It was not easy for Marie to separate her two lives. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Eduardo. She fantasized about being with him incessantly, relived her experience in his apartment, tried to feel and touch him in her imagination, sometimes with uncanny success. But her main fear was that someone, her children, Claude, would see through her. If only she could tell them how beautiful it was, tell someone about it.
Perhaps it was a form of atonement, but Marie seemed to work harder at being a mother to her children and a companion for Claude. She marveled at her own toleration of her husband's egocentricity and bad temper. When anything had gone wrong with his day Claude had the tendency to bring home his hostility and edginess. He would pick fights with her, criticize her, insult her. Normally, she drew on practiced reserves.
"Don't take it out on me."
"I'm not. I'm merely stating the obvious. You are not informed. You don't read the newspapers enough. It is frustrating to come home to a wife who is ill-informed."
This was a familiar refrain. But she had her defenses.
"My job is to take care of the children. Maintain our home. My priorities are different."
"I will outgrow you," Claude would warn, his eyes blazing with anger, focusing his wrath and frustration on her. The implied threat had always struck a note of fear.
Now, she was more patient when this theme surfaced again.
"I will try to read more, Claude," she would say, defusing his anger. It doesn't matter, she smirked.
At night, before she could clear her mind and fall asleep, she would think about Eduardo, his loneliness, and the power and strength of his sexuality. But if there was happiness in the memory, it was followed by sadness in the yearning.
After three days, when he did not call, she began to grow anxious. Without a telephone, he was simply unreachable, and it took a great effort on her part not to return to his apartment house, although she would deliberately plan her chores to drive past it. She had had lunch with him on Tuesday. He finally called on Friday. Hearing the phone ring, she knew instantly that it was him.
"Marie?"
"Eduardo?"
There was a whisper in his voice, as if he were frightened that he would be overheard.
"I called you yesterday, but left no message."
"I was out," she said. There was a long pause. She heard him breathing.
"Can you see me?" he whispered. The words seemed furtive, exciting her interest with their urgency. He needed her. The idea filled her with joy. She had actually made plans for a luncheon with the wives of her husband's colleagues. But that, like everything else in her life now, was tentative, a charade, filling the time until Eduardo.
"When?" She had also lowered her voice. Was it possible that her phone was tapped? Claude had warned her. "Be careful what you say," he had confided, "We cannot assume that they are not listening in."
"Who?"
"The CIA. It is standard practice with us in Paris, although we have equipment to detect it. But it is not foolproof."
"What could I say that would have value?" she responded. Now, she knew. The telephone, indeed, could be the enemy.
"Today. At noon." She thought for a moment, hesitating, her mind crowded with the logistics of excusing herself from the luncheon.
"Of course." She had wanted to say my darling. The phone clicked off. She proceeded to dial another number. She had rejected the idea of using illness as an excuse. It could get back to Claude.
As she drove to Eduardo's apartment, her mind and body overflowing with anticipation, she found herself looking into the rear view mirror. This is ridiculous, she told herself. There's no way could Claude know? There's no way could anyone know? Nevertheless, she parked a block from the apartment, and walked the rest of the way, turning quickly as the doorman's eyes washed over her briefly.
Eduardo had heard the elevator and opened the door. Although Marie's agitation had increased as she walked toward his apartment, she calmed herself in his initial embrace. He was wearing nothing above his waist and feeling his bare flesh so unexpectedly gave her a warm surge of pleasure setting off the triggers of her sexuality. She felt his breath against her ear, then a whisper, "I have missed you." She pressed more tightly against him, reaching for his erection, feeling the hardness. She admitted to herself now that part of her anxiety had been that it would not be the same this time, that what she had felt during their first meeting was merely the explosive release of a frustrated, sex-starved woman. I have been dormant for fifteen years, she had admitted to herself. These new feelings had resurrected the search within herself. Feeling him now gave her the validation that she was indeed alive. A woman.
