The Casanova Embrace

by Warren Adler

  "Is there ever a set time?"

  "Will you call me when you know?"

  "Of course." Why should she be spared the pain of it. "And I plan to follow him. I plan to find out. There is no stopping now, Anne. You realize that."

  "Yes."

  Frederika lowered the phone, heard Anne's breathing, perhaps a sigh, then depressed the connection. Immediately she had the urge to call her back, to find out more about what had happened between them, then fought back the temptation. She dressed quickly and went to work, but her mind was on the street outside and she peered through the windows, searching the passing faces. She wanted, needed, even a brief moment's preparation before any confrontation. That night she worked particularly hard, to drown her mind and body with fatigue.

  "You're really pushing tonight, kid," Marcia said.

  "I need the money," she snapped.

  For the next two days and nights, she reacted like a sleepwalker, passing through her life half-conscious. Only the sound of the telephone restored her alertness.

  "Did he call? Have you seen him?" It was Anne's voice. She called at least three times every day.

  "No." A pause. "And you?"

  "No."

  "Do you think he suspects?"

  "I think he is suspicious, surely. But he cannot know the truth."

  "Not unless you told him."

  "What purpose would there be in that?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You must be more trusting."

  "I'm trying. Believe me, Anne, I'm trying."

  There seemed, Frederika thought, an edge of hysteria to Anne's voice as the calls persisted.

  "He didn't call? You didn't see him?"

  "No." Frederika was firm.

  "How can I be sure?"

  "You can't." Frederika felt her own nastiness. "And how can I be sure you haven't?"

  "It's maddening."

  "How do you think I feel?"

  "Please forgive me."

  Frederika didn't answer. By the end of the third day, she was frantic and let the phone ring endlessly. Finally she picked it up. Before she could respond, she heard Eddie's voice.

  "Will you be there?"

  "Of course." She had planned to go to work. Instantly, her plans changed.

  "I will be there shortly."

  Thankfully, he arrived within a half hour. She was beginning to develop a kind of psychic palpitation as her mind groped through a series of speculations. How would she observe him? Before, her reactions had been natural, inevitable, like the force of gravity. Could she dissimulate now? Could she lie? Was it possible? It was like contemplating death. Then his key was in the door. He stepped into the apartment and, as he did so, her mind went blank and only the primitive force remained. She curled about him, swallowing him, it seemed, as she had once seen a python swallow a pig in an old movie. If he was startled by her reaction, he said nothing, letting her envelop him as if it were his due tribute.

  "My God, I love you, Eddie," she said breathlessly. She could feel his breath coming in short gasps as she moved her fingers over his body, undressing him, her animality mindless. She moved herself onto him, bending her torso to insert him, still standing a few feet from the door. He said nothing, the hardness thrusting inside of her, the full force of her body seeking to suck him into her, not only the male organ, the whole of him.

  "Eddie. Eddie," she heard herself moan, feeling the great internal explosions, their faraway rumbling, the volcanic force, the lava moving in a hot mass through her body, an eruption of joy. It was joy. She knew. The joy of him. Why?

  It was some time before intelligence returned and she lay in her bed watching him, his eyes, she knew, focusing inward, at something that she could neither touch nor understand.

  "You think, Eddie," she announced suddenly, seeking an oblique rebuke, some beginning of punishment. "You don't feel." He must have sensed the admonishment.

  "That's not true at all." He was protecting himself now, she knew.

  "You are governed by your mind." Anne had confirmed that. The idea of Anne emerged, bringing with it the pain that she had successfully kept at bay. Her mind was operating clearly now and she felt she could touch her own cunning. She must be cautious, she decided, remembering Anne's words. I will have to go fishing in his brain.

  "I wonder what I really mean to you."

  He turned toward her, stroking his chin in an uncommon manner. She had not seen him do that before. He's full of surprises, she thought.

  "You mean a great deal."

