It was one of Marie's private pleasures to recall the exact moment when she first laid eyes on him. Later, it would become a ritual of their lovemaking, like an after-dinner drink savored with all the concentration and subtleties that the taste buds could muster.
It had happened at a crowded affair at the Romanian Embassy. There was always an eclectic group, since Romania could bridge the gap between ideologies. One could find representatives of antagonistic countries and factions calmly sipping champagne together as if what was happening in the real world was merely a fictional device for a screenplay. It made sense politically, she later agreed, for Eduardo to be on their invitational list, since it gave him the opportunity to continue to represent the ill-fated Allende regime.
He was standing in a corner of the ornate room, deftly removing tidbits from the buffet table, searching swiftly but carefully, with a practiced eye for the most interesting culinary concoction. Then, with clear grace, he had propped the plate on the tips of the fingers of his left hand and proceeded to eat with the calm assurance of someone obviously familiar with diplomatic functions.
She had watched him from across the crowded room, an idle curiosity, since she was stuck with a boring man from the Department of State whose words she could barely hear above the social din. Her husband, the Minister Plenipotentiary of the French Embassy, gesticulated with usual intensity in another group of foreign diplomats. There goes Claude again, she remembered thinking, turning slightly, spilling a drop of champagne on her pink Pierre Cardin, the one that was lent out of his new designer's collection. She had looked up swiftly, caught his eye, then with feigned embarrassment but genuine relief, she excused herself and went off to the ladies room. She had felt his eyes watching her as she moved away.
"And then?" It was his ritual response whenever she recalled the moment, her head nestled in the crook of his bare arm, the hard muscle a pillow, as she stroked his chest.
"Then you passed completely out of my mind."
"Completely?"
"Well, I was concentrating on the removal of the champagne stain."
"But I did notice that you had disappeared."
"How could you? You were so busy stuffing your face."
"My digestion has nothing to do with the male antenna."
"And what a beautiful antenna."
Her hand reached down and fondled his penis. She felt its awakening response. Then she removed her hand.
"It was the furthest thing from my mind."
"But a seed was planted."
"Perhaps I loved you then, from that moment."
"You romantics. You exaggerate everything."
"How then can you explain this?" She looked downward and watched his penis grow. "I was an innocent. I had never been unfaithful. I have been married fifteen years. I felt myself grow wet with yearning."
He reached downward for her, confirming the result of suggestion.
"You see?"
"Purely chemical. Purely a physical reaction." He chided her playfully as two fingers massaged her nipples.
"When I came back you moved toward me. I saw you from the corner of my eye. Then I looked at Claude. I don't know why. Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps I knew what was happening. But he was busy being intense and impressive. He is quite impressive, you know, quite eloquent."
"I'm sure he will be an ambassador at his next posting."
"He will be important someday. Powerful and influential. I must never embarrass him. It will destroy him." She felt her eyes begin to mist and a throbbing in her chest, a sob urging to be heard. But she held it in, crushed it with her will.
"I brought you a glass of champagne."
"You came over with two. I could barely catch my breath when you came near me. I swear it. I wanted to refuse your offer. I felt that my fingers would be clumsy, and I would spill some more on poor Monsieur Cardin's creation."
"But you took it and your hands didn't shake."
"It was a commitment even then. I must have subconsciously wished to accept anything you offered."
"I said something silly," he responded shyly as his head moved downward, his lips brushing the soft skin of her belly.
"You said: Come, we must toast to beautiful women. I felt myself blushing and I knew that something was happening."
He moved further downward, his lips touching her pubic hairs.
"It was the beginning of a madness. I hardly knew myself. I am a woman now," she said. "You have made me a woman."
He began titillating her clitoris with his tongue. She responded in kind, reveling in her newfound ferocity a volatile chemistry that she had not thought possible. Then he got on top of her. She waited with quivering expectation, a bit of flotsam on an angry river, following the crashing tide. She wished she could stand outside herself and observe what was happening, what he was doing to her. The sob emerged again, transformed into a low moaning as he entered her, filled her, and her heartbeat accelerated, the joy of it suffusing her body, her soul. She floated on the rushing river, feeling the surge of ecstasy, a repetitive thrash of waves washing over her as he continued to plunge inside of her. I deserve this, she imagined she was telling herself, vaguely acknowledging her guilt, but no longer caring.
