The Casanova Embrace

by Warren Adler

  "You are Isabella?" his father asked gently.

  Isabella nodded. Señor Palmero watched her for what seemed like a long moment. It was a look of contemplation. He took off his glasses and moved slowly in front of his desk, standing over the frightened girl. Reaching out, he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face.

  "You are quite charming," he said. Isabella stood rooted to the spot. Her face was visible now, the eyes still lowered.

  "You must not be afraid," his father said gently. "I am here to help you, to protect you."

  Why doesn't he mention me, Eduardo thought. His implicit faith in his father's wisdom was not shaken. He will tell her soon.

  "I believe it was an accident," his father said. "Am I correct?"

  Isabella nodded, her eyes still lowered.

  "I believe it was not your fault."

  Isabella moved her head from side to side.

  "And I know that you would not like to be sent back."

  Isabella moved her head from side to side again.

  Señor Palmero paused, his eyes moving furtively around the room. He stepped away and slowly moved toward the door, securing the latch to it, talking as he walked. Eduardo was confused.

  "Sometimes the mistress becomes overwrought when she sees her possessions broken. It is perfectly natural," Señor Palmero said, returning to face the girl, who had lowered her head again when his palm had removed its support.

  "You must not be afraid," he said quietly. "I am the master of this house and will not hurt you. Do you believe that?"

  Again he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand.

  "Do you believe that?" he repeated.

  Isabella nodded. What is he doing, Eduardo thought. A panic seized him as he saw his father's hands touch Isabella's breasts, cupping them, pinching them lightly. Isabella's eyes continued to look downward. But she did not move. Father, please, he shouted within himself.

  "You understand I will not hurt you, Isabella?" Señor Palmero said. She could not nod now, his hand under her chin prevented it. Then his hand moved downward to her crotch, caressing her, slowing lifting her dress, showing her bare legs.

  Eduardo felt his heart pumping. No, he wanted to shout, but the word was lost in the gurgle in his chest. He watched, riveted, as his father lifted the girl's dress over her head, revealing the small body, the flesh like light burnished copper, the thatch of hair at the crotch jet black. His father worked his hand between the girl's legs now and she began to undulate, hesitantly, then with greater abandon.

  "I will not hurt you, Isabella," his father repeated again and again, unhitching his belt, then lowering his pants, revealing a huge phallus in full erection.

  "Do you know what this is?" he said. A deep flush had risen on his face. He did not wait for her response. "Have you ever had this in you?"

  The girl shook her head. Her eyes were open now and she looked at the object with some interest.

  "You must kiss it, then," the father said, as the girl got on her knees and began kissing and stroking.

  My God, Eduardo shouted within himself, sensing his brutal betrayal. He wanted to run, to hurl himself over the cliff to the crashing ocean below. But his legs would not move. He wanted to cry, but tears would not come. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't find his voice. Worse, he could not tear his eyes away from the sight. His father's eyes were closed now and the girl was moving instinctively, mesmerized, her tongue licking the shaft of his father's penis. Finally, he turned away, sensing the superhuman effort of his will and the beginning of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Justice, he sneered, spitting into the wind, feeling the moisture return, sensing the essence of his disgust.

  Dobbs shook his head. Was there some clue here, he wondered, moving the file away with the tips of his fingers as if it were an object of some revulsion. He stood up, walked across the large office, returning only when he felt the press of time.

  IV

  It was not easy for Marie to separate her two lives. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Eduardo. She fantasized about being with him, relived her experience in his apartment, tried to feel and touch him in her imagination, sometimes with uncanny success. But her main fear was that someone, her children, Claude, would see into her thoughts. If only she could tell them how beautiful it was, tell someone about it.

  Perhaps it was a form of compensation, but she seemed to work harder at being a mother and companion for Claude. She marveled at her own toleration of her husband's egocentricity and bad temper. When anything had gone wrong with his day Claude had a tendency to bring home his hostility and edginess. He would pick fights with her, criticize her, insult her. Normally, she drew on practiced reserves.

  "You mustn't take it out on me."

  "I'm not. I'm merely stating the obvious. You are not informed. You don't read the newspapers enough. It is frustrating to come home to a wife who is ill-informed."

  This was a familiar refrain. But she had her defenses.

  "My job is to take care of the children. Maintain our home. My priorities are different than yours."

  "I will outgrow you," Claude would warn, his eyes blazing with anger, focusing his wrath and frustration on her. The implied threat had always struck a note of fear.

  Now, she was more tolerant when this theme surfaced again.

  "I will try to read more, Claude," she would say, defusing his anger by her feigned contrition. She would be amused by this line. What does it matter, she thought. I have my other life.

  At night, before she could empty her mind and fall asleep, she would think about Eduardo, his loneliness and the power and strength of his sexuality. But if there was happiness in the memory, there was sadness in the yearning.

  After three days, when he did not call, she began to grow anxious. Without a telephone, he was simply unreachable, and it took a great effort of will on her part not to return to his apartment house, although she would deliberately plan her chores to drive past it. She had had lunch with him on Tuesday. Finally he called on Friday. Hearing the phone ring, she knew instantly that it was him.

