But while he consciously measured his mother's and father's
temper, he spent most of his time with Isabella, either sitting near the remote
flower beds that edged their property or accompanying her on trips to gather
the wild autumn flowers that crept up the foothills of the massive Cordillera.
In the distance, the craggy frost-tipped peaks watched over them like sentries.

She was a simple girl from a small village in the remote
upper reaches of the Cordillera. She could not read or write, but she was
intelligent and quite beautiful with her long silken hair and dark eyes that
peered up at him from under heavy curling lashes. She insisted on calling him
"Señor Palmero."

"I am Eduardo," he would say proudly, holding
both her hands as they paused in their walk, looking into her eyes.

"I cannot call you that," she said shyly, her
head bowed.

"But that is my name."

"I am Isabella, but you are Señor
Palmero."

"I am Eduardo." He brought his face closer to
hers. Their noses were almost touching. "Eduardo!" he shouted.
"My name is Eduardo!" When she did not respond, he shook his head and
smiled. But he could not keep his eyes off her, watching her effortless walk as
she moved swiftly up the slope trails.

He was, he knew, unable to relate the romantic notions
abstracted from his books and the crude talk and actions of his schoolmates.
His physical reaction was not unlike theirs, but his thoughts seemed quite
different. There was another element, too, to his relationship with Isabella.

"...and you must stay away from the servants,"
his mother had warned, concentrating her most formidable admonishment on him
after one of her numerous lectures to her daughters. She had drawn him aside.
Vaguely, he could remember an incident preceding her warning. A servant girl
had been dismissed for pregnancy.

"They are filthy and diseased. They will make your
parts rot."

He had only been ten at the time and it was a long time
before he would know what "parts" meant. At the time, he thought it
might be his eyes.

"Do you get it by touching?" he had asked
innocently. His mother had contained a smile for a moment, then burst out
laughing.

"Not by touching," she said, between
side-splitting howls, further confusing him.

So there was some element of danger in consorting with this
girl, he knew, although he was still not completely certain how one crossed the
Rubicon to this physical hell. He knew by now what "parts" meant.
Isabella, too, sensed the fear in him and the danger to herself.

"You should not be with me," she would say, when
sounds of others could be heard on the trails, and they would hide in the
brush, their heads close, their hearts pounding, as the footsteps would come
toward them and fade again. Once he had kissed her hair and an elbow had brushed
her breast, an action from which she recoiled in fear.

"No!" she had hissed, like a cornered cat.

"I meant no harm."

She began to cry lightly. He wondered what had upset her.

"They will surely send me away," she whispered
between sniffles.

"Never!" he vowed, enjoying his sense of bravado
with its implication of manly protection. Tentatively, his arm reached out for
her shoulders and she let him briefly caress her. Then, standing up, she led
him back to the trail. But the touching had profound effects on him.

"Will you be my girl?" he asked as they paused
again on the trail. She put a finger on his lips.

"They will send you away as well."

"Me?" he chuckled. He turned and looked back at
the house and the Pacific sparkling in the distance. "I am the firstborn,"
he said with imperial seriousness, as if the idea had been intoned by his
parents. He beat his breasts like Tarzan and shouted across the expanse,
"I will be the master here."

"You are frightening me, Señor
Palmero."

He turned toward her.

"I am Eduardo," he said. He reached for her.
Whatever resolve she might have had vanished. He gathered her close to him,
feeling the mounds of her breasts against his chest. "And you are
Eduardo's girl." She nestled closer for a long moment. He felt the
hardness begin. She must have felt it as well. Then she broke away and ran
swiftly down the trail. He could not catch her and both of them slowed as they
drew closer to the house. Even then, he knew why. The act of chasing a servant
girl was, after all, inappropriate to the firstborn.

But that did not stop him from thinking about her and
wanting to fulfill his commitment to protect her. He determined to enlist the
help of his father to prevent her dismissal. Indeed, it was his father who
selected the opportunity one night at dinner.

"I do not see the Ming," his father said, as his
eyes searched the sideboard where it had stood for years. Eduardo felt his
heart stop.

"Oh, so you noticed," his mother said. "One
of our clods of a servant dropped it and it broke into a million pieces. Now
you see what I must go through in your absence?" She began to work herself
up. It was an accident, Eduardo wanted to scream, but he held his peace.
"If I ever see that little snip, I will kill her!" his mother cried.

