VII

Who is being investigated here, Dobbs wondered, angrily. His mind had wandered. He was thinking about himself, his lost insight. Perhaps I have been at this game too long, he decided. I have grown as dry as a leftover leaf in winter. Was he really looking for a motive behind the Palmero hit or something in himself. Or both.

Furtively, like a self-conscious bird, he looked up from the files on his desk, glancing in either direction and behind him, a visual sweep to be sure no one was there to observe him. He had given strict orders that he was not to be disturbed. And he had double-locked the door. Then why had he suddenly searched the room with his eyes, he asked himself, knowing that the answer was his own fear. He shivered at his faulty logic, fingering the files again, forcing his concentration.

But again he looked up, turned from side to side and behind him. The table was jammed tight against the wall, stark, pictureless, a secured space. Someone was here, he was certain, in the room with him, watching him, sensing things inside of him, sensors crawling under his skin like maggots in a dead carcass. Eduardo, he whispered. The audibility shocked him, because the word had slid out of his mouth. He had not willed it to be said.

Opening another file, he noted his fingers shook. Eduardo, he said, this time in full control, deliberately louder as if to ridicule what had happened previously. Stop bugging me, he said in a conversational tone, as if Eduardo were within earshot.

It took a long time for the meaning of the words in the report to penetrate his mind. Finally his interest was magnetized again and he felt the pull of Eduardo's as yet unfathomable world.

The wife! Miranda Ferrara Palmero. An excellent Polaroid color shot showed her clearly; graceful, slender, with high cheekbones, creamy skin and longish dark hair almost to her shoulders, parted in the middle, giving her face a Madonna-like air. Another Polaroid showed her again with a young child, a boy, clinging to her shyly. By any standard, the woman was a beauty. She seemed strong, proud, aristocratic in bearing, oddly symbolic of Chile's emancipated female.

The writer of the report was quick in confirmation. Miranda Palmero was, indeed, something special even in Chilean eyes, much accustomed to beautiful women. The Ferraras could trace their huge land holdings to Bernardo O'Higgins himself, the Irish-Indian bastard who liberated Chile from the Spaniards and then gave away much of the land to those who had helped him.

Ferraras were both oligarchs and intellectuals, poets, doctors, politicians, businessmen, and the activities of their offspring were grist for the newspaper mill. In a Manila envelope was a pile of clippings. Miranda with her father at the opening of the races. Miranda riding. Miranda at tennis. Miranda sailing. Miranda in a night club. Miranda at her wedding. There was Eduardo, handsome, even glowing in his winged collar and tails, standing beside the radiant beauty. The couple on top of the wedding cake! One clipping described the event as the ultimate merger, the inevitable melding of the old with the new, good genes coming together, the ceremonial crossing of the great bloodlines of Chile. Who could have foretold how it would turn out?

The report was long. Miranda was voluble, excessive, and the interrogation was obviously a catharsis, a long tirade of self-justification. There was deep guilt here. The woman had harangued, raged, boiled with emotion as she spilled her life into the recorder. With uncommon detail, the writer had even described the setting for the interrogation. A huge, ornate room, in the Ferrara compound in the foothills above Santiago, pre-Columbian art abounding, a dominant oil of O'Higgins, surrounded by family mementos, shrines to the Ferraras. It had started on a bright sunny morning and gone on until well beyond midnight.

"So it was fashionable to be compassionate," she had raged. One could almost hear her well-bred voice modulate in emphasis as it seethed with anger over this enormous intrusion. "We are all compassionate. We have eyes. We see suffering. We see poverty. We see injustice. We bleed. We pray for them. We are not stone hearted." Perhaps she had paused, lit a cigarette, which dangled from ringed tapered fingers.

"With Eduardo Palmero it was not enough merely to be compassionate. With Eduardo he had to bleed with them. He had to cut his wrists with them. There was no middle ground. I had to conspire with his family to preserve his inheritance for my child. As it was, he had given much of it away to finance them." "Them" spat out of the page as an expectoration.

