The Casanova Embrace

by Warren Adler

  "I'll call you," he said. She wondered about his sincerity. Others had said it in precisely the same way. She did not get up to let him out, but listened to his walk as he moved down the corridor.

  Because she had been so long with her indifference, she distrusted this renewed interest, even her strange wonderful new sensations. But when she found herself going through the motions of her day and nightly work serving tables in Clyde's Omelet Room, with thoughts of Eddie dominating her mind, she felt reassured. She had not slipped back into her mental and emotional grave.

  Even the other waitresses noticed some difference in her. One of them, a slim redhead named Marcia with whom she had developed a kind of "at work" relationship, expressed the collective insight.

  "You seem to be pretty perky, Frederika."

  Does it show, she wondered. Like her, Marcia had been through the various stages of the "greening" as they jokingly referred to it, the drugs, the politicalization, the easy exchange of flesh, the crash pads, the rock turn-on, the euphoria of protest and rebellion, now gone stale. There was nothing left to feel, they had decided, since they had felt everything. And since their indifference was shared, Marcia could be depended upon to notice subtle changes.

  "I'm not sure yet," Frederika told her.

  "What does that mean?"

  "I met a man."

  "Really." There seemed an element of sarcasm in her response.

  "But I'm not sure yet."

  Toward the end of the week, she was sure. She could not find his name in the telephone book and he hadn't told her where he lived or anything beyond his cause. When he had not called by then, she began to feel anxieties. Would she ever see him again? Perhaps he was merely an aberration, a strange illusive interlude. She was conscious of Marcia watching her all week.

  "Want to come over to my place for a drink after work?" she had asked repeatedly.

  "Can't."

  "That man still working."

  "Still working." It was the kind of feeling she wanted to keep to herself.

  By Friday evening, she had decided that maybe it was better to feel nothing. Certainly it was safer. But she did not give up, and when he finally appeared near closing time on Friday her hope was vindicated. She had not seen him come in and find a seat in the corner near the window, and the sudden shock of recognition made her knees shake and she had nearly dropped a plate of omelets.

  "Eddie." She moved to his table. "You came."

  "Of course." His eyes burned into her, telling her what she wanted to know. "I was getting worried." She had lowered her voice, as if in response to what she imagined was his furtiveness. Marcia was standing near the omelet bar watching her. She mustn't let on, she decided. She mustn't identify "the man." As if he were an ordinary customer, she handed him a menu.

  "I made better eggs at home," she whispered, pencil in hand.

  "I know," he said.

  "I'll bring you some wine."

  She went to the bar, ordered a goblet of wine, then returned.

  "Will that be all, sir?" she said raising her voice for Marcia to hear.

  "Yes."

  "Will you meet me later?" There were, after all, logistical arrangements to be decided.

  "Of course."

  "When I bring you your change, I'll give you my key."

  He smiled. Why was she being so conspiratorial, he wondered. But it obviously pleased him. It was the way he apparently wanted it to happen. I will let him keep my key, she decided. When she had carried out the secret operation and seen him palm the key in his hand, she drew a deep contented breath.

  "No more than a half hour," she said.

  "Was that him?" Marcia said when he had gone.

  "Who?" Had she been that transparent?

  "That dark man. The one in the corner."

  "Him?"

  "I guess not." Marcia shrugged, but Frederika had no illusions. She had sensed something.

  He answered her ring swiftly, and she observed with pleasure that he had lent another dimension to the space of her apartment, an aura, the lingering smoke of his cigarette which still smoldered in the tray, the odor of his presence. His coat lay on the cocktail table and he had removed his tie and laid it across the back of the couch. To her it seemed like he belonged there. Then she was in his arms, breathing in the essence of him, nuzzling his neck, holding his head between her hands, kissing his face, his eyes, his nose, his cheek. He moved her away with a strong tight gesture and looked at her.

  "You're very beautiful, you know," he said.

  "I feel that way."

  "And I wanted to come sooner."

  She had wanted to inquire further, but held back, feeling a growing understanding between them. In time, she thought, he will trust me.

  "Can I get you something?" she asked. But he was unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for her breasts.

  "I know what I want." She felt his eyes watching her, caressing her breasts, the nipples hardening. She was proud of her body now as she arched forward, enjoying his pleasure in her bosom, happy that it was large, full, well formed. She was aroused by his growing passion, reaching for him, then kneeling to squeeze his erection around her breasts, which he kneaded, and she felt the pulsating of his heartbeat against her own, drawing his buttocks toward her, feeling his warmth, his closeness.

  "I want you to want me," she said, looking up at him. Then she moved toward the couch, opened it, revealing her double bed, and they undressed fully, moved toward each other, filling the chill between the sheets with their warmth. She drew him inside of her now, felt her body billow like a sail to a fresh wind, as he moved slowly with a languor that told her he did not wish their lovemaking to end. Not ever, she told herself.

  "I wish I could say what you mean to me," she said, hoping that he, too, might be discovering this same wonder, the sense of rebirth. She marveled at the calm, unhurried progression of their mutual response, the relentless sputtering of the fuse on a stick of dynamite, then the explosion, powerful, absorbing; the pulsating stillness of heated tungsten, long burning and bright, the climax of a burst of light lingering hotly. It was strange to her, this sensation of joy non-ending and she whispered her gratitude at the power of him, the long hardness.