"Well, it was quite expensive," his father
mumbled, as if the outburst required a reply to assuage it.

"Expensive? It was priceless!" she said
maliciously, as if his father's observation had merely been perfunctory.
"I simply will not put up with such conduct."

His father lowered his head and shrugged, his mother's
venom continuing to spew in an endless cacophony, actually the litany of her
own frustration in which Isabella was only a handy, vulnerable and dispensable
conduit.

Later his father retired to his heavily ornate study.
Finding his courage, Eduardo followed him. The study was his father's sanctuary
with its endless rows of law books and high windows which, when opened, as they
were now, brought in the sounds and smells of the Pacific Ocean.

"Father?" It was, he knew, the voice of the
supplicant. When he entered the study, which was sacrosanct, it meant that
important things were afoot.

"Eduardo?" His father looked up over his glasses.
He had been slumped over his desk scratching at a pad, an opened law book at
his elbow.

Noting his son's seriousness, the father removed his
glasses and leaned back in the heavy leather chair. Eduardo, following the
direction of his father's extended palm, sat on the straight-backed chair
beside the huge carved desk. In that position, his father looked kingly, a god,
with the power to grant mercy. He must, Eduardo decided, make a clever
presentation.

"I must talk to you about the Ming," Eduardo
said, his voice cracking, as it was doing frequently these days.

"The Ming?" The father nodded, remembering.
Eduardo noted how quickly he had put the subject out of his mind.

"It is a matter of simple justice," Eduardo said,
knowing that such a thesis would draw his father's attention.

"I saw it happen. It was purely an accident,"
Eduardo said, the words coming too fast. He urged himself to slow down, but he
could not control the flow. "The serving maid had dropped this dish and
the crash frightened the girl who turned and a stem caught on her sleeve and
the Ming fell to the floor and broke."

His father's eyes narrowed over thick eyebrows, a sign of
his concentration. He has been engaged, Eduardo thought happily. Indifference
had been his principal fear.

"And Mother attacked the person." He was
studiously avoiding the use of her name, attempting to simulate his own
distance as an observer only. "It was wrong. Unjust." He emphasized
the word, letting it sink into the salt-tinged air. "It is our
responsibility to deal with the matter justly," he concluded, mimicking
his father.

His father smiled, perhaps proud that his son had absorbed
the lesson.

"Has she been dismissed?"

"No," Eduardo said, hastening an explanation.
"She has stayed out of sight and the housekeeper has not yet acted. But
there is no doubt that Mama will erupt when she sees her again. Mama does not
forget."

"And have you discussed this with your mother?"
Eduardo could sense the lawyer's mind turning over.

"How could I?" he answered helplessly. Then
quickly: "It is a matter of justice. There is genuine fear in this house.
I am sure all of the servants are troubled and the poor girl must be living in
hell."

His father pondered the young face before him. Eduardo was
conscious of the clear eyes caressing him. He loves me, he told himself. Not
that the matter had ever been in doubt. And I love him. He wanted to tell his
father the truth, but held back.

"I am asking you to give this woman justice,
Father," Eduardo said, warming to the request. "To do what is
right." He knew that, despite the growing animosity with his mother, his
father's word was law in the house. No servant would dare go against his
orders, regardless of what his mother might do.

"I believe you should speak to her," Eduardo
pressed, hoping that his father, seeing Isabella, would observe her
helplessness, understand her vulnerability. And, more important, it would prove
to Isabella that Eduardo had kept his word, that he had protected her.

His father stirred, stood up and pulled the bellrope to
summon a servant, who arrived quickly.

"What is this person's name?" he asked.

"I am not sure." He wondered if his hesitation
had been duly noted. "Isabella, I think." His father turned to the
servant.

"Send Isabella here." The servant looked at
Eduardo briefly, a stab of fear in his eyes, then hurried away.

When he had gone, his father embraced him. He was still a
head taller than Eduardo. He pressed him close, kissing him on the cheek.

"I am pleased with you, Eduardo," he said,
patting his back. "You have the sensitivity to understand. We are all
God's creatures and He laid down the rules for our meting out justice. I
understand."

He wanted to kiss his father's hands but hesitated since he
had often seen the servants do that. Instead, he settled for an abrazo and left
the room quickly, heading out to the long patio that adjoined the study's high
windows, settling himself in the shadows, braced in a corner against the chilly
breeze floating in from the ocean.