She ran her fingers through his hair, down over his bare back into the envelope of his trousers at the small of his back. She knelt again before him, unfastened his trousers and pulled them down, then his shorts, kissing and caressing him. "My beautiful man," she cried, feeling tears rush down over her cheeks. "My beautiful man." It seemed even then like some primitive litany. She felt his hands on her hair, but he said nothing. She observed herself like a spectator. And the spectator, marveling at the total loss of her inhibitions, felt pride in the spectacle, in its humanity and passion. I want him to come in my mouth, she told herself, her tongue compelling and urgent on his erection. Such an idea had once nauseated her. Then she felt the throbbing as he neared his moment of pleasure. The wave began in Marie again, as it had done the last time.
"Yes. Yes," she heard him say as she repeated to herself, my man. My man. My beautiful man. Then she tasted his libation. It refreshed her body and her spirit. Like wine is Christ's blood, she told herself, reveling in what she imagined was his sweetness.
Quickly his stamina surged again, and they were together in his bed, intertwined, thrashing about, loving, kissing, feeling, tasting, as her orgasms came in recurring crescendos, like a waterfall plunging from terrace to terrace. Later, she lay in the crook of his arm, her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, soaking in his aroma, his aura.
"We create the right biological chemistry," he said, laughing.
"It is more than just physical," she began again, knowing that it was impossible to fully explain, only to know. "This. Here and now is my real life. The rest is a sham."
"Nonsense. You have your husband, your family. Your life." The thought quickened her caution. But it was futile. She could savor her vulnerability. Such a truth would be like a bullet in her brain.
"But my real life is here. She lifted herself on her elbow and brushed her lips against his. Then she lay back and looked up at the ceiling again.
"Eduardo," she said. "What is happening here?"
"We are a man and a woman." He shrugged. She could sense his evasiveness.
"You must tell me, Eduardo." She detected a sense of pleading in her tone. But she really wanted to know. She had to know. "You are a man of the world, a man who has experienced life, a man of wisdom. You know, Eduardo. You know better than I. I've been in a harness for years. First, it was my mother. Then Claude. Then the children."
He patted her shoulder and kissed her hair.
"Do I give you joy, Eduardo?"
"Of course…." he paused, then smiled. "Beyond my wildest imagination."
She pinched his ribs playfully.
"I think you are mocking me."
"In Spanish it is reirse de mi. I prefer the Spanish. It seems to say more."
"In French it is tu te moques de moi."
She felt a giggle begin in her chest. Parameters of time began to fade, and with them, her other life.
"Why can't we just be here, like this, like now, forever?" She looked up at him. He said nothing and she sensed a growing paranoia in herself. He was evasive about the immediate future. A future without him felt claustrophobic. Could she cope with it? She wondered.
"What happens now?" she asked, sensing impending panic.
"Now?" He sat up and looked at his wristwatch, which lay on the pile of papers on his night table. "Now we get dressed and disappear." He slapped her buttocks and stood up.
"So soon?"
"I have things I must do."
"But…." She began checking herself, the outside world, the details of their disparate lives rushing in on them. She watched as he went to the bathroom, heard the rush of water. Then he came out and began to dress. She suddenly felt angry, angry at time, at him, at herself.
"This place is a mess," she said as he brushed his hair.
"It is simply a place to hang one's hat." He put the brush down on the dresser, the sound of its impact on the wood a sure signal of his irritation. "I like it just the way it is."
She felt his annoyance, knew she was causing it, and stood up to placate him, hoping that she might draw him down again. She reached for his crotch. But he moved away.
"I am late," he said, making his way toward the door. But he stopped, came back and kissed her hair. "Forgive me. I am testy, already thinking of other problems."
"When can I see you again, Eduardo?"
"I'll call you."
"When? Tomorrow? Next week? What day?"
"It's difficult to make plans. My life is so transitory. There is no other way. Not now."
There seemed a faint glimmer of hope, a shred of future permanence. It was not enough assurance, she knew. She watched as he started toward the door again.
"I will call you."
"But when?" Was she nagging?
"You mustn't ask." He looked at her for a moment, then turned.
She did not rise from the bed immediately after his departure, lying there for some time. Then she got up and reached for his brush, holding the handle, feeling the lingering warmth of his hand. The sense of loss seemed overwhelming and her eyes filled with tears. She looked at the brush, which suddenly became the focus of her anger. She threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp cracking sound, and fell to the floor. My God, what am I doing? What is happening to me? She dressed quickly and left the apartment.
