by Warren Adler
Miranda's picture revealed nothing, a flat image, devoid of humanity, and he did not have the imagination to superimpose it with life. Not like Eduardo! He could feel himself reaching out to Eduardo, barely touching. Perhaps it was Miranda's hatred that had brought them closer.
"But when you first married him, did you love him?" the interrogator had pressed.
"I told you. I detested him even then."
There seemed a special delicacy in the next question, as if the interrogator was aware of the rituals of the oligarchy.
"An arrangement?"
"There was more to consider than the mere emotions of the principals." She had spat out the words with contempt. "The merger of two great fortunes took precedence over the merger of people." The interrogator had noted a long silence. "I loathed him."
"Why?"
"Perhaps because he was forced upon me."
"And his feelings?"
She had put out a cigarette, stood up, paced the large room, looking upward as if imploring God. When she finally returned to within earshot of the interrogator, she had fixed her eyes on him, glaring, two burnt coals glowing.
"I could have told him to jump off the highest mountain in Chile and he would have done so. I could have told him to slit his throat with a knife and he would have done so. I could have told him to put a bullet in his brain and he would have done so. He was beyond logic, obsessed with me."
"So the marriage was more than an arrangement."
"All right, I'll tell you. I was the ransom, his father's bribe to him to keep him out of politics, to be a good little boy. I was the candy." She mocked, imitating a child, "I will give you this candy if you will only play like a good little boy and not get into mischief. I pleaded with my own father not to allow this."
"Why did he?"
"Money. Property. Greed. He was an old-fashioned man and I was an only daughter, the spoiled beauty. For him, the marriage was the moment of truth. He demanded continuity from me. And Eduardo's father was a subtle one, sly. He bid quite high. He presented an offer that could not be refused. And my father demanded my consent." She had dabbed her eyes. "A woman's tears mean nothing. And I adored my father. I worshipped him."
"And your mother?"
"She had been pampered beyond endurance and had long ago succumbed to my father's disciplines. She was nothing." The flashing eyes moved away from the interrogator's face. The full lips barely moved as the voice continued.
"It was the most lavish wedding in Santiago. Five hundred guests and the two fathers puffed up like peacocks at the stew they had cooked up for us. We were the darlings of Chile, the envy of the world. The virgin princess led to the slaughter."
The interrogator must have offered a confused expression and Miranda had cackled nervously.
"Hard to believe? Yes, I know. I had often wondered who would believe me when the time came to tell it." She had held out her arms in a pantomime of display of her physical assets. "I am still fine to look at. My body is good. It was perfection then. See my teeth? Still white. And the purple eyes. Little bags beginning, but more than the hint of what they were." She picked at her skin, pinching a cheek, stretching the wafer of flesh, which bounced back to the skull. "The skin still good. There." She pointed to a picture, a painting in an ornate gold-leafed frame. "That was me then. I had what is the stuff of men's dreams. To Eduardo, I had come down from heaven." There was another long silence, more pacing of the large room.
"Then why was the bargain not kept?" the interrogator asked finally. It was, after all, the heart of the exercise. "In less than a year he was back in politics. They had sent him to put out their party organ in Valdivia. He betrayed you."
"Yes," she snapped. "He betrayed me."
"Why?"
"He would not accept what he had bought. He had assumed he was getting fire. He got ice instead."
Eduardo would always remember the sound of the sea beating against the jagged rocks two hundred feet below and the pounding of the wind against the window of their bedroom. The gale had come up suddenly and soon the thunder rolled above them with explosive force, shaking the ground on which the house perched precariously at the edge of the mountain.
Her father had given her the house, his vacation retreat on the coast sixty miles above Santiago. Miranda had gone there as a child, but lately her father had used it to entertain his various mistresses and it was one of the gifts proffered in the bargain struck between the heads of the two families. Isolated, built of granite and marble from the nearby quarries, it seemed--in her father's mind, at least--the perfect spot for a woman to find the love of a man. Obviously it had worked for him many times, and her father must have sensed that it was, in his daughter's case, the badly needed medicine to smooth her passage to womanhood.
If there had been protests to the marriage on her part, Eduardo had blocked them from his mind. Certainly Miranda did not, in their six month courtship, give any hint of defiance. If she was quiet, aloof, he imagined it was her way, although he certainly knew that she did not love him.
"In time," his father had assured him. Nor did he inquire as to the details of the bargain. Beyond having her, everything else was of little consequence to him. Every ounce of his being cried out for her, overcoming his doubts. She was something worth living for, he told himself. Nothing else could possibly matter. He had not, in those six months, done anything more than caress her fingers, the touch of them sending shivers through his body, creating palpitations and swellings in his loins. The mere sight of her could stir him, and sometimes his desire for her grew so powerful that he dared not face her without first relieving himself of the burden of his own sexuality.
And if she knew she was the object of his obsessive fantasies, she hardly spoke of it, revealing, actually, nothing of her true feelings.
