The Casanova Embrace

by Warren Adler

  "It is not thinking. It is simply a fact of life."

  He shrugged, ignoring her, tightening his tie.

  "I am yours now, Eduardo. There is nothing I won't do for you." She stood up and walked to him, her face close to his now, watching him in the mirror. "There is nothing that I have, that I own, that is not yours." The saying of it was exhilarating, important. Anne could do things like that. Not Penny.

  When his tie was straight, he turned toward her, kissed her on the lips.

  "You are talking nonsense."

  "Like a young girl?"

  "A very young girl."

  She paused, watching him. He looked clean, hard, sure of what he was.

  "You will be at the library tomorrow?"

  "Yes. All week."

  "And after, will you be with me?"

  He hesitated.

  "Perhaps," he said. Then he was gone. She listened for the sound of his movements down the stairs, opening the door. Running to the window, she watched him walk swiftly toward Wisconsin Avenue. She wanted to cry again, but this time the tears would not come.

  That week he did come every day, and by the end of it, her life had completely metamorphosed. She no longer did her exercises and she could not concentrate on her reading, sitting instead at the library table, seeing him through the pores of her body, resisting the temptation to look at him, fearful of creating a distraction for him. The sense of time had fully returned. Even her eating habits had changed and she had stocked her refrigerator with foods from her other life. Gourmet foods, caviar, exotic cheeses, a crown roast. She had found a recipe for chocolate mousse and had stayed up half the night creating it.

  While she had not asked him, she had assumed that he would stay for dinner on Friday night and she had prepared an elaborate feast, setting the table in the dining room, which had not been done for years. Her best china, the Waterford glasses, the golden candleholders were laid out, even a beautiful display of flowers from the florist had been delivered. She had searched her closets for one of her old gowns, an Adolpho, once the rage, and she spent a great deal of time that morning reworking it to fit the leaner body of her new self, of Anne. He had seen the set table when he came in the house on Friday afternoon.

  "You are expecting guests?"

  "Yes, later." She enjoyed the humor of it.

  "Your table is exquisite," he said.

  "It is for you, Eduardo."

  "For me?"

  He did not pursue the point. They went up to her bedroom. For the first time, he appeared distracted in his lovemaking, although her own intensity was undiminished, and when she had calmed down, her mind groped for a strategy to prolong his presence. To her, the relationship was permanent. It must never end, she decided. It would be like death.

  "Stay with me, Eduardo," she said. It was a litany now.

  "I live alone. My work makes it impossible to share. It is too dangerous."

  "Look, Eduardo"--she moved her hand in a sweeping gesture--"I have this." She walked to a corner of the bedroom and opened a breakfront with a small key. That morning she had carefully gathered all her papers, the bankbooks, a statement from her accountant. She put it in front of him.

  "I am worth three million dollars, at least," she said calmly.

  He fingered the books, but said nothing.

  "I am saying, Eduardo," she said slowly, touching his face gently, "that everything I have is yours." He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. Was he laughing at her? He must have sensed what was on her mind, reaching out and drawing her close to him.

  "Am I that valuable?" he asked, perhaps mocking himself.

  "You are to me," she responded quickly.

  He shook his head. There was an air of disbelief in the way his expression changed, as if he were searching for some logic to her act. He thinks I am mad, she decided.

  "It is what I want, Eduardo," she said, watching him, hoping that he would finally understand.

  "Why?" He emitted the word as a barely audible whisper.

  It was important now, she realized, to say exactly the right words, to bridge the gap between the ridiculous and the sublime. Only Anne could do that. Penny would have thought it ludicrous.

  "You are my life," she began, hesitating. He would not want to feel owned. "You have given me.... "She hesitated again. "I love you," she said at last. It seemed the most innocuous phrase she could think of. I am reborn because of you, she wanted to say. I am alive at last. I would die for you.

  He reached out and patted her cheek. She caressed his hand.

  "Incredible," he said. But she did not understand.

  Later, they ate the meal she had prepared. She watched him eat, experiencing, for the first time in her life, the essence of happiness. He must never leave me, she decided.

  IX

  When Marie LaFarge moved out of her husband's bedroom, she had fully expected the outward props of her life to disintegrate. She was living in limbo now, she told herself, waiting for the moment when Eduardo would send for her and she would never return to the cage of her present existence.

  In her mind, she had escaped from the cage, had spread her wings and moved from beyond the bars, only to find herself perched uncertainly on a shaky limb. It was cold out on that limb and the sun shone only when she was with Eduardo. But Eduardo was elusive, and when they met he insisted on the secrecy of their relationship. He would call her once a week, perhaps twice, and she would go to him.

  "You must not tell him," he had warned when she had told him that she had moved out of Claude's bed.

  "But why? I want the world to know."

  "Not yet." The sense of expectancy reinforced her optimism.

  "When?"

  "Please, Marie. You must not endanger yourself."

  "I want my life to be your life. I don't care about danger."

  And when it was time for her to go, she always held back, lingering. If he had gone, leaving her in the bed, she would wrap herself in the sheets like a mummy and imagine that she could be part of the room, always there, until she would become jealous of the inanimate objects that were fortunate to share his presence. Sometimes he would insist that she leave first.

