by Warren Adler
"I worry over you, Eduardo," his father said suddenly. He was not going to be circuitous tonight, hardly subtle. Eduardo braced for a frontal assault. He knows, Eduardo thought, thinking of Miranda. He felt his face flush.
"Would you like a drink, Father?" Eduardo asked half rising in his chair. His father waved away the idea as if he were brushing away a stubborn fly. It seemed serious business.
"They are using you, Eduardo."
So it was political, Eduardo thought, relieved. Sooner or later it would have to come to that. A rebellious son might be a political tradition, but it was supposed to phase out early, like a disease that had run its course. Someone had sent him, Eduardo suspected.
"I have never tried to interfere, Eduardo."
"That is true." It was true only on the surface, perhaps to his father's perception. Actually, from Eduardo's point of view, the intrusion had been massive.
"As an intellectual exercise it was amusing," his father said. "Compassion is a noble emotion, but the reality requires far more pragmatism. Your Allende and his group are trying to destroy us."
"Not destroy. Redistribute."
"Euphemism. Take from us. Give to them." A slight flush mantled his father's cheekbones, showing the anger beneath. "Property belongs to him who can hold it."
"It is a shortsighted view," Eduardo said. "You know that, Father. You cannot continue to take. It is pointless to simply amass, while others starve."
"Well, then we must feed them."
"They are also looking for dignity."
He was careful not to appear scolding. He could not find the courage to confront his father, the patron.
"It could get nasty," his father said. "Chile, as we know it, would go down. Your people are agitating too much. Allende is a fool, a stupid dreamer. He cannot change human nature."
"We must have a counterbalance for excessive greed."
The barb found its mark and his father stood up. He was a tall man and his full height was always an intimidation, since Eduardo was still shorter by a head. He felt the old fear again, the power of his father.
"You must stop this, Eduardo," his father commanded. Is it simply a personal embarrassment or are they beginning to feel the pinch, Eduardo wondered, sensing his own elation and guilt.
"I am committed," Eduardo said respectfully.
"Committed? Do you really know what your commitment is?" He knew the question was rhetorical. "You are committed, my son, to your family's destruction. Without property we are nothing. This is the ultimate reality. To be landless in Chile, without wealth or property, is to be nothing. I have not worked this hard for my family to be nothing." His father's rage was like a descending storm brewing in a dark cloud.
"I insist that you stop this," his father said. It was a command that even his father knew would not be obeyed. It was merely the throwing down of the gauntlet, the test. Already he was sure a far subtler plan was at work. My father knows his son, Eduardo sensed, girding himself for other methods of persuasion.
"I am sorry, Father," he said. The older man straightened his jacket. He was fastidious in his dress. Do I love him? Eduardo asked himself. Affection had never been demonstrative in the family, although he believed that his father truly loved him, perhaps as he loved all his possessions. Yet he had destested all the females in the household.
"You are his favorite," his mother had insisted. It was a point on which he needed great reassurance, especially after Isabella. "You are the future. Your sisters are nothing to him." She paused and tears had filled her eyes. "And me, as well."
"Try to understand," Eduardo said, as his father moved to the door. The older man paused, put out a hand and gently stroked Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo wanted to touch his hand, but held back.
"You will understand only when you have your own son," his father said gently, turning and letting himself out of the door without another word. He will not give up so easily, Eduardo thought, wondering what the next onslaught would be.
Thoughts of Miranda eased all pain, except the pain of longing for her.
Occasionally, he would go home for the weekend, more out of obligation and guilt than desire. Sometimes all efforts at persuasion failed to lure him back. His mother, in an effort to recapture her self-esteem, had taken to throwing huge parties, mostly to display her wealth and to assure the world that the Palmeros were, indeed, one of the great united loving families of Chile. Eduardo would avoid these despite his mother's entreaties. They were lavish events, huge buffets, formal dress, dancing to the continuous music of rotating orchestras, a flaunting of wealth and affluence that disgusted him. Perhaps, from his mother's point of view, it was necessary to create these events merely to get his father home, since it would be unthinkable, and his mother knew it, for his father not to appear.