If she was not affectionate, she was polite, and although he was not yet tortured by her indifference, he pushed these anxieties from his mind. There was nothing he would not do to possess her. Politics paled. If necessary, he was prepared to go to law school and step into the role of patron of the family under his father's tutelage. Up till then, he had no regrets, only fears that we would not ultimately please her.
As the moment of truth approached, he waited in the drawing room, watching the turbulent sea, listening to the wind and the exploding thunder, wondering if it stirred her desire to be protected by him. I will never let harm come to you, he vowed silently, his eyes searching the ominous maelstrom beyond the thick glass panes. The servants had prepared a lavish dinner and they had sipped champagne. He had even toasted her, silently, since his throat was too tight to speak coherently and his mind and heart too overflowing with the ecstasy of having won her. She is mine now, became a repetitive phrase in his brain as he watched her, the golden princess of his dreams. What did it matter how he had won her?
When he had waited an appropriate length of time, he climbed the wide staircase to the master bedroom suite, knocking politely at the door, his legs like jelly. There was no reply and he opened the ornate door into the darkened room, revealed suddenly by the flash from a bolt of lightning. She was already in the bed, although he could not see her face, only that her hair had been let down and lay spread along the pillow.
"Darling," he whispered. Still no answer came. He came toward the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing quiet. Bending over her, he put his lips on hers, feeling instantly his desire surge. Her lips did not respond. He shook her lightly, heard a brief gurgle as a breath caught in her throat. Perhaps it was the champagne, he thought, still trusting. He moved away from the bed and into the large adjoining bathroom. Her makeup case was open. She had obviously done her nightly ablutions. Her toothbrush hanging beside his in the rack was damp.
It was only when he saw the little opened vial of pills that his curiosity deepened. He lifted the vial to his nostrils, smelled them. They were odorless. Then he looked at the label. "Take two before retiring." Sleeping pills. A brief panic seized him, bu
t then he overturned the vial into his palm. There were many still left. It was hardly an overdose.
He ran to the bed again.
"Miranda," he called, his voice rising as he said her name. She did not stir. He felt a sob grow in him as he reached over and took her in his arms, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. Her eyelids fluttered at his touch. He imagined they opened briefly, then, leaden, they closed again. She was in a dead sleep.
Undressing, he crept in beside her. She was naked. Her flesh felt cool, and despite his anger, his anxiety and humiliation, his penis remained hard. He slipped an arm under her and drew her toward him, whispering her name in her ear, tears welling over his eyelids, falling to her cheek. He could not tell how long he held her in this position, his body stirring, although his anger grew as the night wore on, excited by the sounds of the storm roaring outside. Perhaps the storm had frightened her, he wondered. But what she had done had extinguished the luminosity of the moment, his moment. And he had determined that he would not, could not disappoint her. Had she forgotten and simply took the pills as part of her nightly routine? The idea softened his anger, but only for the moment. Love me, he cried into the night, holding her, feeling her soft flesh next to his own. You must love me.
Later, as he lay there, still holding her, listening to the storm's abatement, he began to curse his own vulnerability. Why had he consented to this idea? He had let it happen, had let his father manipulate the event. He cursed what he had become, although he could still feel some pride in the possession of her. But she is mine. It is her duty, he railed, getting out of bed and pacing the floor. Finally, he threw the covers off her, watching her nakedness, feeling the force of his anger and sexuality. Then he moved over her, spreading her legs roughly, placing his penis up against the dark thatch where her legs met. He wanted to cry, scream out his anguish. You are mine, he pleaded, conscious of his own self-loathing as he checked himself from moving his body further. Instead, he continued to hold her, kissing her. She did not stir. Love me, he pleaded as he felt desire roar through him and the joy begin somewhere deep in his brain, the storm lashing out again inside of him, the sea angry again, the wind shuddering, the thunder explosive. He felt ashamed of his pleasure, rolling over her to his side of the bed. She had wanted that, he decided, his logic suddenly clear. I did not give her that satisfaction. He was convinced of his insight, also of his love for her. He lay awake the rest of the night, watching the dawn come, then the morning.
The sky had cleared into a deep blue. The sun had risen high when she finally stirred beside him. He watched her come out of the deep narcotic slumber, insisting that his face be the first object she would see.
"Why?" he asked, when her eyes finally squinted into the sun. It was already late afternoon and he had not slept. He knew she was gathering her senses, trying to surmise whether the act had been done. The realization dawned. She was still virginal.
"Are you disappointed?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, Eduardo," she said. "I could not face it."
"Am I so repugnant?" It was a question that gnawed at his pride. He wished he did not have to ask it. She closed her eyes again.
"I could not face it," she said. He reached out and touched her cheek, feeling the coldness. His penis rose instantly. He could not will his desire into submission.
"If only you knew how much I love you," he said. Her lips curled. It seemed to him to be contempt. Not even a smile for his weakness.
"I know, Eduardo. I am truly sorry."