What she had been recalling was the essence of their meeting, not the surface details. He had, indeed, approached her first. But standing there in the crowded room, he had been quite ordinary, but she had noticed his eyes, silver specks in the gray luminescence. How could she have avoided those compelling eyes?
"I am Eduardo Palmero," he had said. His English had little trace of accent, although the precision revealed it had been acquired and was not an original tongue. Holding out his free hand, he took hers. She remembered the light pressure, but felt the fingers' strength. The touch was delicate but powerful.
"Marie DeFarge." She had hesitated, looking again over at where Claude was standing. "My husband is the French minister."
"Ah, Madame DeFarge."
"Don't say it," she said, laughing, knowing she was showing her white even teeth. It seemed a breach of the formality. But she had already begun to feel his aura. "I don't knit."
He smiled. His teeth were also very white, against a skin slightly dark in tone, softened by the trim black mustache and the flared nostrils. These were details she was absorbing consciously. The touches of gray at the side of his head of full hair, slightly curled, the thin nose, a median size between aquiline and patrician. He was approximately six feet tall, slender, a man aging with grace. One might say oozing with charm, an errant thought at the time, since she did not want to think of his spontaneity as contrived.
"Italian?" she asked.
"My father's side. My mother was Spanish. Actually, I am a Chilean."
"With the Embassy?"
A brief cloud seemed to pass over his face, dulling the eyes, wrinkling his forehead, tightening the lips.
"No," he said coldly. "I am, for the moment, persona non grata."
She knew at once. The wife of a diplomat is trained to understand. And living with Claude, she dared not even seem ignorant of the games of nations, as he called them.
"Romania," she said, sipping the champagne to mask embarrassment. "Yes, I see."
"Brothers under the skin," he remarked cheerfully raising his glass to his Romanian host. "At least the exile gets a chance to eat and drink." He smiled again, moving closer to Marie, his eyes probing deeply now. She knew now she had fully gained his interest and it was flattering to her. She was being a flirt, she realized. Claude would chide her about it later, especially after he had had too much to drink. It triggered jealousy, but made him amorous.
"You flaunt yourself," he would say in French. Their intimate moments had started to demand it.
"It is all in your imagination," she would reply, but he was already close to her, his breath mounting, his face flushed.
"There is a limit." It was if he were deliberately bringing himself up to a boil.
"I am a true and faithful wife," she would say. "You should be proud that men find me attractive."
By then, he was fondling her. "You are a woman. You don't know what is in men's minds."
What occurred would be swift, violent, and, on his part, passionate. She wondered why nothing he did moved her. It was the major disruptive influence in their lives. She had mothered two children for him, did his bidding as a dutiful diplomatic wife, never embarrassed him, was supportive and outwardly loving. But he did not infatuate her. For many years she had resolved that this is the way it really is. That there was something in her that could not be moved, a patina of cement, beyond which feeling could not penetrate. It was not only with Claude. No man had ever really moved her. The fact of it had made her seem dry and brittle to herself. It was terrible to live with such an idea, she had decided.
"There are many of us in this town," Eduardo had assured her, perhaps sensing her interest. Her eyes roamed his face. It intrigued her to see the moods shift across it, like lightning on a midsummer afternoon.
"Chileans?"
"Exiles. Mostly American citizens now. The world map has changed so radically in the last thirty years that the exiles can hardly tell from which country they have been banished. At least, we in South America know where we are from."
She considered if there was an edge of humor to his remarks. She nevertheless remained silent. It was her diplomatic training. Different languages created different nuances, Claude had warned. Words might be easily translatable, but not the value of the words in emotional terms. Guard yourself, he had added. You might be speaking English, but you are thinking in French and he is thinking in his own language.
"We are revolution-happy," he said, smiling. Then the lightning came again and the smile faded. "Ours was the only real revolution since the conquistadors were thrown out. Sooner or later, we will win. We have just lost the first round."
She was fascinated, she admitted to herself, but she had no desire to hear his story at that moment. It was inappropriate to be heavy in an event like this. Diplomatic receptions were essentially for surface talk. One nibbled at the leaves and left the roots.
"And you, Madame DeFarge?" he asked.
"I am a diplomatic wife. We have spent the last fifteen years roaming the world. West Germany. Canada. Hungary. Cambodia."