"You must come," his mother had insisted one day a few weeks after his father's unexpected visit.
"I'm sorry, Mother."
"I insist."
"Really, Mother. I am only an embarrassment." It was a tack he had decided to take as his political role had increased. "The radical son has no place there. It stands for everything I am against." He could sense the wheels of persuasion grinding in her mind.
"Everyone will be there. Simply everyone." He might have ignored the entreaty, but something tugged at the back of his mind.
"Who?" It was a question he would rarely ask.
"Lots of young people. Raoul."
They had gone different ways by then. Raoul had entered the military.
"The uniform, you ass. Women go mad for uniforms." He remembered his amusement at that remark, although he still, in his heart, adored and admired Raoul, while hating his arrogance. His associations were more political now. Raoul represented everything that he was against, like his family.
"And beautiful young girls," his mother said, almost lasciviously. Although it was rarely mentioned, Eduardo could feel the pressure of his family's matchmaking. She rattled a long list of names from the best families of Chile. "...Miranda Ferrara." She had thrown the dart at the mark. Miranda. In his house. His hand began to shake as it held the phone. He let her continue her persuasion, but he knew what his decision would be.
It was incredible, even to him, that he could sustain such passion for a woman who had barely muttered a phrase of greeting his way. It was not natural, he decided, adding to his own anxieties. Was he doomed always to love from afar? Of course, it was love, he admitted, although it was not the sanitized version of love in books and movies. It was visceral, passionate, erotic. He could masturbate and excite himself to shuddering orgasms by simply imaging her body beneath its tight tennis things or conceiving that it was her hand caressing, stroking, inducing his joy. Miranda. There was no way to drive her image from his mind.
What would he give up for her? It was a new twist to his obsessions and it began to haunt him now. And yet, sometimes he could feel a deep backwash of humiliation over his own weakness and inability to expunge her. She was, after all, the epitome of what he could easily believe was the dry rot of the Chilean oligarchy, living a life of ease and leisure with not an iota of social consciousness. Of course, he could be wrong about that. He had never conversed with her, could not even find the courage to confront her in the mildest of social forms, knowing that what he feared most of all was outright rejection. It was a finality that he could not, would not bear.
The large house where he had spent his childhood was festooned and geegawed for his mother's party, a lavish display of decoration, food and liquor. Servants were everywhere, putting the finishing touches on the vast display of wealth. They were still polishing the huge rock crystal chandelier that hung from the three-story ceiling into the center of the large foyer, a huge imposing and intimidating symbol of arrogant prosperity.
Dutifully, he visited his mother in her room, kissing her cheeks and filling himself with the familiar scent of her. It was the smell of her that bridged the gap between babyhood and maturity and it wasn't until he fina
lly breathed it that he knew he was home. Then he went to his old room, which was kept as usual, as if he would soon return from boarding school. The objects on the wall, his soccer awards, his old red striped soccer jersey, pictures of a Mexican actress who had once captivated him, all seemed meaningless as if the boy he once was had never existed.
He lay on his old bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking of Miranda, listening to the sounds of preparation in the house, the voices of the servants. He must have dozed. Then the ceiling was descending on him and he felt his helplessness as it lowered, stopping suddenly, touching both his nose and upright toes. In his panic, no logic existed and he felt his pores open and the sweat begin to cascade down his back and sides. Stuck here, he could sense his own rot beginning while all the old fears lost their meaning. Still, even on the ledge of impending death, Miranda retained her luminosity and became his single regret. He was certain that the idea of her staved off the final descent of the ceiling and he remembered the power of its protection when he awoke with a start, bathed in sweat and still shaking.
The music had begun and it might have been the first chords that had released him from his dream. Getting up, he went to the adjoining bathroom, showered in steaming water and began to dress in the formal attire that the maids had laid out.
