Hugh-S told me later that the posse he sent out soon after the colonel was back with my files denied the Iranians their new toys. As per the plan hatched in the elegant summer homes north of Toronto, the containers with the missiles were transported by ship into the Black Sea and unloaded in the Georgian port of Batumi. From there they made their way by truck through Turkey into Iran. But when they were opened on an army base near Qazvin not far from Tehran, out spilled not a cargo of Exocet missiles, but thousands of cheap, Romanian rubber boots. “Arranged a substitution,” grinned Hugh-S through the phone. “Cute, right? Oh, Cahsun, thanks again. Damn fine file you done up.”
I settled in a corner of the cold cabin and thrust my hands inside my jacket to warm them underneath my upper arms. I thought back to another day, to what Rachel said when we paused here. I also thought of what she had kept to herself. I had no right to know about her lovers in Vienna, but I had wanted her to confide in me about them all the same. And now, sunk away, I wondered why. Why did I crave the details? And why did I want them from her? So as to be drawn by a few precious minutes of story-telling into her world and sense she enjoyed sharing its richness with me? But that day not a hint, not the faintest indication of her affairs had passed her lips. I wondered, when we sat so amiably on the bench outside, had Rachel described her men to me, how she would have presented them. As mere life intrusions, mildly interesting at first, but causing ennui soon enough? Or were they opportunities for exploration, both of herself and them? Or was their purpose memory creation, to allow an ardent late-in-life reliving? Or maybe it was simpler. Maybe in an uncomplicated way she just liked her men. Maybe they allowed her to give expression to her body, as her work gave expression to her mind. I wanted to know the colouring, the composition, the splendid artistry with which Rachel painted the canvasses of these affairs. I wanted to hear the words that started them, the acts that sustained them, the mood shifts that ended them. My urge was a collector’s. I ached to own rare treasures and, were I to possess them, to hoard them, to lock them away deep inside my brain. I rationalized it too. I convinced myself I wanted her to share all this because, really, I just wanted to understand.
Slumping forward, my breath expanding before me in white wisps, as if on cue the dreaded inner whispering set in. It never failed. When Rachel’s Vienna days swept over me, my conscience turned black. And when an inner voice muttered that in contemplating scenes of Rachel entwined with her lovers I demeaned myself – Voyeur, it whispered – I moaned with pain. Yet, I was a captive to the Vienna episodes. They played through my mind like newsreel images – old, blurry, shaky, yet terrifyingly real. Once in motion they couldn’t be shut off. I created them, I watched them, I was addicted to them, and they made me feel unclean.
Perhaps because Rachel had once sat here with me so pleasantly, I began wrestling especially hard with feelings of wrong. The wind beating at the cabin windows made it worse. It sounded like a drum roll and all around a vortex began spiralling. It narrowed my field of vision; it dragged me down. And as things went dark three apparitions, one after the other, formed…
Eduardo de Castro Santiago. A Brazilian diplomat. Dark good looks. The manners of an aristocrat. Rachel’s age. Her first Viennese lover.
They meet at a diplomatic function. Rachel spins her charm, uses her quick eyes and sharp intelligence to create an aura. Around me life is enticing! At once he’s captivated. An exhilarating psychological dance begins. Spoken words are mere cover for two pairs of eyes to pierce. With Latin pride he talks about Brazil and then himself. Rachel, steadily inquisitive, blowing warm air into his expanding self-esteem, mesmerizes Eduardo. The reception conversation ends as it began, with Eduardo’s slight formal bow. The next day he does the normal thing. He calls…
This is Eduardo. Please excuse me. I hope I am not interrupting.
Eduardo! No. Not at all. How are you?
I am well, thank you. Well, I wanted to call to say I enjoyed our conversation last night.
I did too.
One does one’s duty attending the social functions, but, I must say, I am glad now I performed mine yesterday.
Duty? I don’t mind receptions. There are always interesting people to meet.
Ah…thank you…and for me also…you are a most interesting person. I would like to continue our conversation if you agree. I would be honoured if you lunched with me. Would that be possible? This week, or perhaps next?