He began to caress her again. Surely there was some way to reach her. He knew he could forgive her.
"I can't help myself," he said.
"Nor can I, Eduardo."
"In time.... "His words trailed off. He remembered how his father had said it, with such confidence, such wisdom. But he had trusted him once before. The image of Isabella was branded into his mind. Again, I am cheated, he thought, feeling the backwash of self-pity.
He moved her body close to his again, kissing her lips, feeling again her coldness.
"I love you," he said again. And when she did not move, a lump of clay in his arms, he said, "It is a curse."
"I suppose," she said. He could feel her indifference. Then she added quickly, "But I will do my duty." He wanted to block out the sense of the words. He squeezed her breasts, his tongue rolling over her nipples. Still, there was no reaction. He reached down and caressed her clitoris. She did not stir.
"Are you frightened?" he whispered.
"No," she said. She lay there without emotion, her eyes open, her lips pursed. "It would have been all right last night," she said.
"I suppose you would have preferred it that way."
She looked at him and nodded.
"But I am a man!" he said, the anger rising again, the humiliation palpable.
"Do it then!" It seemed a taunt. Then she threw the covers off and spread her legs. His eyes washed over her womanhood, the beauty of it. He had dreamed about it, seen it in his mind, desired it. Now he was intimidated by it.
"Do it!" she hissed. "For God's sake, let's get it over with."
He wanted to protest, but she reached out for him and pulled him over her.
"Do it!" she said, guiding him roughly. He felt her physical irritation, her dryness.
"Not like this." He tried holding back, but she urged him forward. He felt her body's pain, although he could not confirm it in her face. She strained forward, plunging his penis into her. He felt her tightness close over him, vise-like.
"There!" she said, her breath gasping. "I have done my duty."
He felt his helplessness as his body again quickly gave way to its own pleasure, and although he was consciously ashamed of it, he let it sweep over him again in a delicious fury. His body shuddered. She lay there, still a lump of flesh, accepting her duty.
"I love you," he whispered. She said nothing, waiting. Finally, he fell backward on the bed, his own exhaustion reaching through his humiliation. He closed his eyes and heard her go into the bathroom and slam the door. Before he fell asleep, he wondered why he could not bring himself to hate her.
To the outside world, their parents, her friends, they could pass as a reasonably loving but reticent couple. To themselves, they were an arrangement and their life together an exercise in politeness. It was his cross to bear, he decided, since he was the loving one. She was true to the bargain, obedient and dutiful. And he kept his end of the bargain. His father had bought for them a large house in Santiago, giving them additional property and shares in a variety of companies. From a business point of view, the merger was a spectacular deal. But the financial aspects held little interest for him and it was she who took command of the records and finances when he entered law school.
He was older than the rest of the students and he kept mostly to himself, especially avoiding his old political friends, who soon grew tired of his aloofness. Naturally, they did not take his defection lightly. A scion of one of the first families of the oligarchy was always a visible prize for the left, but even an attempt by Allende to bring him back to the fold failed. It was, he knew, against the grain, and glimpsing ahead, he could see his life spread out like a lush carpet--money and the power it gave, and the endless manipulations to preserve it, a life of ease, servants, and, in the end, a perpetuation of the privilege in his children. The prospect disgusted him, although he knew it was the kind of life that Miranda had been bred for. So had he. What had gone wrong?
Beneath the surface of what seemed like a truce or, worse, a suspension of life, he was in a perpetual state of mental torture. Its root was Miranda. The more she became indifferent, if that was possible, the more he became inflamed. He began to watch her, study her, observing every movement and expression as if he were studying a complex cell under a microscope.
"What is it, Eduardo?" she would ask when his inspection became an irritation.
"Nothing."
"Why are you staring?"
It became, on her part, a litany. He wa
s not conscious of it, as if she were a magnet and his eyes a metallic substance. Perhaps he was subconsciously trying to will her to love him and this fixation was an attempt at hypnotism. Why doesn't she love me? he would cry within himself, never daring to confront her with the question.
In his arms, at the beginning, she would lay motionless, accepting his ministrations mutely, doing her duty. Her indifference gnawed at him. The contrast to himself, his own sense of ecstasy when he touched her, when he felt her, when his body merged with hers, seemed bizarre, somehow inhuman. He was alternately gentle and insistent. She refused him nothing and gave him nothing. And yet, in terms of pure physical pleasure, the wonder of her exasperated him. She was his gift and curse. He had, he knew, bargained with the devil. Nothing could move her.
"What do you think about when I do that?" he asked once, when the pain had become unbearable. Her eyes were closed and he lay over her, supported by his elbow, watching her closed eyelids flutter.
"Nothing," she responded.
"Just your duty?"
"I am your wife."
"Surely there is some feeling?" The way the question was posed frightened him and he was grateful for her silence.
"How long do you think I can endure this?"
She opened her eyes and looked at him, as he searched her face.
"A lifetime," she said. "There is no question about that." She paused. "We have obligations."