She noticed that guests were beginning to leave, and that Claude had glanced her way, nodding, the thin smile a harbinger of what she might expect later. This man was monopolizing her and it was becoming obvious. She had to excuse herself and reach her husband's side, a diplomatic maneuver. She held out her hand.
"It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Palmero," she said. He took her hand in his and she felt the power and electricity of his touch, an unmistakable surge of sexuality between them. This is absurd, she told herself, a wave of confusion breaking in her mind.
"We must meet again," he said, holding her hand and looking into her eyes, the invitation blatant. It was the moment to say no, to exercise deliberate indifference, to pour water on the hot coals.
"Yes, we must," she responded, knowing that she had exposed her essence. My God, is this me? she wondered, withdrawing her hand and moving across the room to her husband's side. He introduced her to his companions while she watched Palmero cross the room, graceful and confident, hardly the defeated exile that he wished to portray.
Later, when they arrived home, Claude admonished her playfully for her flirtatiousness. Luckily, he had not had much liquor.
"Who was that fellow?" he asked.
"Some South American," she said with feigned indifference.
Claude took her in his arms and pressed his pelvis against hers. She felt his hardness and she caught herself imagining that it was Eduardo, and there was, she knew, more feeling in her response. Despite this, she still remained disenchanted.
Weeks passed and the feeling would not go away. She performed her daily tasks by rote, her mind fogged. The children were cared for and fussed over, suitably swathed in motherly love, disciplined, and otherwise parented.
"What is it, mama?" Susan, her ten-year-old, would ask.
"What?"
"You've hung my skirt in Henry's closet."
"I'm sorry, what I was thinking."
But she knew what she was thinking. She carried in her head always the graceful image of Eduardo Palmero, probing the message that he held in his gray eyes with their flashes of silver. At times, when she was not pursuing some task, his image would become more animated, as if he were calling to her from somewhere inside her brain. I am thirty-five years old, she would tell herself, not some dumb teenaged ninny. Claude DeFarge had not been her childhood sweetheart. Marie had considered herself quite experienced with men by the time she had met him.
She was a student at the Sorbonne, living with her parents in their big house on Rue de Lyon. Her father was a prosperous surgeon. Her mother was totally devoted to him. They entertained guests frequently and lavishly, and it was at one of their soirées that Marie had met Claude, a rising young diplomat with the foreign office in Paris. Even then he was intense, totally immersed in political matters. But in those days she had been attracted to that and, of course, he had, by every standard of class and position, the impeccable credentials for a perfect match.
They had been married in the Cathedral of Notre Dame and spent their honeymoon in Marrakesh. Marie quickly rationalized the trauma of her sexual indifference. Her mother had hinted at it. "Satisfy your man," she had confided. What more was there? Marie thought to herself. She did enjoy being the wife of a diplomat, living in foreign places, taking care of her children. She had a happy marriage, Marie persuaded herself. Claude was not indifferent and she sensed he was faithful and honorable.
If there were secrets, they were those special ones that mates normally kept from each other, glossed over, sometimes forgot. Nor had she ever dared confess them to the priests while she was still religious. She could not tell Claude, for example, that her cousin Michel, thick-witted and dull, was the first male she had seen in full sexual excitement. To this day, Michel might have felt that he had seduced Marie, but she knew that it had been she who had been the aggressor. It was her curiosity that had gotten him into that state. She had even let him enter her partially. His eyes were closed when climaxed and she was fascinated by the sight. Nor would she dare to tell him about the other young men at school whom she had learned to satisfy by masturbation and sometimes orally. She had felt guilt over what she saw as her own sexual transgressions, even if physical pleasure had eluded her each time. In fact, Pierre Damon, an intern who worked for her father, had once ruptured her hymen in the back seat of his car, though the moment of near sexual intercourse had-like all the other experiences-been relegated to secrecy. Looking back, she concluded it was nothing, hardly worth the expense of energy concealing it. As time passed, the secret memories took on a surreal quality and she hardly thought about them.
Now she was remembering every detail and it annoyed her. This is not being me, she told herself. But what, after all, was "being me." Is this all? she wondered, reviewing her life with Claude and her children. And yet, it seemed so pedestrian a position to be in, a stereotype of the yearning, dissatisfied women in those American magazines. Am I like them? she wondered. She refused to let herself be depressed by such thoughts. But the question remained, why was she longing for another glimpse of Eduardo Palmero, and why was she experiencing physical signs of such longing? She would nervously survey the crowd at social events, at supermarkets, at restaurants. And when she walked the streets her eyes were always searching the people on both sides, looking for him. She had even looked up his name in the telephone books of the District of Columbia, Virginia and Maryland. It was not listed.