Why not? A lovely idea. Thursday is open. Or next week, any day.
Thursday would be fine for me too. Do you know a restaurant on the Schottengasse called Kupferdachl?
I’ll have no problem finding it.
Excellent. At 1:00 pm?
Yes…
I knew they quickly became lovers because three weeks later they went to Rome for an extended weekend. (They stayed in a small hotel near the Spanish Steps; he bought Rachel a gift, a fine silk scarf; and, judging from Eduardo’s credit card record, they dined excellently well.) When I acquired this information, I recall, I dearly hoped one day Rachel would describe to me the first moments she had with Eduardo. Of course, it was easy to think Rachel was swept off her feet by the smooth, well-bred Señor de Castro Santiago. But I doubted that’s how it was. I knew how she radiated charisma, how she used her vitality to enchant and disarm, and so I believed Rachel, not Eduardo, created the atmosphere. She determined the pace of the affair. After all, it was no different after him, with Pekka Svedlund, an athletic Finn. And then Iain Bruce came along, a Scot, a somewhat older man (and who for that reason brought a touching solicitousness to the relationship, combining sex with fatherly concern). I was sure Rachel, being in charge, kept much of herself in reserve. Alone with the man she liked, she would have played her role with directness and ease, for she possessed the gift of leading by not quite leading. But whenever the lovers looked for more, for another Rachel, for the woman behind the smile, behind the barrage of expressed interest and the other forms of sorcery she practised that caused them to bare their psyches, they found themselves staring into a void. She gave them nothing to take hold of. And when they ventured the final step, when they said they wanted to transit that void to arrive at her deeper self, Rachel refused them that longer journey. It was also a sign that the relationship would soon end.
And here, I admit, I was at a loss. I could not fathom how her affairs stopped as suddenly, as sublimely, with as much grace and dignity, as they began. How did Rachel manage so effortlessly to take back all she gave? I hoped one day to ask.
But that was about endings. As for beginnings, with Eduardo in his apartment, seduction was in the air…
Rachel, in a long tight skirt, rolling cognac in a glass with absentminded slowness, stands before some shelves, studying books. The Thursday lunch was a success. Thirty hours have passed. Anticipation has built. Calmly, in a precise, reassuring voice, the one he uses at the embassy when addressing groups visiting from Brazil, Eduardo talks about his books. Yet, each word adds to the self-inflicted torment. He sees how every few minutes Rachel leans her head back a little, turning it to look at him before lazily shifting her gaze back to the books. When Eduardo comes to a few volumes written by his grandfather, a lawyer who became a judge and in retirement wrote contemporary histories, he innocently moves an arm around Rachel and lays his hand on her hip. The movement is as natural as if he were placing it on a friend’s shoulder. Rachel now puts her hand on his, Eduardo’s monologue on the books continuing. At last he can no longer stand it; his voice cracks. Rachel places her glass in an empty spot on the shelf, takes Eduardo’s and gets it out of the way as well.
Rachel, is it happening?
It is.
Rachel lifts her arms to take hold of the back of Eduardo’s head. He pulls her to him by the hips. A long kiss. Many long kisses. Rachel undoes a button on Eduardo’s shirt. He soon slips her pullover over her head and unhooks her bra. The rest of the undressing is done in parallel, taking no time at all. Hands run freely up and down backs, up and
down, again and again, massaging buttocks, touching breasts. Voices murmur.
I am so happy, Rachel.
I want to feel you.
Such bliss. You are truly beautiful.
Touch me.
Let’s go to my bed
Do you have a condom?
Oh yes. I did think of it. I did think…I did hope it would be like this.
In the following weeks, Rachel’s work prevents Eduardo seeing her as often as he wants. But the trip to Rome is a success. On following weekends, they visit Eduardo’s family connections, in Viennese mansions, or country villas surrounded by vineyards, on a yacht on the Danube, at a hunting estate in the Alps. Eduardo and Rachel. Each makes the other look yet more appealing. His circle, offspring of the super rich who live to exercise an ownership of beauty, accepts her, but only superficially. Yet, their heads turn when Eduardo leads Rachel from the room. They imagine two bodies slipping into bed; they imagine the coupling.
