by Warren Adler
"You live alone in this big house?" he asked.
"Yes." She looked down at her hands. She wore no rings. "My husband died." His inquiry should have been resented, but she was oddly pleased. She felt the urge to find a mirror and rush up to it and view herself, fix herself. There was inside of her this desire to be attractive, to attract him. She noted physical signs in herself. The nipples on her small breasts had hardened. What is happening?
"And you go to the library every day?"
"Yes." Again, she could not resist. "I am now reading Balzac."
"From end to end?" He smiled.
"From end to end."
"How marvelous!"
She felt her growing delight. "You think so?"
"In school I read Père Goriot and Eugènie Grandet. I remember them well. How wonderful it must be to find the time to see that world. Paris in the 1800's."
"Yes." So, he could understand, she thought. And what of him, she wondered, feeling a sense of sharing intrude, this thing she had shut out of her life. It was the moment, she believed now. She could move forward into a new ground, thin ice, full of uncertainty, vulnerability, terrible risks. Or backward to the tight, structured calm she had worked to achieve. She felt frightened, disgusted with herself for her lapse of discipline, knowing that it would be wrong to move forward, to reach for forbidden fruit. But her will had been eroded. She felt her nostrils flare. It was an extraordinary observation of herself, she decided. Perhaps her body was making a decision despite her mind. But hadn't she erased her femininity?
"And you?" she asked quietly, digging her fingers into her thighs. She was offering herself now, she knew, was moving forward, frightened.
"Actually, I am writing a pamphlet."
"And the subject?"
"Human freedom." She could feel his energy surge. "Human rights. They are disintegrating everywhere. Chile is merely one example. Without freedom there will be nothing. You see.... "He cleared his throat. She half-listened as he told her about Chile, Allende, his government service, the fall, his imprisonment. She tried to absorb it, but it hardly mattered. He could have been reciting the alphabet. "We were trying to create something in Chile that would be a model for the world. Marxism with freedom. We were not simply going to reorder ownership. We were going to create a free society without greed and acquisitiveness, with sharing." He was standing in the center of the room, a fist clenched, banging into his palm. She could sense his own belief in his inner nobility, although she listened to his words as an abstraction. He moved to the couch and sat down beside her.
"Sometimes I forget myself," he apologized. "I become too absorbed in the dream, in the pain." She felt his presence, his closeness. He lifted an arm and looked at his watch. Moving her arm, she touched the back of his hand lightly. Then her fingers opened and she held it. Her mind was growing blank as she held tightly and watched him. He was silent, contemplating her. She felt the terror of her own uncertainty now, the lack of confidence in her womanliness. He will reject me now, she decided, disengaging her hand from his. But he reached out and grasped it again.
"You are a fine looking woman, Anne," he said quietly, watching her. She imagined he was penetrating her face with his eyes. He is talking to someone else, she thought. He is really imagining that I am someone else.
"Really, Mr. Palmero." She felt her coquettishness. This is silly, absurd, she thought. But he was stirring her. Something was happening.
"Classic," he said. "A quiet maturity."
"Yes. Maturity." She agreed. She did not want to guard herself and looked downward. To her surprise, she found herself looking at his crotch, imagining his nakedness. Will I faint, she wondered, feeling her heartbeat accelerate. She wanted to turn back, felt her will disintegrate. Then he suddenly reached for her breasts. Her response was now without mystery, blatant and aggressive. She felt a churning somewhere in the middle of her and she knew she was on the verge of release from herself. She knew he was sensing it, responding to it. Her mind was conscious of his sudden activity as he reached for the buttons of her slacks. Vaguely, she heard the sound of ripped material as he removed them and with them the cotton pants as her legs spread, the whole center of herself crying out for completeness. Her eyes were closed, but she wanted to see him, only it was too late because he was inside of her now and her body was without mind, a thing running on a power beyond her control.
She felt herself moving on the edge of a windstorm, pushed, helpless, and the wind was passing through her, billowing her body, filling it taut, moving it with a crashing hurricane force, beyond control. Then a sound came. Was it the savage force of wind or her own scream? Since she had forgotten how to conceptualize time, she knew only that what she had experienced was ending slowly, the wind dissipating, like dead leaves gliding to the ground. His weight on her was delicious, warm, powerful, and his flesh against her bare torso soft and sweet. Then a hardness began inside of her again and what had occurred was repeated, then ended slowly again. Somehow, when she was alert to her sense of place again, the light had changed in the room, the morning brightness gone.
He had gotten up and somewhere she heard water rushing. She lay still, unmoving, her legs still spread, as if now this would be her primal position, forever open to him, waiting. Finally she got up, gathering her clothes, and went to the upstairs bathroom where she washed, then went to her room for a fresh change of panties and slacks. Leaving the room, she paused, saw herself in the mirror, looked closely, inspecting her face. The skin was taut, not nearly as wrinkled as she had imagined, and her hazel eyes were turned green now in the new light. Her cheeks, drawn tight over her cheekbones, were flushed, her lips puffed. She smiled at herself, noting her own satisfaction. Was she beautiful? For a moment, her fingers were caressing the skin of her face. Then she heard movement below and she hurried down the stairs.