  How could he say that so blandly, she wondered, determined to keep him on the defensive. She wanted to say: Am I the only woman in your life? But the hypocrisy would crush her with guilt. Besides, she would not be prepared for his lies. Not now. She held off asking about the woman who had stood in the cold, waiting, fearful that he would connect the thought with her previous question. Would I really die for him, she asked herself, knowing that something was changing within her.

  "Will I be traveling again soon?" she said instead.

  "Yes. In a few days."

  "To the same place?"

  "No. To San Antonio. We have worked out a change in plans."

  "And will others die because of what I will do?"

  "Yes. But they will be enemies." His thoughts were being deflected now. "The new arrangements have not quite been completed. But everything is moving satisfactorily." He turned toward her and patted her hair. "I am quite proud of you, Frederika."

  "What about the woman that I told you about? The one that was watching in front of the building?" It seemed appropriate to broach the subject now, in this context.

  He did not blanch or show any sign of sudden intrusion. She observed him closely, watching for signs, but none came. He is a superb actor, she decided, wondering how well she, too, was doing.

  "It was nothing," he said. "I had mistakenly thought she might be one of them, an agent. But I checked carefully and now I'm sure it was only a coincidence."

  "That must have been a relief."

  "Yes," he said. "Unfortunately such things increase one's sense of paranoia. In this business, one always lives with it." He stopped patting her hair. "Did it frighten you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well," he said offhandedly. "It's all right then."

  He seemed suddenly relaxed and, she wondered, perhaps off-guard.

  "What is it that you do to me?" she said, her curiosity genuine, although she could feel the tender spot of her humiliation. It was a thought worth exploring, since it contained the kernel of her truth. She had every right to ask why, she decided. For herself. Perhaps he could explain it. She had dared not ask Anne.

  "I don't know," he said, frowning, obviously puzzled. It was, it seemed, a thought that even he dared not pursue.

  "Do you ever think about it?"

  "Yes."

  "Has it happened before? With other women?" By his reaction, she knew that the barb had penetrated something inside of him. She hoped there was a wound, that she had drawn blood.

  "I cannot say for sure."

  "But what do you suspect?"

  "How can I answer such a question?" There'd been a brief flash of anger.

  "Have you observed it before? A reaction like mine, for example."

  "I don't understand."

  "Yes, you do," she protested. "Surely there have been other women who have felt this ... like me, felt the power of you."

  She sensed his discomfort. He got up from the bed and paced the room, his smooth body like liquid moving through space. His nakedness began to numb her mind as she watched the tight buttocks reflected in the light, smooth as ivory, and the dangling organ. He is beautiful, she told herself, overwhelmed by the sight of him. How can he possibly explain it? she wondered. I can't explain it myself.

  "Explain it, Eddie," she taunted. "Surely you can explain it."

  "There is no explanation."

  "There has to be."

  "All right then." He paused, watching her, then shrug
ged. "It's a mystery. That's the only explanation."

  "So there have been others," Frederika said, in full pursuit now, the scent in her nostrils. It had suddenly become more important to know. To know was everything.

  "What does all this mean?" Eddie said, turning toward her now, his eyes flashing, brows knitting, his agitation rising.

  "I want to know about you, Eddie. You have told me nothing. Surely in the forty-odd years of your life there are things that have happened which have shaped your character. There have been relationships."

  He stopped his pacing, shrugged and lifted his arms, palms outward in a typical Latin gesture of mock surrender. He was even smiling, showing the broadest smile she had ever seen him display. Was he mocking her, she wondered, half-expecting him to voice the comedian's stock reaction to contrived feminine triviality ... "Women." Did his eyes search for the ceiling, his head shake with male tolerance, as he expressed the theatrics of exasperation?

  "I want to know," Frederika pressed.

  "Know what?"

  "About you, Eddie. Your life." Her voice rose. "I have a right to know." Did he detect the edge of panic, she wondered, instinctively certain that she had gone too far. She saw his smile disappear.

  "Right?" he asked.

  "Surely I have that right.... "She felt her voice falter as he glared at her. Did she really? she wondered, remembering Anne and her alleged rights. He is shared territory, she realized suddenly, the reality painful. My God, I will lose him.