"Who are 'they'?" the interrogator had asked. Obviously, it was the root motivation of the interview. Dobbs checked the dates. Eduardo was in prison at the time, and they were putting electrodes to his testicles to get out of him what she would have given freely, if she knew.

"They would crawl over the house like lice, all these so-called saviors. I detested their presence. They revolted me. They stunk. It was the bone of contention from the beginning. He and his friends would have handed us over to the Russians on a silver platter. And that pig Allende. He was a bumbling idiot, a foil for their manipulations. In a few more years there would be nothing left. We would be on refugee boats heading north, begging our big brothers to throw us the crumbs of their hospitality."

"Did you fight about this?" the interrogator had asked slyly.

"Fight?" There might have been a long hesitation, a deep tug on the cigarette, two great streams of smoke flaring out of her nostrils. "Fight implies a relationship. We had none."

"Not even in the beginning."

"Not even then. I loathed him."

"So why the marriage?"

There was a long pause. She might have shivered. They were reaching the raw nerves.

"He was a Palmero. I was a Ferrara. Marriages are not made in heaven. His father was clever. He pursued the marriage like a fox. My father could not resist."

"And the child?"

"It was my duty to create one." The pronoun seemed odd.

"It was my duty," she repeated calmly, showing her contempt of the interrogator's ignorance, a flash of aristocratic arrogance.

"And he was the father?" She would be containing her rage now, at the point of exasperation.

"Ferraras are not given to whoredom," she had said, speaking for the gallant line of her predecessors. "We are also quite fertile. Our conceptions are quick." Dobbs could sense the intimidation in the male interrogator, who seemed confused. Humanity is a weakness in this business, Dobbs was thinking. It had been his refuge. But it was gone now. A sense of humanity might have saved this case. What, after all, did he know of the love of women?

"There was no love between you?" the interrogator asked.

"Love?" She might have looked at him coldly. But the interrogator needed more.

"If you say it was over from the beginning, then how could you...?"

"I could," she must have said quickly. "It is quite possible."

"But you said you loathed him?"

"With my soul."

"And you loathe him now?"

"More than ever."

"And did you loathe him at the time of your conception?"

"Especially then."

"And how did he feel about you?"

"I would have hated me," she would have cried. "He should have hated me. From his vantage point, I would have detested me. Everything he wanted me to be, I was not, could not be. If I were him, I would have put a knife in my heart."

"Then he loved you."

"If that is the word."

"And you could not love him?"

"No. I told you. I loathed him."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Was it his politics?"

"Maybe."

"You are not sure."

"No. Why are you asking me this?"

"I am doing the questioning."

"It is enough that I loathe him. I denounce him. I disassociate myself and my child from everything he stands for."

"And do you care what happens to him?"

"No."

"Even if he was executed?"

"Even then."

"You have no compassion for him?"

"No."

"Did he treat you abominably?"

"No."

"Then why?"

Hesitation again. The interrogator seemed to have gained the upper hand.

"I cannot answer that question. I don't understand it at all. I'm sorry. Don't talk to me of love. What does love have to do with it?"

Dobbs could imagine the long pause, the tension in the air, the terror of some old memory.

"If it is true that love is an illogical emotion, then so is loathing." The woman had whispered, her throat barely able to support the ejaculation of the word.

"Then why did you marry him?"

"I told you."

"You were forced by duty?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"That is why you loathed him?"

"Not at all. The marriage was logical. It was an excellent match from our family's point of view. His father saw me as the force to change the direction of Eduardo's life. He was a man who could get what he wanted."

"It would have been better if you loved him."

"Of course."

"Did you try?"

"Try to love? Can one?"

We are getting nowhere, the interrogator must have said.

Dobbs understood, imagining Eduardo's father trying to manipulate fate. Hadn't he tried as well, and failed?

* * * *

Eduardo knew his father had been watching his face, but the distraction of the tennis ball as it collided with the racket had interfered with his concentration.