  "Marie?"

  "Eduardo?"

  There was a whisper in his voice, as if he were frightened that he would be overheard.

  "I called you yesterday, but left no message."

  "I was out," she said. "That was very wise." There was a long pause. She heard his breathing.

  "Can you see me?" he whispered. The words seemed furtive, exciting her interest with their urgency. He needed her. The assumption filled her with joy. She had actually made plans for a luncheon with the wives of her husband's colleagues. But that, like everything in her life now, was tentative, a charade, filling the time between Eduardo.

  "When?" She had also lowered her voice. Was it possible that her phone was tapped? Claude had warned her. "Be careful what you say," he had confided. "We cannot assume that they are not listening in."

  "Who?"

  "The CIA. It is a standard practice with us in Paris, although we have equipment to detect it. But it is not foolproof."

  "What could I say that would have value?" she had responded. Now, she knew. The telephone, indeed, could be the enemy.

  "Today. At noon." She thought for a moment, hesitating, her mind filled with the logistics of refusing to go to the luncheon.

  "Of course." She had wanted to say "my darling," but held back, proud of her cunning. The phone clicked off. She dialed another number, apologized, talked of special chores that had come up. She had rejected the idea of telling them she was not feeling well. It might get back to Claude. In this way, she would be telling them somewhat of a truth. Some chore, she thought, laughing gaily as she sprang up the stairs.

  As she drove to his apartment house, her mind and body filled with anticipation, she found herself looking into the rear view mirror. This is ridiculous, she told herself. How could Claude know? How could anyone know? Nevertheless, she parked a block from the apartment house and walked the rest of the way,
turning quickly as the eyes of the deskman washed over her briefly. Not wishing to be announced, she quickly reached the elevator, thankful that she was the only one in the cab.

  He was waiting for her in the apartment, had apparently heard the elevator and opened the door. Although her agitation had increased as she came toward his apartment, she calmed herself in his initial embrace, which set off all the triggers of her sexuality, an instant reaction. He was wearing nothing above his waist and feeling his bare flesh so unexpectedly gave her a warm surge of pleasure. She felt his breath against her ear, then a whispered, "I have missed you," which made her press more tightly against him, reaching for his erection, feeling the wonder of its hardness. She admitted now that part of her anxiety had been that it would not be the same this time, that what she had felt during their first meeting was merely the explosive tendency of a pent-up, frustrated woman. I have been dormant for fifteen years, she had insisted to herself, knowing that she meant dormant since birth, unrealized, a neuter. These new feelings had resurrected the search within herself. Feeling him now gave her the validation that she was, indeed, still alive. Someone. A woman.

  "You are my man," she told him, running her fingers through his hair, down over his bare back into the envelope of his trousers at the small of his back, down over his hard buttocks. Again, as she had done last time, she knelt before him, unfastened his trousers and pulled them down, then his shorts, kissing and caressing him. "My beautiful man," she cried, feeling tears rush down over her cheeks. "My beautiful man." It seemed, even then, like some primitive litany. She felt his hands on her hair, but he said nothing. In the midst of this act so foreign to her experience, she observed herself, a spectator. And the spectator, marveling at the total loss of her inhibitions, nevertheless felt pride in the participant, in her humanity and passion. I want him to come in my mouth, she told herself, her tongue compelling and urgent on his erection. Such an idea had always inspired a sense of nausea.

  Then she felt the throbbing as he neared the moment of his pleasure, which increased her own passion, the wave beginning inside her again, as it had done the last time.

  "Yes. Yes," she heard him say as she repeated to herself, my man. My man. My beautiful man. Then she tasted his libation. It was the way she thought of it, his libation to refresh her body and her spirit. Like wine is Christ's blood, she told herself, reveling in what she imagined was his sweetness. She had never wanted this before, not ever.

  And it did not exhaust him. Quickly his energy began again and they were together in his bed, enjoined, thrashing about, loving, kissing, feeling, smelling, as her orgasms came in recurring crescendos, like a waterfall plunging from terrace to terrace. Later, she lay in the crook of his arm, her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, soaking in his aroma, his aura.

  "You have made me a woman," she said, looking upward at the ceiling, groping inadequately for words to explain it. "At first, I thought it is not possible that this could happen, that it was all propaganda, that women's feelings were merely the figment of man's imagination. I thought it was all lies."

  "And now?"

  "Now I know it is beyond my wildest imagination. Beyond my dreams of it."

  "We create the right biological chemistry," he said, laughing.

  "It is more than just physical," she began again, knowing that it was impossible to fully explain, only to know. "This. Here and now is my real life. The rest is a sham."

  "Nonsense. You have your husband. Your family. Your life." Perhaps he was merely underlining the impermanence of their relationship. The thought quickened her caution. But it was futile. She could savor her vulnerability. Such a truth would be like a bullet in her brain.

  "But my real life is here. With you." She lifted herself on her elbow and brushed her lips against his. Then she lay back and looked up at the ceiling again.

