by Warren Adler
"They have killed many people. And many are in exile." She was trying to remember what Eduardo had told her, but felt her inadequacy. She had merely accepted it and had taken his side for no other reason.
"I would suggest," Claude said, his good spirits fading, his lips tightening, "that you keep that well-informed opinion to yourself when we visit the Chileans. I do not want a diplomatic incident." He paused. "Why not confine your conversation to clothes, hair and children?"
He remained silent throughout the meal. But she was fuming. His attack on her self-esteem seemed to organize her reserves. Now that she had Eduardo, there was no need to be submissive, fearful. She laughed, to herself, of course. I have betrayed you, you pompous ass, she hissed at him silently as he self-indulgently patted his lips with a napkin. I have felt this other man throb inside me. I have kissed and sucked and loved another man's body like I never, could never, will never, love yours. As she said this, wondering if, indeed, an audible whisper had emerged, she was actually helping to clear the dishes.
There was, nevertheless, a message in his criticism. She was ill-informed, particularly on a subject of obsessive interest to Eduardo. Previously, she had had no desire to inform herself on those matters that interested Claude. Perhaps she was resisting subconsciously. But Claude had pointed out her inadequacy in terms of Eduardo. It was odd how her life had changed. There was no subtlety about it. A line had been drawn, quickly, abruptly. She belonged in her mind to Eduardo. For Eduardo she would do anything. Anything!
Spending most of the next day in Cleveland Park Library, she gathered up all the books she could find about Chile. Some she thumbed through in the library. The rest she brought home with her, displaying the books deliberately and pugnaciously on a living-room shelf and on the night table near her bed. Reading about Chile, she felt closer to Eduardo.
Claude lay beside her as she read, the pages of the book illuminated by the small night light. She felt his arm steal around her middle.
"It is late," she said. "Please." She shrugged him away. "I am informing myself."
"That is quite obvious. But you needn't do it with such passion."
What does he know about passion, she thought. Again, his arm stole around her. "Sorry," she snapped. "I never mix business with pleasure." He would not, of course, know which was which.
"I'm sorry, Marie," he whispered, pecking at her ear. "I had no idea you were becoming so sensitive."
"Go to sleep."
"Really, Marie. I am sorry."
"So am I," she said, checking herself. It would be foolish to precipitate an argument. She wondered if she should submit as she might have done in the past. For some reason, she had never refused him directly, only obliquely. She pondered an escape route, finally patted his head.
"You must sleep. Tomorrow is a busy day." She bent over and kissed his forehead. "Only a little while longer. I want to make you proud of me tomorrow."
"But I am proud of you," he said. Somehow he seemed placated and rolled further away from her. She felt relief at her wise strategy. But it frightened her to feel her commitment to Eduardo. She shivered, her eyes going back to the book.
"Do you know why the national character of Chile is one of nervousness and dislocation?" She looked over to Claude. He grunted.
"Earthquakes. Too much fish in the diet. The mountains." She turned to see if there was any reaction. But Claude had already drifted away.
The Chilean Chancellery was a stately old residence located on Massachusetts Avenue in the midst of Embassy Row. The ambassador's wife was lovely, tall and willowy. The ambassador, too, was charming, urbane and distinguished. He was a tall barrel-chested man with well-cut clothes. They were hardly what one might expect Eduardo's enemies to be like. It annoyed Marie to be in this setting. It destroyed her subjectivity, her alliance with Eduardo in all things.
"We are badly maligned," the ambassador was saying and although she did not sit next to him, she listened intently, ignoring her dinner partner, a portly gentleman, the president of some important company that did business in Chile. "It is true we are ruled by a junta. But this is the fate of most South American countries. Otherwise we would be in chaos. We need order first so that we can broaden our economic base and provide our people with a better alternative for communism, which will destroy everything we have built since Bernardo O'Higgins and San Martin freed our country from the Spanish in 1818."
She knew that, she told herself happily. She had even remembered the exact date, April 5, 1818.
"Your April fifth," she blurted out, startling the ambassador as he looked toward her and smiled broadly.
"Yes," he said. "That is exactly right."
"But what about the DINA?" the man on her right whispered. She knew that, too. That was their intelligence agency, their terror troops, as Eduardo had characterized them. They were vicious brutes, he had told her, who reached out to kill enemies of the Junta in every country of the world. The mention of the name made her shiver briefly, for she knew that it was the DINA that Eduardo hated most.
The ambassador heard the reference and did not ignore it. He was obviously defensive, but tolerant. He was a seasoned diplomat.
"You have your CIA. We have our DINA. One must recognize that every country has enemies. In our case, the enemies are so numerous that we must take extra precautions. As for assassinations, they are exaggerated. It is propaganda spread by our enemies." A slight flush on his neck betrayed both his passion and his discipline.
"And what of those who are banished from your country? Or are in your prisons?" She knew it was her voice saying these things, but could not believe it was her mind creating them. How impolitic, she admonished herself, looking at Claude at the other table, pursuing a conversation with his usual intensity. She knew she had made most of the others at her table uncomfortable. But it was too late. The idea of it was in the open and she could see the flush on the ambassador's skin expand upward under his chin.