"Are you listening?" his father said sternly. The veranda overlooking the tennis courts of the club glowed violet in the late afternoon sun. The air was dry, light; the scent of eucalyptus, which came in like the tide at night, was already settling sweetly over them. His father had chosen the tennis club for this talk so he would not miss his late afternoon game. He always kills two birds with one stone, Eduardo thought. At moments like this the image of Isabella always intruded and he could not find the old respect.

"The firm must continue to have a Palmero," his father said. He had announced by letter to his father that he would not attend law school.

"It has you," Eduardo said quietly, respectfully.

"Now," his father replied wistfully. "But in ten years.... "His voice trailed off. He put a hand on his son's arm, haired along the ridges under his knuckles.

"I would not be happy at it," Eduardo said, sipping the golden sherry in the tapered glass.

"But, my God, Eduardo. You are the only son." There was a brief air of pleading as he glimpsed the shattered dream in his father's eyes. They displayed the beginnings of his impending old age.

"We are different, Father," Eduardo said. It was then that his father had begun to talk quickly, his voice velvet, with the lawyer's art of persuasion. But the sound of the tennis ball intruded. His mind had been filled with the arguments for his own case, his lack of interest in law, the absurdity of endlessly accumulating property, the lack of justice in it. We cannot always be taking without giving something back, he had wanted to argue, but what was the point? His father would think of it as youthful stupidity. A ball cracked, sharper than the others, like a gunshot. He had seen the racket swing swiftly in the girl's arm. It was only then that he noticed the girl.

"It is your duty," his father droned on. "I cannot leave this to your mother or your sisters and certainly not their husbands." His views on his daughters' choice of mates were well-known. But then he had always shown contempt for the females of his household. With good reason, Eduardo agreed, seeing the disgust surface on his father's face as if any thought of his wife and daughters could fill him with nausea.

Eduardo's mind was absorbing his father's information, but his senses were alert to the girl on the court, long legged, the short whites tightly wrapping a fullness in her breasts and buttocks, long hair tight in a pony tail as she glided over the court, humiliating her male partner with her. grace and skill. He felt a stirring in his crotch and crossed his legs, sipping again from the glass. But he did not turn his eyes away from the girl and finally his father noticed.

"Miranda Ferrara," he said, "lovely to watch."

"Excellent player." Remembering Isabella, Eduardo determined not to show interest. He had seen her before, of course, always with detachment since she seemed beyond his aspirations, an intimidating figure with her arrogance and confidence.

"And quite beautiful," his father said, still watching him, the challenge implicit. Had his father known he was outside of his study, watching? He tore his eyes away and looked into his father's face.

"I know I'm a disappointment to you, Father," Eduardo said, surprised at his wavering voice. Their discussion seemed remote from his real interest now as he imagined the girl on the tennis court behind him. He watched as his father shrugged and dipped his head into his drink.

"I wish I could be what you want me to be," he whispered. But his father's face had quickly changed, the mask of ingratiation forming as he looked beyond Eduardo, who turned as the girl came toward him, his heartbeat accelerating. A deep flush seemed to wash over his entire body. His father stood up and Eduardo obeyed the impulse of politeness. It was odd how much he aped his father's sense of politeness.

"Miss Ferrara," his father said, adding quickly, "this is my son, Eduardo."

She held out a limp hand and touched Eduardo's, the flesh of his palm perspiring as he looked into her dark eyes, flickering briefly as if he were a piece of stone in her line of sight. On the surface it was all so formal, so ritualistic, while beneath he surged, sputtered. When she reached for his father's hand, anger erupted, barely contained as he remembered Isabella. I will not let this happen again, he thought, the rage boiling, making his tongue thick. Then she passed on, a regal figure moving through an aisle of admiring subjects.

He would remember the moment, of course. His mind would try to unravel the mystery of the sudden attraction, like a hook shoved into his body, as if he were merely a carcass to be hung on a rack.

Later, agitated, he had gone back to his own apartment in Santiago brooding over his inaction in not explaining himself to his father, annoyed that he had been deflected. Could he know then that the distraction would last a lifetime?