She enjoyed fantasizing about him, picturing him with his arms around her, kissing her face. There was something terribly erotic about her imagining that he was kissing her face, little pecks at her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her ears, then a long lingering kiss on her lips. Occasionally, she had caught herself staring into her mirror, mouth open, the image in front of her blurred, feeling wonderful.
"You seem so preoccupied, darling," Claude said to her one evening while they were having dinner at home-a rare occasion. She felt it odd that he had noticed. It must really be showing, she thought, determined to be more guarded.
"Not really," she said, feeling her sudden need for secrecy. "Perhaps I am coming down with a cold."
Yet it was while she was consciously being more cautious that Eduardo came back into her life, a disembodied voice on the telephone. It startled her, coming as it did in the middle of the day. She had heard the ring as a faraway intrusion in her mind as she lay on the bed taking an afternoon nap. Later, she would insist that it was déjà vu, that she had known it was him at the other end of the line.
***
She was cranky when she reached for the receiver, feeling weight on her eyelids and a heaviness in her arms and legs, a frequent aftermath of her afternoon naps.
"Madame DeFarge?" the voice enquired. It was deep and resonant with a touch of humor. Always, even in her memories of him, there was a touch of humor. The recognition quickly spurred her adrenalin and she was fully alert.
"Yes, this is her."
"I hope you will remember me. The Chilean at the Romanian do." He said "do" with a British lilt as if he were reading lines from a Noel Coward play.
She hesitated deliberately. Was it merely coquettishness? Or fear? She felt a sudden flush of warmth and she actually looked into the mouthpiece as if she might see his face.
"Of course," she answered. "The Chilean." She had wanted to add with the silver-gray eyes and white teeth. Her hands began to twitch lightly.
"I never distrust first impressions," he said. There was no uncertainty. No wavering. He had been sure of her from the beginning.
"I have always been taught to beware of first impressions." Marie was conscious now of being deliberately flirtatious.
"I thought perhaps we might have lunch."
She pondered for a moment. It was not the first time that men had called. Lunch. It was euphemistic for tryst, a delicate first probe. Her response had always been: "I never have lunch with men." Sometimes, she actually had told her husband about it, knowing he would be secretly flattered. But not always, although she had turned down all offers.
"I suppose you think it rather forward," he said. She wondered if his gray eyes looked innocent. Yes, she said in her mind.
"Is there any particular reason?" she began. She marveled at her own ability to prolong the titillation.
"Reason?" She pressed the earpiece closer. She could hear his breathing. "I suppose we must have a reason. Alright then, I am seeking a French response to the Chilean question."
She had wanted to say: And what is the Chilean question? The problem, she giggled inwardly, is what is the answer to the immediate Chilean question?
"My husband would be far more knowledgeable." Palmero must not think that I am easy, Marie told herself, shocked at the idea.
"I am interested in the woman's viewpoint. This is something peculiar to Chileans. Our women are extremely important. They have attained much in Chile." He had suddenly become political. Was the moment slipping away?
"Well, I suppose that is quite harmless," she said.
"Why are you talking about harm?" he asked. But the message had already been delivered, sealed and dropped irretrievably in the slot.
"All right," Marie said with finality. She had heard someone at the door; Claude and the children returning early.
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"La Ni?oise in Georgetown. Twelve o'clock."
"Yes."
"Wonderful." The word seemed sincere. She hung up, lay back, closed her eyes and pictured him again. Then it occurred to her that she had not said his name.
"Eduardo," she whispered. "Eduardo Palmero." The door opened and her daughter burst into the room, rushing into her arms. She smelled of the outdoors, fresh and chilled.
Expectation and anxiety made it impossible for Marie to function smoothly. She forced herself to keep her mind on quotidian affairs. The children, the meals, her husband's problems. Claude was fond of long monologues about what was happening at the office, the imagined slights, the little successes and glories. He had a tendency to brag about his prowess as a manipulator, and he reveled in dispatching his calculated moves.
"I was born for intrigue," he would say, looking toward her for the expected support. There was no end to his need for flattery. What a child, she thought, conscious now that she was already looking at him quite differently.