  "I love you, Eddie. I just want to know." She was conscious of the plea in her voice, the sudden softness. The new attitude seemed to blunt his anger.

  "I will tell you everything, Frederika." He took a deep breath. "But not now. There are other things on my mind now. There is an important operation in the making. It is intricate."

  "Is this what I am part of?" she asked, fearful that her outburst might have caused her cancellation in the plan.

  "Of course."

  He came back into the bed. His skin had absorbed the chill and he was shivering. She smothered him with her warm nakedness, the touch of his flesh compelling.

  "It is a mystery, Eddie," she said, holding him tightly along his back, fitted snugly against her. She squeezed him hard, the pressure making him grunt.

  "Yes," he said. "I told you."

  It was dark when she heard him moving around the apartment. Hey eyelids fluttered briefly, as she feigned sleep, listening to the familiar sounds. Then she felt his breath on her face, the brief kiss on the forehead, barely touching her skin. He was tiptoeing across the floor. The door opened, creaked slightly, and closed, and she was out of bed in a moment, reaching quickly for her jeans and a sweater. Tying a scarf around her head, she found a pea jacket in the closet. She was sure he had not seen it. Nor had he ever seen her with a scarf around her head. She also had sufficient presence of mind to grab a pair of old unused glasses from a drawer as she sped out of the apartment, running down the stairs and into the street.

  Her mind was working quickly now, turning over possibilities. If he had a car nearby, she could not follow him, although she would be sure to take the license number. But he always seemed to be on foot, as if distance was not a problem. Which meant that he lived close by.

  It was still evening. The day, as always with Eddie, had sped by quickly. She had thought it might be early morning, sometime close to dawn. But a clock in a nearby storefront told her it was only eleven. She had missed work and had failed to call in, which meant putting an added burden on her co-workers. Perhaps they would fire her. There was a sudden twinge of guilt as she hesitated in the street, looking south toward M Street. She saw him moving across Wisconsin Avenue, turning toward Massachusetts, heading west. There was little foot traffic and she could see him clearly in the moonlit night.

  Keeping her distance, she crossed the wide street and kept him in sight. He was moving with swift strides, obviously sure of his destination. Occasionally, he would look behind him. She did not hesitate, secure in her disguise, proud of her cleverness. She followed him tenaciously, thankful that her work had conditioned her legs for speed and distance. She smiled at the idea that her job had, at last, served some useful purpose besides merely providing a living.

  She saw him turn and enter an apartment building, making mental notes, sure that she had the identity of the building fixed in her mind. It was a large building, sitting high on a slope overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. She remembered being inside it once, when she was looking for an apartment. When she reached it, her eyes swept the facade. Many lights were on. She could see people moving about inside some of the apartments. She speculated cautiously. One mustn't jump to conclusions. Who lives here? Is he alone? Is there someone else? She waited in the shadows for perhaps a half hour, then proceeded into the lobby of the building. An indifferent young man slumped behind the desk, reading a book. In the moment before she attracted his attention, she had looked over the lobby, checking details, searching for the apartment's directory.

  "Is there a pay telephone?" she asked pleasantly. He pointed to a far wall. Nearby were the mailboxes and the directory. It would be too simple. The directory confirmed her instincts. His name was not listed. But that could have been his own choice. It was not simple to rent an apartment in Washington. They checked you out. She cursed her stupidity for not asking the man at the desk a direct question. But they, too, were trained to be suspicious. Then, as she reached the phone, she discovered that she had not taken any money, nor had she bothered to bring Anne's number. You are America's worst detective, she told herself, and for the first time, she felt a sense of risk.

  She thought of Anne, tenacious, driven Anne. Let Anne do the dirty work, take the risks, she decided. Why not? Anne was the older, less attractive, more unsure. Her loss was greater, Frederika assured herself bravely, knowing it was a lie. She felt the doorman watching her and picked up the receiver, moving her lips in a charade, then hung it up again. Passing him again, she smiled pleasantly and moved out into the street, noting the address and name of the building on the sign outside. "The Berkshire. 4100 Massachusetts Avenue."