"Banishment is an old South American tradition," the ambassador began, with an effort at good humor. "That is punishment enough. There is nothing worse for a Chilean, for example, than to lose his country. Nothing worse." He paused, seemed to lapse into introspection. He seemed genuinely sad, helpless in the face of events. It was a familiar diplomatic affliction. In that role, one did not have the luxury to follow one's instincts. "It is all so strange," he continued, clearing his throat. "We are such a small country." How is it possible to hate these people, she thought? Did he know Eduardo? The idea titillated her. Perhaps she would subtly bring out his name after dinner, privately. She lowered her head and played with the food on her plate, noting that he had ignored the question about prisons.
Later, during the after-dinner drinks and coffee in the terrace room off the swimming pool, she insinuated herself near the ambassador, waiting politely for him to finish talking with a plump man who had been at the other table with her husband.
"I hope you didn't think I was being rude," she began when she had caught his eye. The plump man's presence distressed her and she tried to be deliberately vague, hoping that the ambassador would understand.
"Not at all," he said, but she sensed a coolness beneath the surface.
"You see, I am extremely interested in Chile."
"Oh?"
She observed his sudden interest.
"I would like someday to visit Punta Arenas."
"Punta Arenas!" The ambassador laughed. "It is the equivalent of your 'Wild West.'"
"The city on the bottom of the world." She marveled again at her cunning, knowing that she was deliberately ingratiating herself with the ambassador, establishing her credibility. How many people knew that Punta Arenas was the most southern city in the Western Hemisphere?
"It is the political situation that confuses me most," she said, with an air of confession. "Allende was, admittedly, a Marxist. But he was duly elected by the people. All right, he was overthrown by other forces. Why then must there be so much brutality...?" She
found herself groping for words.
"You see," the ambassador began, "what Allende tried to do was make a bloodless communist revolution. There is no such thing. Those who have achieved success or are descendants of those who achieved success before them are not ready to give up the fruits of their achievements. Democracy then becomes unworkable. It is our hope that the Junta can keep peace long enough to find new alternatives to give people greater opportunity without wiping out the achievers."
"You make it sound so simple." She paused, aimed her dart, then threw it. "I recently met a gentleman at the Roumanian Embassy. He held a different view."
She could feel his alertness. The plump man had drifted away.
"I can't quite recall his name. It began with a 'p'."
"Ah, yes. Palmero. Eduardo."
"You know him?"
"Of course. We are a small country. He is, of course, a political enemy of the regime." A note of sadness crept into his voice. "We were at the University together. Once we were friends. Now he barely talks to me."
"You see him?"
"I know all about him." She could see he was becoming uncomfortable. Perhaps they really are watching him. Eduardo will be proud of me, she thought, anticipating their future meeting, at which she could tell him what she had learned. Perhaps I qualify as a spy, she told herself with some amusement.
By the time Eduardo called on Monday, she was in a terrible state of irritability. At breakfast she snapped at her children, bringing both of them near tears. Claude, thankfully, was distant as he read the morning papers with his coffee. She had been particularly cruel to him. Bitchy would be a better characterization, since she literally had shrunk from his advances as if he were carrying some disease. She might have been less cruel by creating some physical complaint, something feminine. But somehow honor compelled her to make him feel unwanted. I am another man's woman, she wanted to tell him, hoping he would understand even through her silence, by her actions.
"What have I done?" he had pleaded. "Really, Marie, you are acting strangely. I am your husband."
"I just don't feel like it," she protested.
"Are you ill?" He had actually felt her forehead.
"No, I am not ill. I just don't feel like it."
Since it had never happened before in quite that way, it probably loomed larger in his mind than it might have. But in the rejection, she derived satisfaction, like a battle won. I will not submit, she told herself, convinced that "submission" was the correct word. Claude might have used "obedience."
And yet, she was convinced that her relationship with Eduardo bordered on a form of submission. The difference was that she wanted to submit. He would summon her in his own good time and she would come. That was a very romantic idea, she thought, but it was also nerve-racking. The uncertainty sapped her strength and her ability to cope with the details of her other life. There must be some other, more certain way to pursue this, she decided.
When, finally, he did call, her elation was so dominating that she hardly remembered the hurt until after they had made love. She no longer approached him with the fear that somehow it would not be the same. He moved her, beyond what she had thought possible. The moment she would arrive in his arms, her body would react like a crashing wave.
"This is heaven on earth," she whispered, feeling him still inside her, their passion momentarily subsiding, the feel of it like the beached surf sliding back into the turmoil of the sea.
"You are my life now, Eduardo," she told him. "I live only for you. Only to be near you." He was silent, disengaging, lying on his back now, his arm around her, staring upward.
"Is it wrong for me to feel these things?" she asked. "Or to say them?"
"You must not make it a moral question," he said.
"All right then. Why has it happened? Answer me that."
"It is unanswerable."
"No, it must have an answer."
"It is a mystery. Like the concept of God."
"What has God got to do with it?"