"You are very clever, Claude," she told him, putting more into it than she had ever done before.
"They are all jealous of my influence with the ambassador," he said, encouraged by her remarks. "The State Department calls me to get a reading before proceeding with him. Of course, I tell the ambassador and he is quite prepared to play the game."
"I never have doubts about my Claude."
"He is quite close with President Giscard's government and he is talking more and more of pushing me for an ambassadorial post."
"Soon?" she asked, with what she imagined was wifely innocence. Her heart began to beat heavily.
"Soon enough," he said testily. "The question is where. The right post. Someplace important. It is no good to be an ambassador to just anywhere."
"Of course, Claude." She reached and patted his sleeve as he lifted his wine glass in what seemed like a toast to himself.
Marie spent nearly an hour in the bubble bath before going to bed. She could not bear the thought of Claude touching her, and was thankful that he was asleep when she crawled in beside him. She lay stiffly, not daring to move, as if the slightest movement would acknowledge her presence and trigger his desire to make love. But nothing could still the agitation of her mind, and she forced herself to recall events in her life to calm her anxieties and keep her thoughts away from Eduardo Palmero.
She remembered summers on the Riviera. Her parents had a holiday home in St. Tropez and she and her girlfriends would spend their days on Tahiti Beach making sandcastles and teasing the beach attendant by hiding the beach pads behind the restaurant. The waters of the Mediterranean were deeply blue then. She recalled the restaurants along the quay, remembering each one as she walked past, observing the beautiful ladies and handsome men talking animatedly over their drinks. She had felt so unattractive then, gawky. She would stare at her reflection in the mirror for hours. "You will be beautiful one day," she assured her image, "and exquisite men will love you." The anticipation filled her with joy.
"Still at the mirror," her mother would admonish. "What do you see in there?"
"Nothing," she would lie, guilty about her vanity, but reveling in her imaginary future. "Please, God, let me be beautiful," she said in her mind. That was long ago. Now grown up, she was not as certain that her prayers had been answered. Perhaps she looked beautiful, but she had never felt beautiful.
The next morning, after she had gotten the children ready for school, she went up to her room and began to dress. Marie had forced herself to be particularly attentive to the children, even to Claude.
"Wear the striped tie," she had said as he tied the knot in front of the mirror. Obediently, he loosened the knot and took the proffered striped tie, retying it.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much."
Then he had kissed her on both cheeks and left the house. Soon after, the maid came in and she could hear the humming of the vacuum in the living room.
She could not still her excitement and her fingers shook as she applied her makeup. Taking particular care, she looked at her face from many angles, finally finishing the job in the natural light near the bedroom window where the sun streamed in on that clear winter's day. In the midst of the previous night's restlessness she had decided on her outfit for the day, but changed her mind as she stood in the sunlight, choosing a tailored skirt and white blouse instead of the beige pantsuit.
The special cut of the blouse showed off her fine, still uplifted bosom. There was nothing special or symbolic about the choice, she told herself with a lack of conviction. Don't be such an innocent, she admonished her image in the mirror. There were other signs of involuntary sexual yearnings as well, but she put that out of her mind, concentrating instead on getting into her clothes, dabbing her perfume, patting her hair in a final survey of herself. She smiled at her mirror reflection, showing her even white teeth curling against the delicately rouged lips, wondering if others might think her as beautiful as she thought herself at that moment.
It was not until she had headed the car in the direction of Georgetown that she began to think of consequences. Suppose someone sees me? "Saw Marie the other day at La Ni?oise, Claude," someone might say with the sneer of malevolence. "Very attractive fellow she was with."
"A man?" Claude would say with exquisite blandness, revealing no less an annoyance than at a fly resting on his arm. But inside, he would begin to churn and she would pay the price in pouting and moodiness.
"A perfectly innocent lunch," she could respond. "A wonderfully humorous fellow. You simply must meet him. He is planning a visit to Paris and was simply hungering for information. I told him to look up Maman and Papa." Stumbling across this cover story restored her confidence.
She arrived at the restaurant and nervously scanned the room for familiar faces, noting with relief that he had ensconced himself in a far corner in the shadows. He stood up as she approached. He was actually taller than she remembered and his figure was slim and graceful in a well-cut gray suit. He wore a tie with flecks of silver that matched his eyes. Reaching for her hand, he kissed it, but she was too nervous to respond with grace. Besides, her hand felt clammy and she was embarrassed.