Without knocking, Raoul walked in, resplendent in the uniform of a captain of the Chilean air force. He is beautiful, Eduardo thought, intimidating in his wonderful physique, sculpted into his dress uniform. His features had sharpened, the bone structure more defined now that some of the baby fat of youth had disappeared. Eduardo was fussing with his studs.
"So the proletarian is putting on his uniform."
"You look like a toy soldier."
They embraced in a gran abrazo, the surge of affection between them still strong despite their different paths. But there was an awkwardness now and Eduardo sensed that they would take refuge in deprecating humor and wisecracks.
"The house is literally dripping with fresh pussy," Raoul said, lighting a cigarette and pushing the smoke out through both nostrils.
"Same Raoul."
"I think your mother's trying to marry you off." He paused. "In your case it might not be such a bad idea. Keep you out of trouble."
"I'm not in trouble."
"That's what you think."
"No politics, Raoul."
Raoul shrugged, chasing a brief frown that had wrinkled his forehead. "Doesn't matter anyway. If you go too far, we will simply cut off your balls."
"There are worse fates."
"Name one."
Downstairs the party was in full swing. Eduardo's parents stood in a receiving line greeting an endless procession of guests. One by one his sisters came over and greeted him, wiping off their lipstick from his cheeks. His father looked at him, nodded and smiled thinly. Raoul had already cut one of the beauties from the crowd and had begun to dance, undulating in half rythm, concentrating on his prey. Voices swirling around him, Eduardo searched for Miranda. Walking halfway up the stairs again to gain a better view of the crowd, he felt the agony of loss. Perhaps she had not, would not come. When he could not find her, he proceeded to the bar and downed a double Scotch, coughing as the liquid passed his gullet. He was not used to it. Then he had another. And a third.
People greeted him. Old schoolmates. The daughters of his mother's friends. He nodded politely, waiting for the liquor to anesthetize him as he wandered through the crowd, searching every female face for Miranda.
By the time she arrived, he was already slightly dizzy and his vision was distorted. He was not used to alcohol. Leaning against the wall, he watched her, surrounded by young men, giggling, dividing her attention coquettishly, cool, arrogant, beautiful. He felt his face flush and his stomach knot. It was only when Raoul joined the circle that he found the strength to unlock his knees and amble forward.
"...and here is the son and heir," Raoul said. "Arch traitor to his class. You know Eduardo, Miranda." His easy intimacy with her galled him.
"Yes, we've met," she said, flashing a clear white smile his way, then turning to Raoul.
"I saw you play tennis," he said, his tongue thick, although he imagined that he had covered it well.
She turned to him again. "I'd rather play tennis than anything," she said, winking at Raoul.
"Than anything?" Raoul, as usual, was lascivious. Eduardo's gorge rose.
"My game is soccer," he said, stupidly.
"Wonderful," Miranda said without interest, turning again to Raoul. The other men had drifted away.
"Did you enjoy the Riviera?" Raoul asked. Eduardo resented the intrusion of a subject foreign to him. He had never been to the Riviera.
"I've never been," he said. But she had ignored him.
"Cannes was wonderful." Then they began to play "do you know" while he stood around awkwardly, shut out of the conversation, determined to find his courage.
"Can I get you a drink?" Eduardo asked. She paused, putting a finger on her chin in an attitude of indecision.
"Champagne?" Raoul suggested.
"Yes, that would be nice."
"Make it two, Eduardo," Raoul said. Angrily, Eduardo turned and moved through the crowd to the bar. The arrogant sonofabitch, he thought, the old boyhood awe congealing into hatred. He downed another double Scotch, took two glasses of champagne and renegotiated the crowd to where they had been standing. But they had gone. He saw them on the dance floor, their bodies close. Raoul was whispering in her ear. Unsteady hands made some of the champagne spill, dripping over his fingers. An image of Miranda in Raoul's arms, naked, intruded. He wanted to fling both glasses at him. Never had he felt such hatred. Moving through the dancers, he reached them. Raoul looked at him strangely and shook his head, his meaning clear. When Eduardo continued to stay with them, Raoul said, "Not now, Eduardo."