It was, she thought, an odd coincidence, but she admitted the possibility also of cosmic influence. This thing with Eduardo had opened up new dimensions of spirituality within her. Life was, after all, not only what met the eye. Which is what she felt when Claude informed her that night that they were invited to dinner at the Chilean Embassy. The French ambassador, he had explained, was supposed to be there with a group of sixteen guests. But the ambassador had been called away suddenly, and Claude was designated to take his place. There, she thought, the cosmic influence. She yearned to inform Eduardo. Claude was in good spirits, she resented this. She preferred that her husband would bring home his irritations, thereby giving her a greater opportunity for dissimulation. Instead, he was in a particularly good mood, even though he was pedantic.
"You will like the Chileans," he said. "Lovely people. Very gay. And they are particularly eager to please. This is all part of their diplomatic offensive."
"They are butchers," she hissed. Instantly, she regretted the outburst. He looked up at her, fork in mid-air, his frown wrinkling.
"Well, what have we here? A budding expert on political science." Then the fork moved, the wrinkles disappeared. "It is not so simple."
"They have killed many people. And many are in exile." She was trying to remember what Eduardo had told her, but felt inadequate. She had merely accepted his story, and had taken his side for no other reason.
"I would suggest," Claude said, his good spirits fading, his lips tightening, "that you keep that particular well-informed opinion to yourself when we visit the Chileans. I do not want a diplomatic incident." He paused.
He remained silent throughout the meal. But she was fuming. His attack on her self-esteem seemed to fortify her reserves. Now that she had Eduardo, there was no need to be submissive, fearful. I have betrayed you, you pompous ass, she laughed, silently as he self-indulgently patted his lips with a napkin. I have felt this other man throb inside me. I have kissed and sucked and loved another man's body like I never, could never, will never, love yours.
There was, nevertheless, some truth to his criticism. She was ill-informed, particularly on a subject of obsessive interest to Eduardo. She had had no previous desire to inform herself on matters that interested Claude. Perhaps she was resisting him subconsciously. But Claude had pointed out her inadequacy in terms of Eduardo. It was odd how her life had changed. There was no subtlety about it. A line had been drawn, quickly, abruptly. She belonged, in her mind, to Eduardo. For Eduardo she would do anything. Anything!
Spending most of the next day in Cleveland Park Library, she gathered up all the books she could find about Chile. Some she thumbed through, the rest she brought home with her, displaying the books deliberately and pugnaciously on a living room shelf and on the night table near her bed. Reading about Chile, she felt closer to Eduardo.
Claude lay beside her as she read, the pages of the book illuminated by the small night light. She felt his arm steal around her middle.
"It is late," she said. "Please." She shrugged him away. "I am informing myself."
"That is quite obvious. But you needn't do it with such passion."
What does he know about passion, she thought. Again, his arm stole around her. "Sorry," she snapped. "I never mix business with pleasure." He would not, of course, know which was which.
"I'm sorry, Marie," he whispered, pecking at her ear. "I had no idea you were becoming so sensitive."
"Go to sleep."
"Really, Marie. I am sorry."
"So am I," she said, checking herself. It would be foolish to precipitate an argument. She wondered if she should submit as she might have done in the past. She had never refused him directly, only obliquely. She pondered an escape route, finally patted his head.
"You must sleep. Tomorrow is a busy day." She bent over and kissed his forehead. "Only a little while longer. I want to make you proud of me tomorrow."
"But I am proud of you," he said. Somehow he seemed placated and rolled further away from her. She felt relief at her wise strategy. But it frightened her to feel her commitment to Eduardo. She shivered, her eyes going back to the book.
***
The Chilean Chancellery was a stately old residence located on Massachusetts Avenue in the midst of Embassy Row. The ambassador's wife was lovely, tall and willowy. The ambassador, too, was charming, urbane and distinguished. He was a tall barrel-chested man with well-cut clothes. They were hardly what one might expect Eduardo's enemies to be like. It annoyed Marie to be in this setting. It destroyed her subjectivity, her alliance with Eduardo.