He had, by then, already allied himself with the political left, who had eagerly welcomed a son of the oligarch. He had joined with the FRAP forces against Frie, had met Allende, and was already composing unsigned articles for the party journal. His father deliberately avoided the subject, a wise man. "You are plotting the destruction of your own family," he might have said. Which, in a way, was curiously true.

So politics had been merely an undercurrent. The meeting had accomplished little between father and son. Only the sudden attraction for Miranda had made the meeting memorable for Eduardo. He could not get her out of his mind, nor out of his body. It was as if she had, like some invisible substance, seeped into his pores and spread through his cells, commanding his attraction. The brief memory of her flesh touching him could send him into a paroxysm of autistic passion with visible, very physical reactions.

He began to haunt the places she was known to frequent. It was relatively easy to find out where they were since she was of great interest to the press, the beautiful, vivacious, wealthy, untouchable princess of the Ferraras. Occasionally at a dance or a night club, or at a party, he would nod her way, receiving in turn her cool acknowledgment, devoid, he was certain, of any interest on her part.

He began to save her clippings and paste them on the inside of his closet door, hidden from the eyes of his occasional visitors, a gallery for his private pleasures or guilt. It was annoying to be so helplessly obsessed, he knew. Nor did it help his self-esteem, since personal discipline was an important factor in his make-up, up till then a source of pride.

His father, a man of infinite subtlety, continued his pressure, perhaps sensing his son's vulnerability. Did he know? Eduardo wondered, a curiosity that filled him with dread, since the idea of it could summon up the early pain of Isabella.

One day his father arrived at his apartment unannounced. Eduardo had just come home from a party meeting, drained from exhortations since he'd had to whip himself into participation, an added strain that certainly had diminished his effectiveness. He was morose and had barely taken off his jacket when his father arrived. The older man was fresh from the exhilaration of some negotiation, although it was odd that he would arrive without the courtesy of a call in advance which would have put Eduardo on his guard.

"You look terrible, Eduardo," he said, surveying his son with that stifling sense of proprietorship. Knowing it was true, Eduardo ignored the observation. He wanted his father to leave. He was an intrusion. Alone, he could contemplate Miranda, summon up his private image of her, the sensual, supple beauty. Sometimes he could almost reach out and feel her hair, its softness caressing his fingers.

"I have been working hard," he said finally, to shift his father's concentration on him, or, at least, interrupt his visual surveillance. There was, obviously, something special on the older man's mind. He hoped it would not be the law thing.

"I worry over you, Eduardo," his father said suddenly. He was not going to be circuitous tonight, hardly subtle. Eduardo braced for a frontal assault. He knows, Eduardo thought, thinking of Miranda. He felt his face flush.

"Would you like a drink, Father?" Eduardo asked half rising in his chair. His father waved away the idea as if he were brushing away a stubborn fly. It seemed serious business.

"They are using you, Eduardo."

So it was political, Eduardo thought, relieved. Sooner or later it would have to come to that. A rebellious son might be a political tradition, but it was supposed to phase out early, like a disease that had run its course. Someone had sent him, Eduardo suspected.

"I have never tried to interfere, Eduardo."

"That is true." It was true only on the surface, perhaps to his father's perception. Actually, from Eduardo's point of view, the intrusion had been massive.

"As an intellectual exercise it was amusing," his father said. "Compassion is a noble emotion, but the reality requires far more pragmatism. Your Allende and his group are trying to destroy us."

"Not destroy. Redistribute."

"Euphemism. Take from us. Give to them." A slight flush mantled his father's cheekbones, showing the anger beneath. "Property belongs to him who can hold it."

"It is a shortsighted view," Eduardo said. "You know that, Father. You cannot continue to take. It is pointless to simply amass, while others starve."

"Well, then we must feed them."

"They are also looking for dignity."

He was careful not to appear scolding. He could not find the courage to confront his father, the patron.

"It could get nasty," his father said. "Chile, as we know it, would go down. Your people are agitating too much. Allende is a fool, a stupid dreamer. He cannot change human nature."

"We must have a counterbalance for excessive greed."