  Walking swiftly, her heart pumping heavily, she got to her own building, hurried to her apartment, and dialed the phone. Anne's voice responded quickly, after one ring. So she is anxious, Frederika thought. As well she should be.

  "I followed him," she said, her breath still gasping from exertion.

  "He was there?"

  "Yes."

  There was a long pause, a sign. She could feel the tension across the line.

  "I followed him to an apartment house on Massachusetts Avenue. The Berkshire. You know it?"

  "Yes."

  "But I was afraid to ask if he lived there. His name was not on the directory."

  She was waiting for direction now, for Anne's will to assert itself.

  "What shall we do?" she asked finally. Her own weakness galled her.

  "I'll call later," Anne said.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Find out."

  "How?"

  "I'm not sure."

  There was a firmness in her voice, a resolve. It triggered Frederika's suspicion. She remembered how Anne had persevered in standing in front of her own building. Can I trust her? she wondered. Trust! It seemed suddenly ludicrous.

  "You will tell me everything, Anne?"

  "Of course."

  "We are in it together now, Anne."

  "Yes."

  "I want to know everything you know. Everything." She had wanted to say "please," but could not bring herself to that. There seemed nothing more to say, but she delayed hanging up, expecting Anne to do so first. Anne's breathing came across the line. Frederika could sense that something was gathering in her mind.

  "Was it the same?" Anne asked at last.

  Frederika understood instantly. "Yes," she said, hoping that the word could hurt. "The same."

  The telephone clicked off and Frederika stood for a long time, the phone still at her e
ar, until the odd beep began, recalling her sense of place and her emptiness.

  XVI

  Passion observed is different from passion experienced, Dobbs admitted reluctantly. Such an axiom could take, had taken, the science out of this business, the sense of deduction. It would have had to be instinctive, and he knew he had no instinct for this. You cannot track what you cannot see. Especially what you cannot feel. That had been the secret of his success in this bureaucratic jungle, the feel of something before it occurred. Not that he had never been wrong before. Just not this wrong.

  He missed the signposts. He had been contemptuous of the zealousness of the DINA agents, interrogators, analysts, informers. In their reports were embedded the subtleties, the shadings that, taken together, could provide the revelation. And now that he had participated in the full process, was he closer to its key than before? Eduardo, in his place, would have not lost the scent.

  Pushing aside the batch of files, Dobbs stood up, walked the length of his office, then sat down again. They were the files that contained the material on Eduardo's political career, to which Dobbs had originally attached so much importance. Eduardo had never run for office. His role had been as a kind of Machiavellian advisor for the Allende group.

  After Valdivia, he had returned to his wife, who by then had borne him a son. His son. The seduction had borne fruit. Remembering Miranda's remarks to the interrogator, Dobbs marveled at how she had controlled her contempt. But then, she would be a toady to power. She would always do her duty. Somehow Eduardo had gained the upper hand by his own willed indifference, enough at least to dissimulate, despite the dry rot of their condition. And while he moved in the circles of power, she must have restrained herself, playing the role with him. Yet after Allende's fall, he had been among the first to be interned. He had barely been able to move a block from his home. Without doubt, she had betrayed him. Dobbs had no trouble with that deduction.

  Having destroyed the lists, he knew he had outwitted them. They had been hidden in the room behind the wine cellar, easily eliminated by a single match, which quickly created the conflagration, making the room, with its specially constructed flue, one big fireplace. Getting out of the palace was a lucky stroke. Allende had insisted on his martyrdom and had stayed. He had kissed him on both cheeks, stained with the tears of his defeat and self-pity. Continue! That was the only word that had filtered through Eduardo's consciousness. So he had continued by destroying the evidence of the continuity, the lists. Now many of the names were locked in his head, the network of people they could depend on, those who had not surfaced, the cadre that were kept out of the public eye.