  They dozed and when she stirred again he was still in her, only soft now, sleeping. Gently, she disengaged, then held him in her arms until she grew drowsy. Again, in the darkness, they awakened, held each other, long, endlessly until the light filtered through the drawn blinds. When their passion ground down, the explosions ended, she propped pillows behind them and they half reclined while he smoked a cigarette. What she wanted now, most of all, was to know him. Details were vague, incomplete. Was he nontrusting? He had told her that he had a wife in Santiago and a son and that he had studied at the University of Santiago. He was born in Santiago, grew up there, in the shadow of the Cordillera. He had believed in Allende, had followed him, was appointed in his goverment, had been imprisoned and finally exiled. The story was fleshed out, of course, but the dominant detail was the passion for return, revenge.

  "Will they ever let you come back?" she asked. He seemed to be watching her during her questioning, although her eyes were deliberately closed, fearful, perhaps, that they would reveal the fierceness of the attachment growing inside her.

  "They? Never. Besides, they have eliminated me from the rolls of the citizenry. I am a man without a country." He hissed the words.

  "Will you become an American citizen?"

  "Of course not. I am a Chilean."

  "Then what will you do?"

  "I will come home again."

  She knew what he meant. He had lit another cigarette and in the quiet of the room she could hear the tobacco burning as he puffed, and the light changed as the glow reddened.

  "Is there a movement?"

  He was silent, puffed again, but this time she pressed, sensing that it was the right moment.

  "Is there a viable exile movement?" She sat up. "Eddie, I want a piece of your lif
e. Don't shut me out."

  "It is not as simple as it sounds."

  "I thrive on it." She told him then about her early life, the politics and the violence, and she told him about the fire bombing. The words came out in a rush as if they had been pressed against her brain for too long and needed this release. She knew now that she had been waiting for this moment to tell somebody.

  "You've given me life again, Eddie. I'm ready to be a soldier again."

  "Were you ever caught, ever questioned by the authorities?"

  "No."

  "They knew," he said. "They had their people infiltrated into every group. They were watching you all the time."

  "If they were, they would have pulled us in. We did damage. We violated laws. Even in that last gasp. The May Day thing. I was not arrested. I always managed to escape." She remembered then how much she hated the thought of being jailed, although she had enjoyed that one time with the others.

  "You were never fingerprinted?"

  "No." She had remembered how they had always been frightened of being fingerprinted.

  "And you are certain there were no informers?"

  "How could I ever be certain of that?"

  She was conscious now of a sudden irritation. Was she telling him everything? They had actually been making Molotov cocktails in the basement of that house in Haight and were taking instruction in preparing plastic explosives and learning how to construct crude timing devices. The instructor was called José but it was obviously not his real name. They did not use real names. Her name had been Bunny, because once, during that summer before she had entered Berkeley, she had lied about her age and worked as a Playboy bunny and someone had seen a picture of her in costume hanging in her room before she had taken it down out of shame. There had been that explosion that destroyed half the house, killing José, and someone had said they had combed the place for fingerprints. She wondered if she should tell him that?

  "They burrow in. They all work hand in glove on an international scale."

  "Who?"

  "Their intelligence. In Chile the butchers have the DINA. They were trained by the CIA and have full access to CIA files, computers, devices. They are now in the process of liquidating their old enemies all over the world. Our people. They are effective."

  She felt again the excitement of the old danger.

  "We were never afraid of them."

  "If they wanted to they could have snuffed you out like a candle."

  "We laughed at them."

  "You weren't a threat."

  He said it quietly, but he must have sensed that he was being cruel. "I don't mean that as an insult. There were restraints. In our case it is an international war. Soldiers fall every day."

  She felt now that he was reaching the outer limits of his warning and that he was about to break new ground. Her heart beat wildly and she reached out to caress him.

  "What can I do, Eddie?" she whispered.

  "I have no right to involve you."

  "You don't need a right. It's my commitment." To you, she wanted to say, but held off again. She wondered if the the old passion for justice had returned. She did not love one man then. She loved them all, the idea of their courage had moved her. She had loved to be part of them. Now she wanted to be part of this one man, only him.

  "There are others. It is not so simple."

  "I know."

  Again they made love and slept finally until bright sunlight was coming through the slats. She drew the blinds and the clear winter light blazed through the room. He showered, dressed swiftly, and without waiting for coffee, kissed her on the lips and let himself out. When he had gone, she lay down again on the crumpled sheets and slept until late afternoon.

  It was a week later when he reappeared. She had thought of him, without anxiety this time. She knew he would reach her again and, perhaps it was her own rationalization, she felt reasonably secure. It was a question of trust, she told herself. He was being deliberately secretive for reasons that he hinted at. She missed him, of course, and it was all she could do to keep herself alert, especially during work. Marcia noticed her lack of attention.

  "My God, Frederika. That customer has been sitting at your table for ten minutes without a menu."

  "Damn. Where is my head?"

  "Probably on that man."