"We are badly maligned," the ambassador was saying. Marie listened intently, ignoring her dinner partner, a portly gentleman, the president of some important company that did business in Chile. "It is true we are ruled by a junta. But this is the fate of most South American countries. Otherwise we would be in chaos. We need order first so that we can broaden our economic base and provide our people with a better alternative for communism, which will destroy everything we have built since Bernardo O'Higgins and José de San Martin freed our country from the Spanish in 1818."
She knew that, she told herself happily. She had even remembered the exact date, April 5, 1818.
"Your April fifth," she blurted out, startling the ambassador as he looked toward her and smiled broadly.
"Yes," he said. "That is exactly right."
"But what about the DINA?" the man on her right whispered. She knew about that, too. The intelligence agency, their terror squads, as Eduardo had characterized them. "Vicious brutes," he had told her, who reached out to kill the Junta's enemies wherever they could find them. The mention of the name made her shiver briefly, for she knew that it was the DINA that Eduardo hated most.
The ambassador heard the reference and did not ignore it. He was obviously defensive, but tolerant, a seasoned diplomat.
"You have your CIA. We have our DINA. One must recognize that every country has enemies. In our case, the enemies are so numerous that we must take extra precautions. As for assassinations, they are exaggerated. It is propaganda spread by our enemies."
"And what of those who are banished from your country? Or are in your prisons?" She knew it was her voice saying these things, but could not believe it was her mind creating them. How impolitic, she admonished herself, looking at Claude at the other table, pursuing a conversation with his usual intensity. She knew she had made most of the others at her table uncomfortable. But it was too late. The idea of it was in the open.
"Banishment is an old South American tradition, Madame," the ambassador began, with an effort at good humor. "That is punishment enough. There is nothing worse for a Chilean, than to lose his country. Nothing worse." He paused, and seemed to lapse into introspection. "It is all so strange," he continued, clearing his throat. "We are such a small country." How is it possible to hate these people, Marie thought? She wanted to subtly bring out Eduardo's name after dinner, privately. She lowered her head and played with the food on her plate, noting that he had ignored the question about prisons.
Later, during the after-dinner drinks and coffee in the terrace room off the swimming pool, she insinuated herself into a conversation the ambassador was having with a plump man who had been at the other table with Claude.
"I hope you didn't think I was being rude," she began when she had caught his eye. The plump man's presence was inconvenient, and she tried to be deliberately vague, hoping that the ambassador would understand.
"Not at all," he said, but she sensed a coolness beneath the surface.
"You see, I am extremely interested in Chile."
"Oh?"
She observed his sudden interest.
"I would like someday to visit Punta Arenas."
"Punta Arenas!" The ambassador laughed. "It is the equivalent of your 'Wild West.'"
"The city on the bottom of the world." Marie beamed again at her cunning, knowing that she was deliberately ingratiating herself, and establishing her credibility. Few people knew that Punta Arenas was the southernmost city in the Western Hemisphere?
"It is the political situation that confuses me most," she said, with an air of confession. "Allende was, admittedly, a Marxist. But he was duly elected by the people. All right, he was overthrown by other forces. Why then must there be so much brutality…?" She found herself groping for words.
"You see," the ambassador began, "what Allende tried to do was make a bloodless communist revolution. There is no such thing. Those who have achieved success or are descendants of those who achieved success before them are not ready to give up the fruits of their achievements. Democracy then becomes unworkable. It is our hope that the Junta can keep peace long enough to find new alternatives to give people greater opportunity without wiping out the achievers."
"You make it sound so simple." She paused, aimed her dart, then threw it. "I recently met a gentleman at the Romanian Embassy. He held a different view."
She could feel his alertness. The plump man had drifted away.
"I can't quite recall his name. It began with a 'p.'"
"Ah, yes. Palmero. Eduardo."
"You know him?"
"Of course. We are a small country. He is a political enemy of the regime." A note of sadness crept into his voice. "We were at the University together. We were friends once. Now, we barely speak."
"You see him?"
"I know all about him." She could see he was becoming uncomfortable. Perhaps they really are watching him. Eduardo will be proud of me, she thought, anticipating their future meeting, when she would tell him what she had learned.