"So good of you to come," he said, moving behind her to slide her chair. He seemed so confident, his manners impeccable. He is well bred, she thought with a bit of the snobbery she had once despised in her mother.
"And so good to see you again, Monsieur Palmero."
"Such formality. I am Eduardo."
"Yes, Eduardo." She hesitated. "And I am Marie."
He bowed his head and smiled. His eyes crinkled merrily in the corners. The waiter came over.
"Campari and soda," she said. Eduardo put up two fingers.
"So," he said when the waiter had gone. "I have you to myself at last."
"It is a small prize," she said, flattered, of course. She had always been modest, even deprecating, when confronted with effusiveness. Claude had remarked that she was fishing for compliments when she performed this little affectation. He was correct, of course. Marie felt Eduardo watching her and averted her eyes, looking at her fingers instead.
"I have thought about you, Marie. I hope you will forgive my forwardness, but I felt that I must see you again, if only to talk. I feel privileged that you have come." She felt an odd kinship with him as she caught the foreign inflection in his flawless English.
Her eyes rested on his hands, the white skin and ridges of black hairs that covered them. She felt a surge of electric excitement, wondering if the Campari she had just sipped had too quickly gone to her head.
"I am always delighted to be in the company of an attractive man," she said, knowing it was her voice, but hardly recognizing the words as her own. She was flattering him.
"Sometimes-" he said, eyelids flickering. There was a brief excess of moisture in his eyes, a glistening mist. "-I am assailed by an overpowering loneliness. They tell me it's the exile's syndrome and it attacks with great subtlety, when you least expect it to occur. At that point, one feels entitled to a brief acquaintance." He paused. "An innocent peccadillo. For a Latin," he assured her, "that means being with a beautiful woman."
She smiled. This is all so contrived, she thought. Why am I enjoying it?
"You have no family?" she asked. The question reflected her own guilt.
He lowered his eyes. "A wife and son in Santiago." She saw his lip quiver, more like a grimace than a sign of longing. Perhaps it was a subject too painful to broach. She remembered again Claude's admonishment. People of different cultures react differently to emotions. She was surprised to feel a sharp stab of jealousy and resisted the temptation to inquire further.
"And do you like Washington?" she asked. It seemed a logical question.
"It is necessary for me to be here." He laughed suddenly. "And I am easier for them to watch."
"Them?"
"The CIA. The DINA. Everyone watches everyone. It is a game."
"And are they watching us now?" she asked, frightened but willing to be brave, feeling the sense of danger. Would Claude one day discover an account of this in some musty intelligence file?
She looked about the restaurant at the other diners. He watched her and smiled.
"We are having an innocent lunch." Reaching across the table, he placed his hand on hers, squeezing lightly. She looked into his eyes.
"Absolutely."
"Mostly," he said, pausing, cautious. "The anger sustains me. It can almost dispel loneliness. We will destroy them one day." His eyes had narrowed. "We are assembling our weapons." A sense of danger thrilled her. She placed a hand on his.
"It will all work out." she said, the inanity of the remark galling, as if she might be talking to a child. She had not expected her own reaction. It had thrown her off guard and she was annoyed with herself.
"We will make it happen." He drew in a deep breath, then watched her until, she assumed, the anger had drained. Then he smiled.
"There. That is better."
"What a beautiful gift you have given me," he said after a long pause.
"A gift?"
"The best gift of all."
"I don't understand." She was being a coquette now. He was seducing her and she was reveling in the pleasure of it.
"The gift of you. What could be more delicious? A sweet winter's day. The hint of culinary delights and a beautiful lady. My ecstasy is complete." This contrived charm, she told herself. He was surely mocking her with this stilted language. But it was irresistible, like something in an old fashioned play.
They chatted lightly; the waiter refilled their drinks. She was relaxed now, telling him about her children, her life, although she admittedly left some things out when it came to her husband. In fact, she barely mentioned Claude. They ordered fish, sole, after an elaborate explanation from the waiter on the ingredients of the sauce, and a bottle of icy Chablis.
"As cold as possible," he told the waiter. They continued to talk. She felt herself chattering away about her childhood and he hung on every word. What am I saying that is so important, she wondered, unable to stop herself from going on.
