The Casanova Embrace

by Warren Adler

  "Stay with me," she repeated. She wanted to add, "And let me worship you." But the old fear of overstepping made her reticent. Finally she said, "Where do you live? Where do you go? What is your life away from me?" He continued his stroking of the blade.

  Finally he answered her. "If I tell you, then I make you part of it. It is better this way."

  "I am part of it, Eduardo."

  "Only peripherally."

  "But I am part of you."

  He finished shaving and scooped up hot water in his palms, dipping his face into it. He toweled his face dry and turned toward her. His skin glowed now, the tired lines faded, and he seemed younger.

  "You must accept the reality of my life," he said. The whiteness of the tile set off the silver flecks in his gray eyes.

  "Reality," she repeated. "What is that?"

  He lifted her and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her with him through the hall to her bedroom. Then he propped the pillows of her bed and lay down. He was relaxed now, comfortable. She could feel his sense of well-being and rejoiced in it. He belongs here, she told herself, to me. Sitting beside him on the bed, she touched his chest, felt the beat of his heart.

  "I am engaged in momentous work. It is dangerous. There is no way I can settle down. It is a gypsy life. I am a hunted man. There is simply no peace for me." He closed his eyes. Did he feel peace now?

  "Is it that important?" She could not understand anything surpassing the importance of this, of their being together. What was worth more than that?

  "What will it bring you, Eduardo?" she said.

  He opened his eyes. "It is not for me," he said. "There are things that we must do that are beyond ourselves."

  "There is nothing beyond ourselves," she said, marveling at her own measure of selfishness. "There seems to be no point in anything else." He stroked her hair and looked up at her, saying nothing.

  "And will this other thing ever end?" she asked quietly, feeling the tears mist her eyes. "Or is this the way it must be always?" I will never accept this she told herself. Never!

  "Really, Anne. There is no knowing."

  "Then it will always be one day at a time. Nothing ever beyond the day, the minute, the hour."

  "It is a conversation that can only end in infinity."

  She was fearful now, holding back. This is just not enough, she told herself, looking beyond the present to the long days and nights of absence.

  "And when will you need more gold?" She wondered if he could sense the implicit bribe. His eyelids flickered.

  "You are not a Chilean," he said suddenly. "You have no right to squander your fortune."

  "It is not squandering."

  "And I have no right to accept it."

  "You have every right. What I have is yours, Eduardo." She bent down and held him in her arms. If you asked, I would give you my life, she told herself.

  "The needs are without bottom," he said. "An enterprise like ours demands more and more. Besides, you don't know what we do with it."

  "I don't care."

  "How can you not care?" he seemed troubled, agitated. She felt his breathing quiet as she held him.

  They slept, and sometime in the middle of the night, she heard him stir and slip from her side. She feigned sleep, watching him dress swiftly, then come toward her and kiss her forehead.

  "I will call soon."

  Soon! She wondered what that meant, looking forward again to the aimless days and nights. "When?"

  Mumbling a response, he moved away and she heard the sound of him on the stairs, then the closing click of the door. It was the snap of the lock, the finality of it, that triggered her actions. She dressed quickly and, throwing on her old trench coat, ran into the street. He was already turning onto Wisconsin Avenue. She ran toward it, watched him walking swiftly, two blocks away. Clinging to the storefronts, she followed him, alert to his movements, anticipating when he might look back. She knew his caution and, perhaps by instinct, would stop suddenly, jumping into the shadows. At times her anticipation was accurate and he would turn, assure his security, and move on. At Calvert Street he slowed and crossed, starting north again. Then he was gone. By the time she reached the corner of Calvert and Wisconsin, she had lost all trace of him. He was here, somewhere in this area. On the west corner a large apartment building loomed. She watched its facade for a long time until the chill made her shiver. Then she walked to a row of nearby townhouses, the windows dark, the occupants obviously asleep.

  She berated her lack of efficiency, although she considered the frustration a fitting reward for her guilt. It was, after all, a revolting thing to do, a compulsion born of anxiety, that horrible crushing sense of impending loss that could drive her into the depths of depression.