  "What man?" she said defensively. Too quickly.

  "That one," Marcia said, putting a finger to Frederika's temple.

  "I don't think I feel well," she said suddenly, but it seemed a pallid, halfhearted excuse.

  "They'll get you every time."

  It began to rain when she got off from work. She had brought an umbrella and was walking up Wisconsin Avenue to her apartment house, shielded from the rain. Suddenly he grabbed the umbrella's handle.

  "Eddie." She put her hand on his upper arm, the muscle hard and taut as he moved silently up the nearly deserted street, past the darkened storefronts.

  "Did I frighten you?" he asked.

  "I don't frighten easily," she said with mock bravado. Actually, she had been momentarily panicked, but it had happened so fast she did not have time to react. "You'll have to do better than that to scare the hell out of me." He laughed. They embraced in the elevator of her apartment house.

  "I missed you," he whispered when they closed the door to her apartment.

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  He seemed less tight, almost playful, as if he had just gotten some good news. Standing together in the center of the room, he watched her, his face in transition, the humor in it fading as he reached for her and began kneading her breasts. Feeling the beginning pressure of his fingers triggered her own response and she felt again the sensual joy of his nearness. How can I tell him, she sobbed inside of herself, wanting to voice her gratitude for what he had given her, even the pain of it.

  Later, when they had reached that first plateau of satiation, she lay thinking about him, and her reactions to him. The door of her subconscious seemed to have suddenly opened and she sensed she was observing for the first time the odd contents. He had closed his eyes, was dozing, and she lay propped against the side of his chest, her head rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing.

  I will do anything for this man, she told herself, feeling a special joy in this new rebellion. But it was not enough to merely think it. She decided she must tell him, tell him now.

  Her hands began to move gently over his skin, where they paused to play with the curly hair of his chest, downward over his belly. She felt the change in his heartbeat, a swiftness as she reached down for his penis, felt him stir and knew that he had opened his eyes and was watching her. Under her touch, his penis stiffened, the response giving her great satisfaction, almost as a child might view the final phase of constructing a sandcastle.

  "You must let me be part of your life, Eddie," she said.

  "You are part of my life."

  "It's not enough. Not enough for me. I want more." In the context of her present activity, the idea of it seemed silly. He may have caught the humor. His erection was large and powerful, throbbing now, a marvelous, miraculous physical wonder, she decided. It was, in fact, larger than most in her experience.

  "I couldn't ask for anything more than that," she said, caressing the tip of it with her tongue. But the emerging thought had not faded, and she moved upward, keeping her fingers on the hardness.

  "I want participation," she said. "If you don't let me into your life, then what is it?" She wondered if he would feel that she was pretending an ultimatum. She let it lie for a moment, watching his reaction. "I love you, Eddie. You've changed my life. I want to give, to be giving. I will do anything for you." Then she looked down at his erection again. "And I want that. You." She lifted herself, moved her body over him and directed his hard penis into her, feeling its fullness, moving her body as if she were seeking the core of herself. She felt it occurring, a wrenching, soul-engulfing, overwhelming immediate explosion of pleasure, f
ulfillment. Why, she wondered, seeing bursts of color in her mind, even as she watched his face. He was observing her as well and, although she felt the beginning of his release, his silvery gray eyes seemed calm with intelligence, as if he were deciding something, probing some imponderable. She continued to watch him as the tension in his body subsided. Then she slackened her upper torso over him and held him tightly until she felt his body soften and relax.

  "If only the completeness of it was lasting enough," she said. "But when you're gone the longing begins again." Her arms tightened about him. "I am a part of you. It is my need to prove it to you."

  "I don't need further proof," he said. "It is not necessary."

  "It is to me."

  He became silent now, tapping her buttocks to signal his wish for disengagement, and she rolled over to his side again. Had she gone too far, she wondered. He had not professed any special love to her. Had not said the words. But what I spoke, I had to say, she told herself.

  "I don't know where you live. I don't know how you spend your day. I feel deprived."

  He stood up, lit a cigarette, and opening a slat in the blinds, looked out into the early morning grayness. She watched him, his long slender body graceful in his nakedness, as he puffed heavily and let the smoke billow out of his nose and mouth. Then he moved away and began to dress. She felt suddenly panicked by his actions, forcing her own restraint. Surely, I went too far, she told herself. It is over now. He doesn't need some hysterical lovesick ninny hanging on to him, burdening him. Closing her eyes, she felt the gathering moisture behind the lids, and then the tears rolling coolly down the sides of her face. Her nose filled, but she deliberately held back her sniffles. He must not see my crying. She could tell by the change of sounds that he was dressed now. Then his movement stopped and she could feel his eyes penetrating the grayness, watching her, deciding. Her heart and breathing stopped, and her mind seemed caught in limbo on the burrs of his indecision. Please, she begged, but the sound of his footsteps moving toward the door spoke his answer. The door opened and closed and the sound of his movement quickly faded, leaving the room in its own special silence.

  She could cry now, she thought, the sound of her sobbing and sniffling drowning the silence. Soon she was gasping for breath, knowing that she was giving in to self-pity and loneliness, helpless in the shame of it.