By the time Eduardo called on Monday, Marie was in entangled in her own anxiety. At breakfast she snapped at her children, bringing both of them near tears. Claude, thankfully, was distant as he read the morning papers with his coffee. She had been particularly cruel to him, since she literally had shrunk from his advances as if he were diseased. Her honor had compelled her to make him feel unwanted. I am another man's woman, she had wanted to tell him, hoping he would understand even through her silence.
"What have I done?" he had pleaded. "Really, Marie, you are acting strangely. I am your husband."
"I just don't feel like it," she protested.
"Are you ill?" He had felt her forehead.
"No, I am not ill. I just don't feel like it."
Because it had never happened in quite that way before, it seemed to loom larger in Claude's mind than it might have otherwise. But Marie derived satisfaction in rejecting him, like a battle had been won. I will not submit, she told herself, convinced that "submission" was the correct word. Claude might have used, "obedience."
And yet, Marie longed to submit to Eduardo. He would summon her in his own good time and she would come. That was a very romantic idea, she thought, but it was also nerve-racking. The uncertainty sapped her strength and her ability to cope with the details of her other life. There must be some other, more certain way to pursue this, she decided.
When, finally, he did call, her elation was so palpable that she hardly remembered the hurt until after they had made love. She no longer approached him with the fear that somehow it would not be the same. He moved her, beyond what she had thought possible.
"This is heaven on earth," she whispered, feeling him still inside her, their passion momentarily subsiding.
"You are my life now, Eduardo," she told him. "I live only for you. Only to be near you." He remained silent, disengaging, lying on his back now, his arm around her, staring upward.
"Is it wrong for me to feel these things?" she asked. "Or to say them?"
"You must not make it a moral question," he said.
"All right then. Why has it happened? Answer me that."
"It is unanswerable."
"No, it must have an answer."
"It is a mystery. Like the concept of God."
"What has God got to do with it?"
He sighed. He seemed on the edge of irritation. She was suddenly anxious.
"And you, Eduardo? Can it be the same for you?" It was a question that had begun to absorb her. What is he feeling? Does he love me? She had wanted to resist asking such a question. Suddenly she put a finger on his lips. "Do you love me?" she whispered. "Don't," she said quickly, frightened. "It is not necessary to answer." They lay staring at the ceiling for a long time.
Finally, she told him about her dinner at the Chilean Embassy. His lips grew tight.
"He said he was once your friend."
"He would have me shot as much as look at me!" Eduardo replied. "And he as much as admitted they were watching me. The butchers are watching me. But they will never silence me. Never. I will die first."
She put a hand on his forehead.
"Let me help, Eduardo." The touch of her seemed to cool him. How she longed to be a part of his life. "I can help," she insisted. He looked at her thoughtfully.
"Why?"
"You, Eduardo. What is love without sacrifice?"
"It is too dangerous."
"For you, I will do anything."
"You don't understand, Marie. This is not a game. I am a marked man. They are watching me. It is not safe to get involved."
"But I am involved."
He paused, watching her, inspecting her. "We shall see," he whispered.
She should have been frightened. That seemed like the logical reaction. She should have thought first of her own exposure, the potential collapse of her life with Claude and the children. That had once seemed the real danger. Somehow it had all become reversed. She now fantasized about dying with Eduardo. What is life without him now?
"Love me, Eduardo. Just love me."
She lay on the bed watching him dress. It was part of their rhythm now.
"If only I could be certain that we would meet on a particular day, at a particular time. It is terrible to live with such anxiety. I could cope better with my life if I knew."
"It is impossible."
"Perhaps I could come over every day at a certain hour. I could take care of you. There is so much I want to give."
"I am sorry, Marie," he said, turning to her, his silver-gray eyes calm in the early-afternoon light filtering through the half-opened blinds. "It is impossible." He hesitated, "…now."
The hint of a future with him gave her hope. If he asked, could I give up everything? She wondered. My man. This is my man. Lying there, she knew the decision she would make.
She drew even further away from Claude and the children. There was an element of militancy about it. Even madness. But I am Eduardo's woman, was the only reassurance needed, and she would repeat it to herself over and over again.
"You must join me for lunch at the State Department today," Claude said the following Monday morning. Again, she had somehow gotten through another week, mostly by maintaining silence and spending her time reading books about Chile. She had decided to begin taking Spanish lessons. The effect on Claude of her sudden turnabout from dutiful spouse to indifferent stranger was profound. He was confused, but had chosen a course of disciplined response. She observed this, but ignored it. What did it matter? Claude was a relationship of the past.