  Helplessly, she stood rooted to the corner, the vapor pouring from her mouth, her hands thrust into the pockets of her trench coat. She had not dressed properly, another punishment. Finally the cold defeated her and she began to walk south on Wisconsin Avenue, occasionally looking backward, searching for a sign of him.

  Back in her house, she crawled into bed again, filling the place where he had slept with her own body, seeking warmth, extracting it partly from the memory of him and the smell of him that still lingered on the sheets and pillows. She tossed and turned, unable to escape into sleep.

  More than anything, it was the foreboding of impending loss that prompted her search, her vigil, as she thought of it. One cannot fully possess without knowing, she told herself, daring not to believe that he had another life without her, refusing to acknowledge anything in herself more than curiosity. But when he had not called by mid-afternoon, the old panic exploded inside her and she dressed, warmly this time, with thermal underwear and old woolen gloves she had found around the house. Then, as darkness descended, she walked north again to Wisconsin and Calvert and stood in the shadows of a storefront near the bus stop. It was important, she decided, to take a position that might not be suspect. Somewhere in this area was Eduardo. She searched the faces of the people that passed in front of her, as if somehow the likeness of Eduardo could be found there. Above her loomed the facade of the apartment building, clusters of lights, as people lived their lives in their circumscribed allocation of space. From her vantage point, she had a view of the four corners, the Holiday Inn on the northeast side, a cluster of small shops on the southern ends of the intersection, and at the northwestern side, the large apartment house, where, logic told her, was the most obvious place for Eduardo to have gone. She bemoaned her lack of cunning the other evening. She might have watched the windows of the apartment building to see which had lit up and that might have been a clue. Now, standing stiffly at her post, like a sentry, she felt her own alertness, certain she would know, would find out, if only she had the courage to stick it out.

  The streets were nearly deserted when she felt fatigue and knew she must leave, rest, try again another time, tomorrow night. She had already decided that a daytime vigil would be too risky, too conspicuous. But when he did call a few days later, he sounded furtive, distant. Did he know that she was following him?

  "I must talk quickly. I think I am being watched."

  Was it she that he had sensed?

  "I need you, Eduardo."

  "Two more days. Please."

  "It is an agony, Eduardo. Where are you? Can I come to you?"

  "No. It is very sensitive. Very sensitive." He paused, then lowered his voice. "We need more gold."

  The thought cheered her. It was the umbilical cord. The panic subsided, although she still felt its outer edges.

  "How much?"

  "The same."

  "When?"

  "Can it be ready in two days?"

  "Of course."

  "Good. You are wonderful, Anne."

  "But I need you now, Eduardo."

  "It is too dangerous. I must be careful."

  She felt the temptation to say that she would hold back the gold, but she feared such a move just yet.

  "I
will have it ready," she said, thinking suddenly of his danger. "Could you die, Eduardo?"

  "We will all die someday."

  He hung up, leaving her with the lingering thought. My God, how will I live without him? The idea of his death prompted a renewed energy of compulsion and she dressed again for her nightly routine. It had become a ritual, and she felt part of the environment of this particular spot in Georgetown.

  She had become attuned to every sound, every sight. Even the cars passed with an element of predictability and the faces that she peered into seemed to nod in greeting, although she acknowledged no recognition on her part. There was, however, something different happening. She sensed it, waiting patiently, watching the streets in every direction as the night progressed and the crowds thinned.

  The streets were almost deserted when she heard his familiar walk, the cadence unmistakable. She moved back into the shadow of a building as he moved across the street and walked toward the apartment house. The facade was almost completely dark and she concentrated on watching the windows, waiting for a telltale sign. At first, she was tempted to chase after him, to call his name. My Eduardo! The environment seemed so foreign to him as he strode purposefully, quickly, with a sense of mission. Holding back, she waited. The lobby doors closed and she watched the building facade, feeling the minutes tick off in her brain.