  "You must go. I have work to do."

  "What sort of work?"

  "I am writing a document."

  "What sort of document?"

  "A manifesto, the fundamental words of our movement."

  "Please, Eduardo. Let me stay. Let me watch you. I will not disturb you."

  "Please, Marie."

  After those times with Eduardo, she dreaded coming home. It seemed an alien place now, although she went through the motions of devoted motherhood. Claude had reacted with his usual calculated methods, designed to maintain appearances at all cost. Nothing, after all, must stand in the way of his career. And since she had not actually left the house, appearances could still be preserved for the outside world. It is only temporary, she told herself.

  "How long is this madness to go on?" Claude asked her one evening at dinner, after the children had gone off to watch television. She knew he had, up till then, been deliberately proper. But she also knew his discipline and surmised that he had swallowed great draughts of bitter bile to maintain his control. She had, after all, challenged his manhood, a very precious commodity, especially to a Frenchman. She wished he would have had the guts to respond to his true emotions and throw her out of the house. But nothing she could do or say had been enough to cause Claude to explode. His career was, as it had always been, the main priority of his life.

  "It isn't madness, Claude."

  "Then what is it?"

  "Loathing."

  She could see his upper lip tremble and his eyes blink with abnormal speed as he sought control. What she wanted most was a confrontation about "another man." If he accused her, she would admit it, she decided. She longed to admit it. Only fear held her back.

  "You are trying to ruin me," Claude said, after a long pause, when he seemed certain that his voice would be st
rong, controlled.

  "That is absurd," she said with contempt. Actually, she pitied him. In comparison to Eduardo, he seemed so inconsequential.

  "Perhaps if you saw a psychiatrist," he said. She wondered if she sensed an edge of sarcasm.

  "A psychiatrist?"

  "Surely what you're doing is not normal. The mother of two beautiful children. The wife of a successful and rising diplomat. I wouldn't consider what you have done as rational." He tapped his forehead. "Something is going on up there that bears some scrutiny."

  "Save your money," she said, getting up from the table. She feared that if the conversation kept on, the confrontation would be inevitable. She picked up the dessert dishes and coffee cups and brought them into the kitchen. She could hear his footsteps behind her.

  "Marie," he pleaded, on the verge of losing control again. He put his hands on her shoulders. Briefly, she saw his eyes, the pain that lay there. "You are torturing me." She shrugged his hands away and averted his gaze. It is easy to be cruel, she observed, hating herself.

  "There is nothing here for me anymore," she said quietly. "Why can't you understand that?"

  "But the children."

  She wanted to say, "The hell with the children," but that might confirm her madness to him. Besides, she could not understand why she no longer loved her children. Perhaps, she thought, it was because they were not Eduardo's children. Maybe I do need a psychiatrist, she told herself.

  "It will pass," Claude whispered. "I will be patient."

  "Never," she said. It had not been meant to be said.

  Because there was no regularity to her meetings with Eduardo, she lived in a constant state of tension. Sometimes he would call her on Monday. Sometimes Tuesday or Wednesday. It seemed a kind of unwritten understanding that she would never see him on weekends. She had thought about it, but since it was part of the rhythm of their lives, she did not let her mind dwell on it. Occasionally, though, after they had made love and she imagined that they had achieved their most intense closeness, her courage would rise above her caution.

  "When you are not with me, Eduardo," she asked, "where are you?" He did not stir, as if the words had not been spoken. But she persisted. "What is your life like when you are not with me?" He continued to remain silent. "Mine is a nightmare. I walk through a dream. I live only for you to call me. I live only for this." She caressed his body.

  "It is better that you don't know," was all he would say.

  Despite her longing, when she was not with him, she could still feel a residue of passion, an afterglow. At night, though, when she would slip between the sheets of her bed, she would make a conscious effort to empty her mind of him. Most of the time, she was not successful. Beside her, on the night table, were piles of books on Chile which she would read for hours, sometimes until the first gray signs of morning. Occasionally, she would hear Claude's footsteps along the corridor. They would reach her door, hesitate. Thankfully, they would begin again and move away toward their old bedroom. Even when she slept, there seemed no respite, and when she awoke the sheets were badly wrinkled and the blankets on the floor.

  Once, odd sounds seemed to come to her as part of a restless dream and she opened her eyes to find Claude in her bed, fighting to pry apart her legs. He had been drinking and the smell of whiskey, as his mouth searched for hers, sickened her. Freeing one arm, which he had pinned behind her, she flailed at his groin until he desisted.

  "You lousy bitch!" he hissed, his lips twisted, his eyes blazing with hatred. But she felt no pity. Why doesn't he ask me? she thought. I will tell him now. But he did not ask. Without looking at her again, he limped from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The incident had left her frightened and restless and the next day she bought a strong chain and attached it to her door. At dinner the following night, he apologized.

  "I'm sorry, Marie." He was feigning contrition, she knew, but she determined to accept it.

  "It was foolish."

  "I had been drinking."

  "Yes, I noticed."