"You are an exciting woman," he said. He was sitting again on the wing chair, watching her come toward him. Under his gaze, she felt different, transformed. She stood over him, holding his hand.
"Eduardo," she said, kissing his fingers.
"I must say," he said, "I hardly expected this."
"No," she said, putting a finger to his lips, "no talk." They remained silent for a while, she standing above him, watching his eyes. Soon, he said, "I really must be going."
She hadn't expected that; the sense of loss became magnified. There was a touch of panic. She continued to hold his fingers.
"Really, Anne." He whispered the strange name. Who is Anne, she wondered. "Really, Anne, I must go."
"But where?"
He laughed, watching her.
"There are things that I must do. There is a whole life out there."
"What do you do?" She had the right to ask that now, she told herself. There was this sense of possession now. He looked at her, contemplating her again, stroking his chin.
"I have my work," he said.
"Work?" It seemed somehow an intrusion. He shook his head, laughed, slapped his thigh with his one free hand and stood up.
"My principal business is the freeing of Chile." She felt the pressure of his hand and let it slide out of hers.
"Of course," she said.
"And yours is the reliving of Balzac." She had forgotten.
"Of course." But she was wondering now if that would be enough. That was the old life. Now, it was Anne's world. But she had not learned to live with Anne yet, which was why she had remained silent when he had finally let himself out. Nor did she rush out after him with some admonition on her lips like: "But when will you come again?" Instead, she sat in the wing chair, where he had sat, a space that she had never occupied before, wondering how she would be able to get back to the safe routine of her previous life. Then she cried. She could not remember the last time she had done that.
Getting through the rest of the day and the night required all the willpower she could muster. She prolonged her evening meal by eating more than usual. The unaccustomed intake left he
r crampy and uncomfortable and she tossed and turned in her bed until the sun rose. The Bach was grating and she finally shut it off. Then she couldn't concentrate on her exercises, alternating between cursing him and loving him in her mind. Who is Anne? she asked herself repeatedly, but the answer was an echo of silence.
She returned to the library, nodded at the librarian, assuming the same thin disinterested smile that she had practiced so many times before. Her heart was pumping with agitation, and her knees had, oddly, lost their smooth motor reflexes. He was not there. Searching amid the stacks, she peeked around corners until she was certain he was not there. Then she went to the Balzac shelf and pulled down one of the books at random. She didn't look at the title, but took her accustomed place, patting the spine of the book on the table to assure that it would stay open.
Alert to every sound, her ears discovered the noise of the place. Once so silent, the library was now a cacophony of disjointed sounds, among which she tried to identify his movement, his footsteps. She heard the ticking of the big clock on the far wall and the breathing of the librarian, even the swirl of her dress, a strong "wooshing" sound. It was maddening, a terrible intrusion on her concentration. Nineteenth century Paris was remote in the opened pages of Balzac. Finally, after an hour had passed, she stood up and approached the librarian.
"Why is it so noisy here?" she asked. Her voice seemed a roar as it emerged from her lips.
The librarian looked at her, tipping her head in an attitude of disbelief.
"Noisy?"
"Yes, there is far too much noise."
There was still enough logic in her to feel embarrassment, and without looking at the librarian again, she went out into the street and stood in front of the building, looking both ways. Perhaps if she walked toward Wisconsin Avenue, she might see him. She started down the street with swift strides. But she could not see him there either. Then she returned to the library, hoping that, perhaps, he had arrived from the opposite direction. He wasn't there.
Again, she tried to concentrate on the opened book, but the words swam meaninglessly before her eyes. Standing up, she went to the stacks and took another one, then tried again to concentrate. If he doesn't come, I shall have to scream, she told herself, and then, miraculously, he was there, poking around in the familiar stacks, gathering his material, placing his note pad at his usual place at the table.
"You're late," she said, feeling the sense of possession again. He looked at her, said nothing, and smiled. Thank God, she told herself, feeling the new sensations begin again.
"Will you come to see me later?" she asked, hoping he would not detect the urgency in her voice. He watched her face, his gaze lingering, the long lashes shading the gray silver-flecked eyes.
"Perhaps," he said. "If I can finish the task I've set for myself today. I am behind schedule."
The tentativeness frightened her. She wanted to insist. Again, she sat down and attempted to read her book, watching him as he worked, swiftly, with deep absorption. Seeing him calmed her, and although she could not regain any concentration, she was content to sit there near him.
Normally, she would have returned home for lunch, but now she refused to move, feeling him beside her, watching the clock, which she had hardly noticed before. Time had captured her again and she found herself watching the pendulum swing and the barely perceptible movement of the clock's hands. Once, he lifted his head and smiled briefly, then returned to writing furiously on his note pad. Finally, at three o'clock, which must have been the hour he had set for himself, he stood up, returned the books to the stacks, stuffed the papers in his brief case, and turned toward the door. She rose and followed, remembering her sweater, but leaving the books on the table, something she had never done before.