  Then, four floors up, she saw a flicker of light. It lingered briefly, and she was able to see a shadow move behind half-drawn blinds, certain it was he. She waited, daring not to breathe, knowing that she had discovered what she had sought, although the victory of it gave her little pleasure. Did he live there, she wondered? Then another shadow passed and Anne's body seemed to freeze, confronted with a terror that she had put out of her mind, had refused to accept. A woman!

  The pain of her fists clenching restored movement again and she felt the beat of her heart, a pounding sensation, like an earthquake beginning inside her. The effort to calm herself came instinctively, sharpening her cunning as she moved back into the recess of a storefront, outside the range of visibility of the apartment. Through the window of the storefront, she watched, huddling her chin deep into the collar of her trench coat, calculating the exact location of the apartment, burning it into her memory.

  Not that the idea of Eduardo and another woman was an absurdity. She felt a sudden lack of cleanliness, a vileness inside her, and knew that her heart was toying with hate for him. Perhaps there is another explanation, she decided, the violence subsiding. It is a co-worker, a co-conspirator, a colleague. She had not gotten a clear view of the woman, who was still faceless, ageless. She regretted now her reticence in not probing deeper into his past. A man in his forties surely would have a wife, children, other women, relationships, all the things she had dared not ask about. But nothing outside of him had had any meaning for her.

  Suddenly the window of the apartment grew dark again and she felt the full measure of her own loneliness, knowing despite her attempt at rationalization, that he was sharing something up there, something beyond her, with someone else. She leaned her forehead against the store's door and saw the shadowy objects inside lit by a tiny lamp in the rear. It was an antique store, and the old bits and pieces took on odd shapes in the oblique light, leaving the details of their configuration to her imagination. Mute objects, she thought, like her. Survivors. The idea seemed to buttress her courage and she determined to stand there, all night if necessary, ignoring the chill, even if her body petrified. She would wait, lurk. She had to know. She looked up again and watched the darkened window, understanding that the focus of her obsession had shifted.

  XV

  Frederika, rubbing the hurt place on her cheek, looked through the slats of the blinds, waiting for Eddie to appear on the street below. The spot where the woman had stood before was empty and, except for the passing of an occasional car, the street was deserted. Then he appeared, walking swiftly.

  A flash of movement caught her attention. It was the woman, crossing the street with the sure step of a cat in the jungle. Rushing back from the window, she ran to her bed and slipped under the blanket. She is coming now, she knew, feeling her vulnerability, her nakedness.

  Earlier she had been brave, talking of killing. Now her courage had passed out of her like liquid from an overturned bottle and she lay in the bed, sure of doom, welcoming the possibility as her only alternative to Eddie. She waited, listening, knowing in her soul that the woman would soon be here, in this room. But her mind still could not grasp the woman's motive. She is a relative of someone killed in the plane wreck. The idea calmed her momentarily. That was a motive she could understand. Punishment was on its way, deserved, avenging. But the calm was brief. Whoever she was, she was the enemy, the enemy of Eduardo, her Eddie. He had struck her. It should have been a knife in her heart.

  She buried her face in the pillows, screamed into it with all her strength, felt the muffled sound bounce back into her head.

  Despite the inevitability of the woman's impending presence, the buzzer startled her. Coming first in short bursts, it changed quickly to an unending wail. Finally she rose from the bed. Opening the door, she stood aside as the woman came into the room.

  Like a filmed dance in slow motion, the woman emerged in Frederika's consciousness, half-developed, an unfinished photograph. In the gray light, her face appeared dead white, with eyes like pinpoints of light, like a pumpkin head, backlit by a candle. The odd imagery solidified Frederika's fear and paralyzed her sense of motion. The woman focused on her, as if the gaze could strip her flesh from her bones, and she huddled deeper in the blanket she had wrapped around herself. Then she saw the pinpoints of light deflect, leave her face, and dart around her apartment, inquiring. The woman's hands were thrust deep in the pockets of her coat, and as she turned back toward her, Frederika could see the sneering, tightly pressed lips, the uplifted nose suggesting an imperial opinion, as if, she, Frederika, were a piece of obscene garbage floating on the scum of some stagnant backwater.