Miranda's eyes were closed, her cheek resting against Raoul's, her body mashed against him. His mother and father danced nearby, watching him.
"You are being ridiculous, Eduardo," Raoul said.
"I am ridiculous," he mumbled, his stomach churning.
"Are you drunk?" Raoul asked. Miranda opened her eyes and looked at him with contempt. His father moved closer to them, perhaps sensing something going wrong. More champagne slopped over Eduardo's fingers.
"Why don't you sit down, Eduardo?" Raoul said. "You are embarrassing yourself."
"I want to dance," Eduardo mumbled, his tongue thickening, his cheeks hot.
Raoul turned, releasing Miranda, and faced Eduardo, whose legs seemed like jelly.
"...for Godsakes, Eduardo.... "Raoul began, caught in mid-sentence by two splashes of champagne in his face. The high cheekboned face paled, the eyes blazed, the lips curled, as he gathered his dignity. Luckily, most of the liquid had spilled and what was left was like a brief drizzle. Eduardo could see his father's face, the jaw suddenly slack. But it was Miranda's look of disgust that shattered him, and even through his drunkenness he felt his shame as he turned and pushed his way through the startled dancers.
Upstairs in his room again, he lay on his bed and, remembering his dream, watched the ceiling, hoping it would descend and crash, snuffing out his miserable life.
"I can't believe it," his father said softly beside him. "It is not like you, Eduardo. Are you all right?" He felt his father's cool hand on his forehead, caressing him, pushing a shock of hair upward. He could not recall how long it had been since he had felt such a caress. Eduardo nodded, although he felt tears slide out of his eyes, over his cheeks.
"Did Raoul insult you?"
He shook his head. He could feel his father watching him, sensing the love the older man felt, knowing his own. He wanted his father to embrace him.
"I'll be all right," he whispered, knowing that it would never be true.
"Is it the girl?" his father asked gently. He did know.
Eduardo did not answer.
"So.... "his father began, swallowing what was to come. So they had found his vu
lnerability, he told himself, feeling his head clear momentarily. It was the time to offer a denial. But none came. And he knew that he was ready to sell his soul for Miranda.
VIII
Being near the big old Georgetown Public Library had hardly been a consideration in Jack and Penny Anne McCarthy's purchase of the Van Lovell place on R Street. Even the historical aspects of the place were less a consideration from an aesthetic point of view. What they were buying, they both knew, was the social values that the place suggested, the idea that they could purchase a spot in the social hierarchy of Washington by simply buying the historical significance their new home suggested.
It was quite typical of Washington's transient social whirlpool, where image counted for everything. Van Lovell had been Secretary of the Navy back in the 1880's and he had built this house--once the glittering center of Washington's party life--and with it, of course, came political ferment. The house passed on to a series of Cabinet ministers from the administrations of Teddy Roosevelt to Woodrow Wilson. Then old Joe Kennedy had rented it briefly during the Roosevelt administration. That counted for huge brownie points in the image-making process. The fact that he had only lived in it for three months hardly counted against it. Later, Mrs. Carter Howell had owned it and she had become a legendary social arbiter. Presidents had dined there, and kings, and it had been written up constantly in the local press. Once House Beautiful had done a picture layout, which the real-estate broker had mentioned umpteen times, not without a stimulating effect. And, after all, since Jack McCarthy was going to be an Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, it would make one hell of a springboard. A New York financial practice was all right. But Washington. There was a big stage for you and what good was it without a proper backdrop, especially if you had the money?
So they had purchased it and Penny and Jack McCarthy had become, in those first Nixon years, the fun social couple of Washington, and the big house was once again written up, and coincidentally, had been done again by House Beautiful Penny had posed with François, her little miniature poodle, suitably groomed and coiffured, although a bit nervous. There they were in front of the mantel, over which hung the huge Chagall that had come down through Jack's Aunt Martha, who had had all those wealthy husbands and to whom they were deeply indebted for the windfall of her inheritance.