The barb found its mark and his father stood up. He was a tall man and his full height was always an intimidation, since Eduardo was still shorter by a head. He felt the old fear again, the power of his father.

"You must stop this, Eduardo," his father commanded. Is it simply a personal embarrassment or are they beginning to feel the pinch, Eduardo wondered, sensing his own elation and guilt.

"I am committed," Eduardo said respectfully.

"Committed? Do you really know what your commitment is?" He knew the question was rhetorical. "You are committed, my son, to your family's destruction. Without property we are nothing. This is the ultimate reality. To be landless in Chile, without wealth or property, is to be nothing. I have not worked this hard for my family to be nothing." His father's rage was like a descending storm brewing in a dark cloud.

"I insist that you stop this," his father said. It was a command that even his father knew would not be obeyed. It was merely the throwing down of the gauntlet, the test. Already he was sure a far subtler plan was at work. My father knows his son, Eduardo sensed, girding himself for other methods of persuasion.

"I am sorry, Father," he said. The older man straightened his jacket. He was fastidious in his dress. Do I love him? Eduardo asked himself. Affection had never been demonstrative in the family, although he believed that his father truly loved him, perhaps as he loved all his possessions. Yet he had destested all the females in the household.

"You are his favorite," his mother had insisted. It was a point on which he needed great reassurance, especially after Isabella. "You are the future. Your sisters are nothing to him." She paused and tears had filled her eyes. "And me, as well."

"Try to understand," Eduardo said, as his father moved to the door. The older man paused, put out a hand and gently stroked Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo wanted to touch his hand, but held back.

"You will understand only when you have your own son," his father said gently, turning and letting himself out of the door without another word. He will not give up so easily, Eduardo thought, wondering what the next onslaught would be.

Thoughts of Miranda eased all pain, except the pain of longing for her.

Occasionally, he would go home for the weekend, more out of obligation and guilt than desire. Sometimes all efforts at persuasion failed to lure him back. His mother, in an effort to recapture her self-esteem, had taken to throwing huge parties, mostly to display her wealth and to assure the world that the Palmeros were, indeed, one of the great united loving families of Chile. Eduardo would avoid these despite his mother's entreaties. They were lavish events, huge buffets, formal dress, dancing to the continuous music of rotating orchestras, a flaunting of wealth and affluence that disgusted him. Perhaps, from his mother's point of view, it was necessary to create these events merely to get his father home, since it would be unthinkable, and his mother knew it, for his father not to appear.

"You must come," his mother had insisted one day a few weeks after his father's unexpected visit.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"I insist."

"Really, Mother. I am only an embarrassment." It was a tack he had decided to take as his political role had increased. "The radical son has no place there. It stands for everything I am against." He could sense the wheels of persuasion grinding in her mind.

"Everyone will be there. Simply everyone." He might have ignored the entreaty, but something tugged at the back of his mind.

"Who?" It was a question he would rarely ask.

"Lots of young people. Raoul."

They had gone different ways by then. Raoul had entered the military.

"The uniform, you ass. Women go mad for uniforms." He remembered his amusement at that remark, although he still, in his heart, adored and admired Raoul, while hating his arrogance. His associations were more political now. Raoul represented everything that he was against, like his family.

"And beautiful young girls," his mother said, almost lasciviously. Although it was rarely mentioned, Eduardo could feel the pressure of his family's matchmaking. She rattled a long list of names from the best families of Chile. "...Miranda Ferrara." She had thrown the dart at the mark. Miranda. In his house. His hand began to shake as it held the phone. He let her continue her persuasion, but he knew what his decision would be.

It was incredible, even to him, that he could sustain such passion for a woman who had barely muttered a phrase of greeting his way. It was not natural, he decided, adding to his own anxieties. Was he doomed always to love from afar? Of course, it was love, he admitted, although it was not the sanitized version of love in books and movies. It was visceral, passionate, erotic. He could masturbate and excite himself to shuddering orgasms by simply imaging her body beneath its tight tennis things or conceiving that it was her hand caressing, stroking, inducing his joy. Miranda. There was no way to drive her image from his mind.