  He played with his spoon.

  "What would be the harm if you saw a psychiatrist?" he asked. He was not being sarcastic now. It was obviously a sincere conclusion. She looked at him and laughed. It seemed to come in a long rolling sound, uncontrollable and rippling, as if in response to a hilarious joke. The ridicule was, she knew, pure malevolence on her part.

  "You are a bitch, you know," he said, his face suddenly pale. He threw down his napkin and rushed angrily from the table.

  A few days later, when she told Eduardo about the incident, he was shocked. Then she informed him that she had moved out of Claude's bedroom. The knowledge agitated him further. His reaction confused her. He should be happy, she thought. I have made a commitment to him. I am faithful. He paced the floor of his apartment in his bare feet, puffing deeply and frequently on a cigarette.

  "I had no idea," he said.

  "You think I can sleep with another man?" she said angrily. "My skin crawls at his touch."

  "And you have not told him about us?" he asked suddenly.

  "No."

  "Does he think there is another man?"

  "No. He is blind. He is an idiot."

  He smashed out his cigarette in an ash tray and lit another one.

  "It could be a disaster for him to know," he said finally.

  "He will know sooner or later. I can't go on like this."

  "You must."

  "Must?"

  He sighed, came toward her and sat beside the bed, stroking her arm gently. "I had no right to involve you."

  "Involve me, Eduardo? You did nothing. Why explain it? You have given me a new life. No. You have given me life."

  "I have endangered you," he said. "I am deeply involved in dangerous work. A complication with your husband would be a disaster. It could destroy everything we are working for."

  "We?"

  "The Chilean people."

  "But, darling. You must understand. There is no life without you." Was she going to lose him? She shuddered. "How can I do anything that will hurt you?" she said.

  "Then you must make it up with Claude."

  "I don't understand."

  "You must not make Claude suspicious. It could not only hurt me ... and you, but endanger the lives of many innocent people."

  "If only you would confide in me, my darling." She balled her fists, feeling the full force of her frustration. "But you tell me nothing. I am simply a woman in love." She paused waiting for some response, frightened. "Tell me how to act so that I will not do foolish things to hurt you or your friends. Tell me. I will do whatever you ask." He continued to stroke her arms, then leaned over and kissed her deeply.

  After, he stood up, paced the floor again. Then he was suddenly back with her, and from his expression she knew he had reached a decision.

  "I have something to ask of you, Marie," he whispered.

  "Anything, darling."

  "It is simple. But it could be dangerous."

  "Why can't I persuade you that nothing I can do for you can frighten me. I will do anything." She kissed him again, and she felt tears brim over her eyes. "I am capable of killing for you, Eduardo." It was an odd thought. Could she really do that, she wondered.

  "Hardly that dramatic," he said, shaking his head with amusement. He moved to the closet, brought out a box, and took something out of it. Returning to the bedside, he held out his palm, on which rested a small, shiny object. She looked at it and touched it. It felt cold.

  "It is an electronic device." Lifting it, he held it between his thumb and index finger.

  "What does it do?"

  "It listens."

  "I see." She was concentrating now. It was important. He was making her a part of his work and she was grateful.

  "I want you to put it somewhere."

  "Where?"

  "You must be very clever." He paused. "I want you to put it in the study of the Chilean ambassador. In his residence. His private study."


  "But how...."

  He put a finger on her lips. "You must be very clever. You must get an invitation and it must be in a large group so that they will not be suspicious. They are very shrewd." She was trying to absorb the information and what it meant. Since she had moved out of Claude's bedroom, she had refused all invitations. She knew Claude was telling them that his wife was ill. Eduardo brought over a brief case which lay against the wall. Opening it, he took out a large envelope and withdrew from it a package of large photographs, which he spread before her on the bed.

  "These are pictures of the study. I have marked all the possible points where the device can be placed."

  She followed his graceful white fingers as they traced the area in the pictures, feeling the special joy of the complicity.

  "There are so many possible choices that it would be difficult to make a mistake."

  "But where is the best place?" she asked. She looked at the pictures.

  "Here." He pointed at a bookshelf.

  "I could slip it under a dust jacket." She looked up proudly, touching his fingers.

  "An excellent place. But everything will depend on the question of time. Ideally, you should be invited into the study by the ambassador, and when his attention is deflected you could do the job."

  He gathered up the pictures on the bed, replaced them in the envelope, and put them on the floor on top of the brief case.

  "I would suggest you study them carefully again," he said. But her mind had already snapped a clear picture of the study, and her thoughts were already alerted to strategies. Surely, she could persuade Claude to solicit an invitation on the basis of her sudden interest in Chile. It was then that the idea of physical proximity to Claude intruded, and she felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. If only she could find a way to do it without that. Perhaps she might befriend the Chilean ambassador's wife, a lovely lady, easy to meet and talk with.

  "Above all, you must not arouse suspicion," Eduardo said suddenly, with emphasis, as if reading her thoughts. He held up the device again, his fingers on the rim, then placed it on top of the envelope.

  He stood over her now, his fingers running through her hair. She rested her head against his body, caressing him again, holding him tightly.