He sighed. He seemed on the edge of irritation. She was suddenly anxious.
"And you, Eduardo? Can it be the same for you?" It was a question that had begun to absorb her. What was he feeling? Does he love me? She had tried to resist asking such a question. Suddenly she put a finger on his lips. "Do you love me?" she whispered. "Don't," she said quickly, frightened. "It is not necessary to answer." They were silent for a long time, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Finally, she told him about her dinner at the Chilean Embassy. His lips grew tight.
"Pallett, that toady!" he hissed.
"But he said he was once your friend."
"He would have me shot as much as look at me!" His anger became palpable. "And he as much as admitted they were watching me. The butchers are watching me. But they will never silence me. Never. I will die first."
She put a hand on his forehead, hoping to quiet him.
"Let me help, Eduardo." The touch of her seemed to cool him. How she longed to be a part of his life. "I can help," she insisted. He looked at her thoughtfully.
"Why?"
"You, Eduardo. What is love without sacrifice?"
"It is too dangerous."
"For you, I will do anything."
"You don't understand, Marie. This is not a game. I am a marked man. They watch me. It is not safe to get involved."
"But I am involved."
He paused, watching her, inspecting. "We shall see," he whispered.
She should have been frightened. That seemed the logical reaction. She should have thought first of her own exposure, the potential breakup of her life with Claude and the children. That had once seemed the real danger. Somehow it had all become reversed. She actually imagined the joy of dying with him. What is life without him now? My God, what am I thinking?
"Love me, Eduardo. Just love me."
She lay on the bed watching him dress. It was part of their rhythm now.
"If only I could be certain that we would meet on a particular day, at a particular time. It is terrible to live with such anxiety. I could cope better with my life if I knew."
"It is impossible."
"Perhaps I could cover over every day at a certain hour. I will clean this place up. I will cook for you. There is so much I want to give."
"I am sorry, Marie," he said, turning to her, his silver-gray eyes calm in the early-afternoon light filtering through the half-opened blinds. "It is impossible." He hesitated, "...now." Had she heard him accurately?
The hint of a future with him gave her courage. If he asked, would I give up everything, she wondered. My man. This is my man. Lying there, she knew what decision she would make.
Having made the decision, she drew even further away from Claude and the children. There was, she knew, an element of militancy about it. Even madness. But I am Eduardo's woman was the only reassurance needed and she would repeat it over and over again to herself.
"You must join me for lunch at the State Department today," Claude said the following Monday morning. Again, she had somehow gotten through another week, mostly by maintaining silence and spending her time reading books about Chile. She had decided to begin taking Spanish lessons. The effect on Claude of her sudden turnabout from dutiful spouse to indifferent stranger was profound. He was confused, but had chosen a course of disciplined response. She observed this, but ignored it. What did it matter? Claude was a relationship of the past.
"No. You go without me."
"But the other wives will be there, Marie. And the Secretary of State with his wife." He seemed to be pleading. She noted that pockets of fatigue had begun to show up under his eyes. But the observation carried no feeling with it.
"I simply won't go," she said.
"Really, Marie. What have you got to do that's more important?"
"I'd prefer to stay home. Read my books. And there are household chores."
"Marie!" His body seemed to tighten and stretch as he loomed over her. A fleck of sal
iva formed at the side of his lips. "I demand that you come with me!"
"Demand?" She snickered, taunting him.
"You are my wife. I demand your compliance."
Compliance, she thought. How ridiculous! One would think I was another country. She did not reply, moving away from him. It was apparently a gesture more infuriating than speech.
"You damned bitch!" he shouted. "Are you trying to ruin me? You have no right. You are killing me. You are destroying my career!"
She had never seen him that angry, and while her mind told her that she should pity him, she found herself actually enjoying the spectacle. She remembered now all the little hurts and humiliations that she had endured at his hands. On numerous occasions, he had publicly insulted her in front of his mother. "If only she was better read, more informed," he had said. "An empty-headed ninny," he had called her. It was his favorite epithet. Not to mention his criticism of her manners, especially after a dinner or cocktail party. "You simply ignored the man sitting beside you," or "You should not have slurped so much wine," or "I saw the way you were eyeing that tall man," or "Couldn't you tell that your brassiere strap was showing?" Recalling this gave her courage. He didn't deserve her pity. He is revolting, she told herself, thinking of Eduardo, remembering the ecstasy she inspired in him. Ecstasy, yes. She felt a warmness suffuse itself inside her, an expectation.
"Listen to me when I talk to you!" Claude was shouting. "I will throw you out on the street." He started to move toward her. Was he getting ready to strike her? She braced herself, prepared to take the blow. If he strikes, she vowed, I will kick him in the groin.
But he stopped short suddenly, standing stiffly, searching for control.
"Have I done something?" he said, his throat constricted, the words hoarsely spoken. "Is there something I have done wrong?"
"Really, Claude. You are making a 'cause célèbre' over nothing."
"Nothing!" His anger rose again. "You are deliberately hurting me!"
"Because I won't go to your silly luncheon?"
He looked around him helplessly.
"Is this my wife talking?"