"My father was, still is, a rather pompous-looking fellow, a doctor. He wears a pince-nez, but once he walked into the house he never took himself seriously. He was, is, a marvelous mimic, making fun of his patients and everybody else he had met that day, and we would laugh until our sides split." She wondered suddenly why she had never shared such moments with Claude. Eduardo is a perfect stranger, she thought, and I am telling him things I have not discussed in years. Finally, when the waiter poured the last drop of wine she noticed that she had been doing most of the drinking. She discovered that she didn't care. She was alive. Then she felt his leg pressing against hers under the table, the touching an unabashed sexual signal. Vague stirrings came into focus. His leg began to move rhythmically, stroking her. She could barely swallow.
"You are a flower," he said.
"I am a woman," she whispered. Again, she berated herself for her inanity. Her breath came swiftly now and her heartbeat was accelerating.
The restaurant had begun to empty. He called for the check, paid it, and they stood up. She felt a brief dizziness at the sudden motion, but it passed quickly. Outside he took her hand. It seemed so natural.
"Where is your car?" he asked.
She had forgotten.
"We will take mine."
"Where are we going?" she asked, knowing it was a formality that needed no answer.
She followed him across the street. He opened the door of his small car and she got into the front seat. Sliding in beside her, he took her in his arms, kissing her neck, drawing her face to his, pressing his lips lightly on hers, then suddenly with pressure. His lips felt soft, but strong and demanding, and his tongue entered her mouth. She had no illusions about her body's demands. Marie had known this would happen from the start. He released her, and he started the car and driving silently toward Massachusetts Avenue. He held her hand tightly. It was a five minute drive to his apartment. Still holding her hand, he led her through the lobby. In the privacy of the elevator they embraced again. She felt the hardness in his trousers and felt her voice screaming inside her. I am alive. I am alive. Later, she would not remember her first impression of his apartment, only that when the door closed behind them, the urgency of her desire made her tremble with pleasure. Her hands reached out to him, extensions of her nerve endings, groping for his flesh, the feel of it, the mysterious invisible pull of it, as if her body were in some magnetic field reacting to the beckoning of unseen forces.
Who am I, she wondered, an errant thought intruded as she got on her knees before him, unbuttoning his pants, kneeling before his erection like a supplicant before a shrine. You are beautiful, she heard him say, her eyes greedy for the sight of him as she kissed and caressed his manhood, feeling his hands on her hair. She trembled with pleasure, the orgasmic urgency rising, a sensation so rare in her life that she cried out with pleasure, unable to control the sounds in her throat.
Then she was being half-lifted to the bed and she felt his fingers undressing her, removing the pantyhose that she had so ceremoniously put on just a few hours earlier. She lay back watching his body loom over her, saw the depths of the silver flecks in his gray eyes, his wonderful smile. A gift, she thought. It is my gift. And then she drew him inside of her as he plunged, gently at first, sliding inward, filling her up with a largeness that perhaps she had longed for, suffered for. The power of it, the pleasure of it made her gasp as he lingered for a moment and she moved her body to meet his, waited, drew back, returned again until he was moving into her with a hardness she had never before felt. I am being born again, her mind told her, as she began to tremble and shake, waves of pleasure unfolding like some vast repetitive surf responding to the cosmic pull of the moon. Inside her she felt him throbbing, the beat of his blood as it gained strength, then hesitated, like the tremulous flight of a predatory bird who glided then moved downward toward its prey. She heard some inchoate sound, felt him shudder and the receding surf, feeling the inner spring of her body lose its tension, uncurl, search for silence and repose.
When she had recovered her sense of self, she wondered whether he had watched her and suddenly blushed.
"Look what you have done to me," she said, conscious now that her dress lay creased above her waist. He, too, was still wearing his shirt, the tie still neatly knotted.
"I don't know myself," she said, despite her disarray, feeling beautiful nestled in his arms, his hardness disappearing now, her mind responding to the details of hygiene.
"You are wonderful," Eduardo said.
It is you who are wonderful. She was determined now to tell him. "I have never been moved like this. I swear. Never." She watched his face. Then he turned away.
"I meant that," she said. She had expected him to respond. But he said nothing, watching her almost clinically. Did I move you? She wanted to ask. "I want to stay here forever," she heard herself say. I need this man, she told herself secretly.