"No. You go without me."
"But the other wives will be there, Marie. And the Secretary of State with his wife." He seemed to be pleading. She noticed the pockets of fatigue under his eyes. But that observation too carried no feeling with it.
"I simply won't go," she said.
"Really, Marie. What have you got to do that's more important?"
"I'd prefer to stay home. Read my books. And there are household chores."
"Marie!" His body seemed to tighten and stretch as he loomed over her. A fleck of saliva formed at the side of his lips. "I demand that you come with me!"
"Demand?" She snickered, taunting him.
"You are my wife. I demand your compliance."
Compliance, she thought. How ridiculous! One would think this was a diplomatic negotiation. She did not reply, moving away from him. To Claude, it was a gesture more infuriating than speech.
"You damned bitch!" he shouted. "Are you trying to ruin me? You have no right. You are killing me. You are destroying my career!"
She had never seen him that angry, and while her mind told her that she should pity him, she found herself actually enjoying the spectacle. She remembered now all the little affronts and humiliations that she had endured at his hands. On numerous occasions, he had publicly insulted her in front of his mother. "If only she was better read, more informed," he had said. "An empty-headed ninny," he had called her. It was his favorite epithet. Not to mention his criticism of her manners, especially after a dinner or cocktail party. "You simply ignored the man sitting beside you," or "You should not have slurped so much wine," or "I saw the way you were eyeing that tall man," or "Couldn't you tell that your brassiere strap was showing?" Recalling this gave her courage. He didn't deserve her pity. He is revolting, she told herself, thinking of Eduardo, remembering the ecstasy he inspired in her. Ecstasy, yes. She felt a warmness suffuse itself.
"Listen to me when I talk to you!" Claude was shouting. "I will throw you out on the street." He started to move toward her. Was he getting ready to strike her? She braced herself, prepared to take the blow.
But he stopped short suddenly, standing stiffly, searching for control.
"Have I done something?" he said, his throat constricted, the words hoarsely spoken. "Is there something I have done wrong?"
"Really, Claude. You are making a cause célèbre over nothing."
"Nothing!" His anger rose again. "You are deliberately hurting me!"
"Because I won't go to your silly luncheon?"
He looked around him helplessly.
"Is this my wife talking?"
"Go to the luncheon yourself. Tell them I'm sick. Tell them anything."
It was beginning to drain her. There could be no resolution now. There could only be his continuing tirade, which left her completely unmoved. She heard his voice, repetitive, grating, and tried not to listen. Finally, he strode out and slammed the door behind him, shaking the glassware and bric-a-brac. She was thankful the children had already gone off to school and that the maid had not yet arrived.
Surprised by her calm, she sat on the dining room table and sipped coffee. The focus of her thoughts was on Eduardo, triggering a delicious sense of expectation. As if in response, the telephone rang.
"I will be there, darling," she said into the receiver certain that it was he. There had been no question in her mind that it was he. I feel it, she told herself, hearing his response.
"Are you getting psychic?" he asked. She sensed his amusement.
"I feel you," she said.
"About noon?"
"Of course." She heard the click, but kept the phone to her ear, her eyes closed, trying to imagine his closeness.
Again, she did not park the car in the apartment lot, finding a space about a block away instead. She wore a kerchief and large sunglasses and walked past the desk clerk quickly. The surreptitiousness made her anxious and she longed for the day when such pretense would not be necessary. She had, she knew, conquered her fear of Claude. His discovery would be just a matter of time. Just that morning she had longed to tell him. "You are not my man." She wanted to shout it at him. "You were never my man." But she had held back. There was, after all, some pragmatism left within her. Her mother had once said: "Don't throw out your dirty water until you are sure you can have clean water."
Before the door had barely closed, she reached out for him, held him, clung to him. Tears spilled out of her eyes. He moved her away from him and looked at her.
"You are crying," he said, kissing the tears, licking them with his tongue.
"It's because. I am so happy."
He kissed her eyes now, her cheeks, gave her a long lingering kiss on her lips, his tongue entering her mouth as she sucked it. "You are my life now," she whispered.