What would he give up for her? It was a new twist to his obsessions and it began to haunt him now. And yet, sometimes he could feel a deep backwash of humiliation over his own weakness and inability to expunge her. She was, after all, the epitome of what he could easily believe was the dry rot of the Chilean oligarchy, living a life of ease and leisure with not an iota of social consciousness. Of course, he could be wrong about that. He had never conversed with her, could not even find the courage to confront her in the mildest of social forms, knowing that what he feared most of all was outright rejection. It was a finality that he could not, would not bear.

The large house where he had spent his childhood was festooned and geegawed for his mother's party, a lavish display of decoration, food and liquor. Servants were everywhere, putting the finishing touches on the vast display of wealth. They were still polishing the huge rock crystal chandelier that hung from the three-story ceiling into the center of the large foyer, a huge imposing and intimidating symbol of arrogant prosperity.

Dutifully, he visited his mother in her room, kissing her cheeks and filling himself with the familiar scent of her. It was the smell of her that bridged the gap between babyhood and maturity and it wasn't until he finally breathed it that he knew he was home. Then he went to his old room, which was kept as usual, as if he would soon return from boarding school. The objects on the wall, his soccer awards, his old red striped soccer jersey, pictures of a Mexican actress who had once captivated him, all seemed meaningless as if the boy he once was had never existed.

He lay on his old bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking of Miranda, listening to the sounds of preparation in the house, the voices of the servants. He must have dozed. Then the ceiling was descending on him and he felt his helplessness as it lowered, stopping suddenly, touching both his nose and upright toes. In his panic, no logic existed and he felt his pores open and the sweat begin to cascade down his back and sides. Stuck here, he could sense his own rot beginning while all the old fears lost their meaning. Still, even on the ledge of impending death, Miranda retained her luminosity and became his single regret. He was certain that the idea of her staved off the final descent of the ceiling and he remembered the power of its protection when he awoke with a start, bathed in sweat and still shaking.

The music had begun and it might have been the first chords that had released him from his dream. Getting up, he went to the adjoining bathroom, showered in steaming water and began to dress in the formal attire that the maids had laid out.

Without knocking, Raoul walked in, resplendent in the uniform of a captain of the Chilean air force. He is beautiful, Eduardo thought, intimidating in his wonderful physique, sculpted into his dress uniform. His features had sharpened, the bone structure more defined now that some of the baby fat of youth had disappeared. Eduardo was fussing with his studs.

"So the proletarian is putting on his uniform."

"You look like a toy soldier."

They embraced in a gran abrazo, the surge of affection between them still strong despite their different paths. But there was an awkwardness now and Eduardo sensed that they would take refuge in deprecating humor and wisecracks.

"The house is literally dripping with fresh pussy," Raoul said, lighting a cigarette and pushing the smoke out through both nostrils.

"Same Raoul."

"I think your mother's trying to marry you off." He paused. "In your case it might not be such a bad idea. Keep you out of trouble."

"I'm not in trouble."

"That's what you think."

"No politics, Raoul."

Raoul shrugged, chasing a brief frown that had wrinkled his forehead. "Doesn't matter anyway. If you go too far, we will simply cut off your balls."

"There are worse fates."

"Name one."

Downstairs the party was in full swing. Eduardo's parents stood in a receiving line greeting an endless procession of guests. One by one his sisters came over and greeted him, wiping off their lipstick from his cheeks. His father looked at him, nodded and smiled thinly. Raoul had already cut one of the beauties from the crowd and had begun to dance, undulating in half rythm, concentrating on his prey. Voices swirling around him, Eduardo searched for Miranda. Walking halfway up the stairs again to gain a better view of the crowd, he felt the agony of loss. Perhaps she had not, would not come. When he could not find her, he proceeded to the bar and downed a double Scotch, coughing as the liquid passed his gullet. He was not used to it. Then he had another. And a third.