  "Eduardo," she said. "Explain this to me. What is happening here?"

  "We are a man and a woman." He shrugged. She could sense his annoyance.

  "You must tell me, Eduardo." She detected a sense of pleading in her tone. But she really wanted to know. She must know. "You are a man of the world, a man who has experienced life, a man of wisdom. You know, Eduardo. You know better than I. I've been a woman in a harness for years. First, it was my mother. Then Claude. Then the children. But you know, Eduardo."

  He patted her shoulder and kissed her hair.

  "You exaggerate my wisdom. Once you start to explain, you will talk it all away. We have needs, appetites. They sometimes take over our logic. I understand only that I am a man in limbo, an exile. My esteem probably needs special care. I have lost my country. There is something about you that you carry in yourself that seems to satisfy these needs. That eases the pain."

  "And do I give you joy, Eduardo?"

  "Of course.... "he paused, then smiled. "How did you say it? Beyond my wildest imagination."

  She pinched his ribs playfully.

  "I think you are making fun of me."

  "Fun? In Spanish it is reirse de mi." I prefer the Spanish. It seems to say more."

  "In French it is tu t'amuse avec moi."

  She felt a giggle begin in her chest, expelling it, feeling the parameters of time begin to disappear, and with them, all sense of her other life.

  "Why can't we just be here, like this, like now, forever?" She looked up at him, watching. He said nothing and she sensed a growing paranoia in herself. The future loomed, filled her mind. A future without him seemed sterile, a living death. Could she cope with it, she wondered.

  "What happens now?" she asked, sensing impending panic.

  "Now?" He sat up and looked at his wrist watch which lay on the pile of papers on his night table, under the lamp. "Now we get dressed and disappear." He slapped her buttocks and stood up.

  "So soon?"

  "I have things I must do."

  "But surely.... "She began checking herself, the outside world, the details of their disparate lives rushing in on them. She watched as he went to the bathroom, heard the rush of water. Then he came out and began to dress. She felt suddenly angry, angry at time, at him, at herself.

  "This place is a mess," she said as he brushed his hair. "You must let me tidy it."

  "No need," he whispered, hesitating briefly in his response.

  "Really, Eduardo. It can be made more liveable."

  "It is simply a place to hang one's hat."

  "You would be surprised how cozy I can make it." She moved upward on the bed, rested on her knees, and reached out to touch him. "Really, my darling. I can do it for you. Just give me the key. You needn't trouble yourself about it. I can fix it up. Buy you things."

  He put the brush down on the dresser, the sound of its impact on the wood a sure signal of his irritation.

  "I like it just the way it is," he said.

  She saw his annoyance, knew she was causing it, and stood up to placate him, hoping that she might draw him down again. She reached for his crotch. But he moved away.

  "I am late," he said, moving toward the door. But he stopped, came back and kissed her hair. "Forgive me. I am testy, already thinking of other problems. Perhaps some other time we will discuss it."

  "When can I see you again, Eduardo?"

  "I'll call you."

  "When? Tomorrow? Next week? What day?"

  "It's difficult to make permanent plans. My life is so transitory."

  "But my life is tied to yours now. Without you I wander in a maze."

  "There is no other way. Not now. Not yet."

  There seemed a faint glimmer of optimism, a shred of future permanence. It was not enough assurance, she knew. She watched as he started toward the door again.

  "I will call you."

  "But when?" Was she nagging?

  "You mustn't ask." He looked at her for a moment, then turned.

  "I love you, Eduardo Allesandro Palmero," she cried after him. But the door had already closed and she was certain he had not heard.


  She did not rise from the bed immediately after his departure, but lay there, her eyes resting on the hardened nipples of her breasts. Then she got up and reached for his brush, holding the handle, feeling the lingering warmth of his hand. The sense of loss seemed overwhelming and her eyes filled with tears. She looked at the brush, which suddenly became the focus of her anger. She threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp cracking sound, then fell to the floor. My God, what am I doing? What is happening to me? She dressed quickly and left the apartment.

  It was, she thought, an odd coincidence, although she admitted the possibility of cosmic influence. This thing with Eduardo had opened up new dimensions of spirituality. Life was, after all, not only what met the eye. Which is what she felt when Claude informed her that night that they would be at the Chilean Embassy for dinner.

  The French ambassador, he had explained, was invited, a small group, sixteen guests, on the following Saturday night. But the ambassador had been called away suddenly and he, as next in command, was designated to take his place. There, she thought, the cosmic influence. She yearned to tell Eduardo. Claude was in good spirits, a fact she resented since she preferred that he would bring home his irritations and thereby give her a greater opportunity for dissimulation. Instead, he was in a particularly good humor, although a little pedantic.

  "You will like the Chileans," he said. "Lovely people. Very gay. And they are particularly anxious to please. This is all part of their diplomatic offensive."

  "They are butchers," she hissed. Instantly, she regretted the outburst.

  He looked up at her, fork in mid-air, his frown wrinkling.

  "Well, what have we here? A budding expert on political science." Then the fork moved, the wrinkles disappeared. "It is not so simple."