She reached for his hard penis, unzipped his pants, kneeled, caressed, kissed his hardness.
"My beautiful Eduardo," she cried. "My wonderful, beautiful Eduardo." A tremulous shiver began inside her and she knew the waves were beginning to come. When finally she drew his hardness into her, she felt herself floating on an endless sea of pleasure and when his own release came, she knew she was on the verge of fainting with joy.
When they had finished, she knew that she had lost track of time, had actually been outside of herself. Each time was better than the time before. How greedy I am for him, she thought.
"Can I possibly go on living without you?" she whispered. She could feel his gaze on her. He was smiling.
"Is it that strong?"
"Beyond all words."
He shrugged. He seemed younger, boyish. She patted his forehead and smoothed his hair. Turning his eyes upward, he stared at the ceiling.
"What are you thinking about?" she whispered.
He remained silent for a long time. When he spoke, the words seemed ejaculated, as if they had been accumulating in his brain.
"I am thinking about my own futility," he said.
His words frightened her, but she remained silent. Whatever he does, I will do with him, she vowed. She wondered if, despite the terror in his heart, he needed her as she needed him.
Suddenly he sprang from the bed and repeatedly banged a fist into his palm, his lips mumbling indecipherable words.
"What is it, my darling?"
He continued to flay his fist in his palm. His eyes seemed glazed, his lips twisted and tightly fixed. After a while, he relaxed and lay down beside her again. She saw glistening perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, feeling the cool droplets as her fingers caressed him.
"It is like fighting Goliath," he said.
"But David won."
"At least he had a weapon, a slingshot, and he knew how to use it." He tapped his forehead. "I have only this." Then he pointed to her. "And you."
"Me? Am I a weapon?"
He smiled. But it seemed a mechanical gesture, not warm.
"Everything I touch becomes a weapon."
"I would die for you, Eduardo."
"Die?" He gently responded. "Who asked you to die?"
She wondered at first what he meant. Then she turned the question inward upon herself. Who indeed? She had lived the contented, mostly conventional life of a diplomat's wife. The whole focus of her life was to support her husband's ambition and her children's welfare. How irrelevant it all sounded now. Yes, she decided. She was quite prepared to make any sacrifice for Eduardo. Even to die.
That night she moved out of the bedroom she shared with Claude and into the spare room. Claude stood against the wall, leaning on it, posturing under a patina of bravado to hide his humiliation. She felt no pity for him.
"I won't stand for this tantrum much longer," he said, searching for his old sense of imperiousness. The threat seemed empty, without conviction, which annoyed her. Then do something, you stupid man. This is just the beginning of your defeat. I will torture you.
"I will leave you if this persists." Claude remarked. She remained silent as she gathered her clothing, emptying her drawers. She wanted him to recognize the finality of it.
"At least you might think of the children," he said flatly. It was, after all, his last refuge. She smirked.
"I'm warning you." He pointed a finger at her but she walked right past him, her clothing piled in her arms. He followed her to the guest room. By then, all pretense had disappeared. His eyes had brimmed with tears, which she saw peripherally as she put her clothes in the dresser. She marveled at the lack of pity in her heart, as if he were a total stranger.
"If only I could understand," he said, sniffling, his voice cracked with emotion. She knew he was making a great effort to control himself. "At least, you owe me some explanation."
"There is none," she said finally, tired of him watching her, annoyed at herself for not telling him. Could he be so stupid as not to suspect?
"You realize that you are ending our marriage," he said. "Is that what you want?" His voice was barely audible.
"There is no marriage here."
"But why?" He was pleading now. Was it the moment to tell him, to confess? She knew that it was not out of concern for his feelings that she held back. Somehow, she reasoned, it would hurt Eduardo. Claude, with his manhood challenged, might be capable of revenge, of harm. Say nothing, she told herself. Not now.
"This is all pointless, Claude."
"I have a right to an explanation."
"You have no rights. Not any longer." She stared at him, her eyes deliberately fixed on his face, observing his confusion and his pain, unmoved. It must have become unbearable to him. He turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind. She felt liberated, freedom.
See, Eduardo, she screamed within herself. I have made my commitment. To you. Forever!