This is Eduardo’s world – intricately connected monied elites who stick to themselves behind walls of wealth – and Rachel studies it.
Eduardo likes fine dining, which is what they do on weekends when there are no invitations. And on Saturday afternoons in his apartment he instructs in Latin dance. They practise the moves for perhaps an hour before they samba their way to his bed. It’s like this for months. And then…
Rachel, I must tell you, I would like us to spend more time together.
More?
Yes. It is becoming awkward.
Haven’t we found a good balance?
No. I have to say, it is not right for me. I do not feel well with you not by me. We spend not even all the weekends together. I know you have to have your work. But we must decide on a different way. As things are, I believe our relationship is too artificial. We must find a solution.
Eduardo, I’m happy with how things are.
Two weeks later, Eduardo controlling his fury, Rachel staying reasonable, the affair ends. For several months Rachel dedicates herself to international negotiations, but change is in the air when at a large diplomatic dinner Rachel is seated at one end of a long table and a blond man with a taut frame and impassive face occupies a place far over on the other side. Afterwards, standing in the salon in a small group, balancing a demi-tasse, she is introduced to Pekka Svedlund. Pekka listens to the rapid-fire conversation surrounding Rachel. It isn’t long before he backs off and melts away.
Weeks later there’s a going-away party for a Swedish councillor. Rachel is invited. Pekka, also at the party, orbits aimlessly before joining a lively cluster that has Rachel at its centre. He nods her a reserved greeting, says little, listens to the talk and once more disappears into the crowd.
In the following weeks Rachel and Pekka sometimes spy one another in the hallways of the UN conference centre, usually heading in opposite directions, and nod distant hellos. At another large reception, he again seeks Rachel out, but the moment they begin talking, another chatty traveller of the diplomatic circuits breaks in, and once more Pekka slinks off. But now, during their hallway greetings, they stop to say hello. Sometimes they meet for a morning coffee before the committee work starts. Eventually Pekka asks Rachel if she would join him for a drink on Friday after work.
Friday, says Rachel, I’m free.
Pekka lives in a village a half hour’s drive outside Vienna. The house is nineteenth century with baroque decorative elements, but the interior is austere. Thinly padded chairs, square pine tables, abstract art in huge glass frames on the walls. In this atmosphere of simplicity Pekka pours two glasses of chilled aquavit, claiming that at this time of the week a stiff drink is essential. Only the sauna, he adds, is more effective as a tonic for the nonsense of international diplomacy.
Why do you say that? asks Rachel. She’s just had a great week: the UN committee was filled with drama and excitement, like being immersed in an exotic culture, though she adds that that’s not to say that saunas aren’t wonderful. Saunas are terrific…in their ownright.
Pekka breaks into a genuine, infectious grin.
Rachel hasn’t seen Pekka laugh before. Its lopsidedness hints at ancestors who laboured hard and enjoyed simple pleasures. She can’t help grinning in return. Pekka’s reserve dissolves. He extends his glass forward; Rachel lifts hers. He looks meaningfully into her eyes. She doesn’t flinch. They clink and drink.
I have a sauna downstairs.
I see. That makes forgetting the week very easy.
So you enjoy saunas. What do you enjoy about them?
Doing nothing. Thinking nothing. Relaxing. Afterwards, the exhilaration of feeling clean.
Would you like to join me for a sauna?
Now?
It’s a small sauna. It doesn’t take long to get to temperature.
How often do you invite people out of the blue into your sauna?
In Finland, with friends, it’s normal.
Rachel smiles to thank him for the offer of friendship and shrugs. Okay.