Eduardo started to disengage and stood up, immodest about his nakedness. She looked at his penis, a beautiful gladiator in her imagery, and she lifted her hand to caress it.
Eduardo moved away into another part of the apartment and she heard water running. Lying there, she could not believe she was the same person who had awakened in her bed that morning. She looked about the apartment. It was sparsely furnished. The double bed on which she lay was only a mattress on a Harvard frame. A bridge table was piled high with papers and books, a forest of oddly shaped columns. There were bookshelves along one wall, crudely mounted. Beside the bed was a night table with a reading lamp, and along the windowed wall, three stacks of Spanish and English newspapers nearly reached the ledge. The blinds were slightly askew, introduced the transitory impression. She could not place the neat handsome man in such a tumultuous environment. It was a cell. On one of the chairs at the bridge table was a grease-stained pizza box. She noted, too, the absence of a telephone. Marie was so absorbed in her survey that she did not see him return.
"The den of an exile," he said. His voice startled her. Recalling her modesty, she stood up and primly patted her dress. He had showered and his curly hair had blackened with the dampness. He looked younger.
"It needs a woman's touch," she said, suddenly embarrassed as he stared at her. She saw her shoes, like stray bricks from a ruin, on the wooden floor. Beside them, her pantyhose lay in a crumpled heap. Gathering them up quickly, she went into the bathroom. It was misty from his shower and the one towel on the rack was wet. A ring of dirt circled the white porcelain sink, above which lay a thin sliver of soap from a tiny bar, perhaps from some hotel. A single toothbrush, the bristles worn, lay in the porcelain holder. In the mirror, she saw that her eyes had filled with tears. Everything has changed, she thought. Her old life was dead. Removing her dress, she washed herself with great fastidiousness, as if the careful cleansing might erase the guilt that had begun to tug at her.
When she had put herself together, retouching her makeup, she came into the room where he was standing against the wall. He had raised the blinds and was staring into the street, watching the cars move along Massachusetts Avenue. She caught him in profile, deep in thought. Hesitating, she watched him, a stranger. There was an elusiveness about him. Perhaps, she wondered, it was because she had only received enough information to sense him, not enough to really know him, which is what she wanted. She moved beside him and kissed his earlobe. He put his arm around her, still staring into the street. She followed his eyes, wondering what was absorbing him.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Occasionally, I think I see the Cordillera."
"The what?"
"The Andes. The spine of Chile. Sometimes, I see a mirage."
She looked out the window.
"It is only a parking lot."
"Yes," he sighed and continued to stare out of the window.
She reached for his hand, kissed his fingers. He looked at her, his eyes clear and bright.
"I feel…," she hesitated, feeling again the pang of guilt, remembering her children, Claude, her neat and ordered life. She had betrayed them all. A weight materialized in the pit of her, lay there, temporarily formidable, indigestible. I must not think about it, she warned herself. I must separate my life, my needs….
"I feel whole," she whispered. "For the first time in my life. I feel whole." She remembered her pleasure now in his arms, the waves of ecstasy. Moving away from her, he looked at his watch. The gesture made her sad. Time was an enemy, she knew, sighing as her mind filled with the impending details of her ordinary life. The children would be coming home from school soon.
"I must go now," he said, looking at his watch. "They will be wondering." She wanted to ask who? Marie found her sudden jealousy compelling. Who dared preempt "her" time?
"Yes," she agreed, searching for her pride. She did not want to mention her children, her home. Like his, it was another world, not theirs.
"We must have more time together," she whispered as they walked toward the door. It was another unintentional articulation. Why must I put a voice to every thought, she wondered. Claude would have been more calculated, subtle, choosy in his use of words. There seemed a great void between them. It was as if she had taken the first bite of a beautifully prepared and delicious concoction, and someone had taken it away from her. It had titillated her hunger and she wanted to be satiated.
"When?" she asked as they stood in the elevator.
"I will call you," he said.
"When?"
"Soon."
"But you have no telephone," she said, feeling instantly ashamed of revealing what she had discovered, as well as the illogic of her response.
He hailed a passing taxi, then opened the door for her when it pulled up. She had expected him to drive her back to her car. But she shrugged off her disappointment and slid into the back seat, lifting her hand in a halfhearted wave of farewell. Again, she felt a pang of loss, but she forced herself to concentrate on finding her car and she gave the driver directions to the restaurant.