  "He was here," the woman said. It came as a hiss, like the sound of a trapped rattlesnake. They stood facing each other. The woman's voice seemed almost comforting in the charged air, suggesting a humanness that belied the image in Frederika's mind.

  "He was here," the woman repeated. The ends of her nostrils quivered. Had she actually caught Eddie's scent? She looked at the coverless bed, the wrinkled sheets, the indented pillows, the obvious evidence of passion. The strange woman was taller than Frederika, her hair clipped short like a boy's. Her fear diminishing, Frederika could study her now. She was, after all, only a woman.

  "Who are you?" she asked, ashamed of her previous fear, sensing the beginnings of indignation. She shivered and tightened the blanket around herself. The tall woman seemed tentative, vulnerable, as if she had walked into a den of lions and could not quite decide how to cope with the situation.

  "I demand to know why he was here," the woman said. Her tight lips still sneered, but the thinning darkness was swiftly chasing her mystique. Frederika watched her. She stood stiffly, holding her body as if it was incapable of any other configuration, devoid of suppleness.

  "Who are you talking about?" Frederika demanded.

  "You know." It was as if an obscenity hung on her tongue, and she had not the courage to utter it. Frederika remained deliberately silent, her mind reacting now, observing. This is not what it seems, at all, she thought.

  "Eduardo Allesandro Palmero," the woman said. The name was spoken with odd formality. It reached her as the name of a stranger. Not her Eddie. She could deny the knowledge of his existence, she thought. It was her first reaction. But the sound of his name seemed to place him in a new dimension, sparking her curiosity now. There is another woman searching for Eddie. It came to her as if she had been suddenly doused with icy water. There was another woman. It was her turn to hate now. She wanted to be cruel.

  "He has just left my bed," she said, watching the words, like bullets, find their mark. The woman's lips
quivered and her eyelids fluttered. A nerve palpitated in her cheek. She was losing control. Was she his wife? Frederika turned from her with contempt and moved toward the bed. She flung the blanket from her body, flaunting her nakedness, turning briefly to show her the fullness of her body, its richly turned curves, her womannesss. She felt an odd sense of pride and victory as she propped up the pillows and slid slowly into the bed, her arms crossed behind her head, her jaw pointed upward. She could now feel the woman's helplessness.

  "And who the hell are you?" she asked, feeling the venom pass through the air. Again she knew that the tall woman felt the impact, although she could sense the gathering of her pride. Watching her, Frederika was goaded to muster more cruelty. This woman must suffer, she decided.

  "He is my lover," she said, superior now, watching the tall woman lose her ominous aura. The woman's hands fluttered behind her for a moment, as if seeking support. Finally, she groped toward a chair and sat down. The light, thickening between the slats of the blinds, etched the lines of exhaustion on the woman's face. Her shoulders hunched forward as if she hadn't the strength to hold them up.

  "Are you his wife?" Frederika asked. She was surprised at her lack of compassion. This pitiful woman is nothing to me, she told herself. She would not have been worth the killing, Frederika decided.

  The woman shook her head and turned, averting Frederika's eyes. She is feeling my cruelty, she thought proudly, wanting to hurt more, to strike harder blows.

  "You are absurd," Frederika said, enjoying her malevolence.

  "I know," the woman said. Is she part of Eddie's operation, Frederika wondered. She was hardly the vaunted enemy, this laughable creature. Perhaps she is an unrequited lover, Frederika thought, feeling a first brief tug of pity. Smiling thinly, she recalled how Eddie's powerful sexuality could move her, and she felt puffed up with the full breath of her superiority as a woman. The person before her was hardly female, a man almost, and older by far than herself. She was a hag. Frederika resisted the temptation to throw off the covers and spread her legs in front of the woman. Let me show you where Eduardo Allesandro Palmero has been. She giggled silently, reveling in the sudden image of his hard erection inserted in her.