It really is a Finnish sauna. Rachel has never been in one that hot. Sitting side by side on a large towel, they let the heat work. Pekka has his legs crossed in a yoga pose and Rachel leans back. In his clipped Finnish accent he talks softly about sauna culture and fine saunas in Finland, about jumping into icy pools and rolling in fresh snow. Rachel says she’s never done that, rolled around in snow with nothing on, but agrees it could be worth a try. After seven or eight minutes, glistening from head to foot, they emerge, take a short cold shower, wrap themselves in bulging robes and recline on cots. After a period of rest there’s a second go. More dripping perspiration. Another cold shower. This time, recovering on the cots, Pekka offers to rub Rachel’s back with an abrasive glove – to promote circulation. Part of sauna culture, he says. Oh yes, Rachel replies, and slips off her robe. Beginning with the shoulders, he works her back, then the buttocks, thighs, calves and the soles of her feet. Feels good, she says, and turns from her front onto her back. Pekka now uses the glove’s soft side to stroke her breasts and belly. Your turn, Rachel says when he stops, sensing she has a part to play in sauna ceremony. She repeats what Pekka did, first his back, down and up, and then Pekka’s long male front, lightly touching the limp penis, as if dusting something fragile. They go into the cedar cabin for a very hot final few minutes, covering their bodies once more in a sheen, then washing if off with a last dose of chilled water. They rest for a long time in the thick robes, neither speaking, bodies tingling, both suspended in a kind of hallucinatory state, half dozing and dreaming, half thinking. Pekka breaks the trance and goes off to get some water which they drink directly from the bottle. They return upstairs to the den. Scandinavian classics begin playing. He sets out more mineral water, more chilled aquavit and little plates of smoked fish – salmon, herring, trout and anchovies – with dark bread and cheese. Eating and sipping, Pekka chatters like a schoolboy – about his work (on the international committees that safeguard nuclear materials), about the many months of leave he earns each year (he has an endless reserve) and what he does in his free time. He likes training for big marathons such as those in Boston and Berlin. Once a year he joins a climbing expedition in the Himalayas. In the summer he likes to replicate the Tour de France. And on long weekends he’ll travel to the Red Sea for scuba diving. Does Rachel do that kind of thing? Rachel states, on the one hand she would like to – all of it sounds exhilarating – but on the other, she doesn’t have the time.
You should get away. You have a naturally athletic body. Push it. It’s important. Physical exertion is good for the mind.
Your body is very lean. It’s obvious you’re active.
May I ask a question, Rachel? Why…why did you accept my invitation to come here?
Maybe you know. Maybe it’s the same why you asked me.
Which is?
To get to know me better.
That is true…but what do you see in me?
I see an angular man, strong features, light of foot, always dressed in a
casual suit with socks that clash.
Yes, that. But beneath the surface?
I’m not sure. Kindness maybe. A gentleness. My turn for a question. Tell me, downstairs, the glove, when you stroked me and I stroked you, you seemed detached. How do you manage that?
Being detached? I’m not sure. In the sauna I concentrate on what goes on inside my body. I try to feel each muscle. I listen to the beating of my heart.
The glove on your skin, it wasn’t sensuous for you?
It was.
It didn’t show.
I forced myself to think of other things.
Why?
I think, not to be embarrassed.
That’s will power.
And you? Did the glove affect you?
It aroused me. I’m still aroused. I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
Pekka empties his aquavit, stands up, takes Rachel’s hand and leads her from the den. In the bedroom he undoes the sash of her robe, then his. He slips it off her shoulders, takes her head in his hands and studies her face. When they lie down and embrace, Rachel feels the firmness of the mattress and Pekka’s hard body are in sync.
With Pekka, Rachel finds she’s on the go somewhere every weekend. They cycle along the Danube and hike in the Alps. She becomes a passenger on a hang-glider, drifting in lazy circles from high up down into a picture-perfect Alpine valley. She takes time off to learn to scuba-dive in the Red Sea. The weekends are too few and never long enough for all that Pekka plans.
In his den, having spent an afternoon on horseback and the sauna just finished, Pekka suggests a two-week trek in the Pyrenees starting in Andorra and walking west. To see how far we get.
Pekka, I can’t get away now. My vacation time is used up.
There must be ways to find time.
It’s a busy period now.
You let your work get in the way.
I have responsibilities.
Set by others. There is much we haven’t done, Rachel. I want to show you how to climb rock faces. We can row across the Adriatic. One day we’ll ski to the North Pole. Why do you laugh?
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