"You were working very hard," she said when they were in the street. The weather had turned colder, which produced a glazed mist in his eyes.
"I am hurrying to finish," he said, standing there, his weight moving from one foot to the other.
"Would you like to come to the house?" she said, her eyes shifting in embarrassment. He looked at his watch and she felt the panic of an impending rejection. Then, summoning unaccustomed coquetry and masking her anxiety, she said, "I make a terrific glass of milk." He laughed, suddenly engaged.
"Ah, yes," he said. Then he looked at his watch again. "But I can't stay too long."
They walked toward the house and she put her arm in his, squeezing the upper part, feeling the heavy muscle. She had not seen his arms naked and now she tried to imagine what they looked like.
"For a while there, I thought you weren't going to come."
"I had other business earlier. But I'm determined to finish this pamphlet before the week is up."
A week, she thought. Three days actually. It was Tuesday.
"And then?"
"There is a great deal to be done," he sighed.
The sense of time was now oppressing her. Inside the house, he put his brief case down and started toward the wing chair, but she held him back.
"Let me show you the house," she said. Perhaps if he filled the house, stamped his presence on it, he might be tempted to change the schedule he had created for himself. It was possible to ignore time, she had learned. Holding his hand, she moved through the house, the study, the kitchen, the maid's quarters, now vacant, another parlor, then up the back stairs.
"These old houses are quite mysterious," she said, feeling like a young girl, remembering vaguely having done this in some big house in another life. On the second floor, she showed him the sleeping rooms, all neatly kept, fresh sheets on every bed. Despite the fact that no one slept in the beds, she had changed the sheets weekly and carefully dusted and polished. Each room smelled sweet. Finally she came to her own bedroom, with its high canopied bed with crinoline edging. Jack had always despised it. No wonder, considering his affliction.
"This is mine," she told him, turning toward him, her body moving tightly against his. It seemed instinctive on her part, deliberately, aggressively suggestive. I must have him now, in this bed, she told herself, feeling her body's sudden craving as her hands reached for him, caressing. His nature responded and she could feel him hardening and soon he was kissing her, filling her mouth with his tongue.
"Let me undress you," she whispered, removing his jacket, then his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, slipping his T-shirt over his head, then unbelting him, unzipping, rolling down his shorts, watching, caressing, touching the smooth hardness of his erection. He stood there, an object to be observed, and she was acutely aware of his enjoyment of her attention. He has a right to be proud, she told herself.
"Now you," he said, as he began to help her undress while she wondered if he would be as pleased as she. She continued to stroke his erection. Then, when she was naked, she stepped back, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her body was firm and slender, her stomach flat, her buttocks tight, her breasts small but still upturned.
"You have the body of a young girl," he said, reaching for her.
Then they were in her bed, and the joy of him being there with her was overwhelming. Before he could enter her, her body responded with a kind of massive seizure of pleasure, an orgasm that drew its essence from the pit of her being, a gale wind now repeating itself when finally he had entered. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, knowing that she was discovering herself, a new self, Anne!
Later, she watched him. His eyes appeared to be seeing something at the top of the canopy, but she sensed that he was looking inside of himself. The reality of time was fully existent in her mind now.
"Do you really see me as a young girl?" she asked.
His concentration was deflected and he looked at her and smiled.
"You are a young girl."
"I'm forty-nine."
"Now, you are talking chronology. I'm talking about what my eyes see and my flesh touches." He gently put the flat of his hand on her stomach.
"And inside?"
"Very young and
very beautiful."
"Would you please say that again?"
"Very young and very beautiful."
"Thank you." She kissed his cheek. A tear rolled out of her eye. "Do you mean that?"
He hesitated, then ignored the question.
"I'm forty-two," he said suddenly. There was an air of regret in his manner. "Age is an enigma."
"An enigma?"
"I feel young and old at the same time." He hesitated and looked at her, on the verge of revelation, she thought.
"Once, forty seemed old," he sighed. "Chronology has lost its meaning. I have found more strength in myself than ever before in my life." He was not talking directly to her. There was a distance, a barrier. What does he mean? she thought. "Maybe it is anger, the search for vindication, revenge, that gives me this odd energy."
"Revenge?" Still, she had not engaged him.
"Or maybe it is the sense of impending death."
At the mention of death, she swallowed hard, gasped. He must have felt the shiver run through her.
"I have a great deal to do.... "He was guarding himself now. He closed his eyes and she watched his eyelids flutter for some time, kissing them, as if the act might still them.
"Stay with me, Eduardo," she said suddenly. She felt panic, that terrible repetitive sense of impending loss. Her voice startled him and he rose in the bed. She could sense his preparation to take leave.
"You have to go?" She said it for him. How can I keep him here forever, near me forever, she asked herself.
"Yes." He kissed her forehead and bounded out of bed. She watched his strong back move, the buttocks beautifully rounded. As he turned to pick up his clothes, his genitals swayed. To her, it was an odd, beautiful sight. She lay back observing him.
"Can you feel that this is your home, Eduardo?" she asked.
"You mustn't think in those terms, Anne."