People greeted him. Old schoolmates. The daughters of his mother's friends. He nodded politely, waiting for the liquor to anesthetize him as he wandered through the crowd, searching every female face for Miranda.

By the time she arrived, he was already slightly dizzy and his vision was distorted. He was not used to alcohol. Leaning against the wall, he watched her, surrounded by young men, giggling, dividing her attention coquettishly, cool, arrogant, beautiful. He felt his face flush and his stomach knot. It was only when Raoul joined the circle that he found the strength to unlock his knees and amble forward.

"...and here is the son and heir," Raoul said. "Arch traitor to his class. You know Eduardo, Miranda." His easy intimacy with her galled him.

"Yes, we've met," she said, flashing a clear white smile his way, then turning to Raoul.

"I saw you play tennis," he said, his tongue thick, although he imagined that he had covered it well.

She turned to him again. "I'd rather play tennis than anything," she said, winking at Raoul.

"Than anything?" Raoul, as usual, was lascivious. Eduardo's gorge rose.

"My game is soccer," he said, stupidly.

"Wonderful," Miranda said without interest, turning again to Raoul. The other men had drifted away.

"Did you enjoy the Riviera?" Raoul asked. Eduardo resented the intrusion of a subject foreign to him. He had never been to the Riviera.

"I've never been," he said. But she had ignored him.

"Cannes was wonderful." Then they began to play "do you know" while he stood around awkwardly, shut out of the conversation, determined to find his courage.

"Can I get you a drink?" Eduardo asked. She paused, putting a finger on her chin in an attitude of indecision.

"Champagne?" Raoul suggested.

"Yes, that would be nice."

"Make it two, Eduardo," Raoul said. Angrily, Eduardo turned and moved through the crowd to the bar. The arrogant sonofabitch, he thought, the old boyhood awe congealing into hatred. He downed another double Scotch, took two glasses of champagne and renegotiated the crowd to where they had been standing. But they had gone. He saw them on the dance floor, their bodies close. Raoul was whispering in her ear. Unsteady hands made some of the champagne spill, dripping over his fingers. An image of Miranda in Raoul's arms, naked, intruded. He wanted to fling both glasses at him. Never had he felt such hatred. Moving through the dancers, he reached them. Raoul looked at him strangely and shook his head, his meaning clear. When Eduardo continued to stay with them, Raoul said, "Not now, Eduardo."

Miranda's eyes were closed, her cheek resting against Raoul's, her body mashed against him. His mother and father danced nearby, watching him.

"You are being ridiculous, Eduardo," Raoul said.

"I am ridiculous," he mumbled, his stomach churning.

"Are you drunk?" Raoul asked. Miranda opened her eyes and looked at him with contempt. His father moved closer to them, perhaps sensing something going wrong. More champagne slopped over Eduardo's fingers.

"Why don't you sit down, Eduardo?" Raoul said. "You are embarrassing yourself."

"I want to dance," Eduardo mumbled, his tongue thickening, his cheeks hot.

Raoul turned, releasing Miranda, and faced Eduardo, whose legs seemed like jelly.

"...for Godsakes, Eduardo.... "Raoul began, caught in mid-sentence by two splashes of champagne in his face. The high cheekboned face paled, the eyes blazed, the lips curled, as he gathered his dignity. Luckily, most of the liquid had spilled and what was left was like a brief drizzle. Eduardo could see his father's face, the jaw suddenly slack. But it was Miranda's look of disgust that shattered him, and even through his drunkenness he felt his shame as he turned and pushed his way through the startled dancers.

Upstairs in his room again, he lay on his bed and, remembering his dream, watched the ceiling, hoping it would descend and crash, snuffing out his miserable life.

"I can't believe it," his father said softly beside him. "It is not like you, Eduardo. Are you all right?" He felt his father's cool hand on his forehead, caressing him, pushing a shock of hair upward. He could not recall how long it had been since he had felt such a caress. Eduardo nodded, although he felt tears slide out of his eyes, over his cheeks.

"Did Raoul insult you?"

He shook his head. He could feel his father watching him, sensing the love the older man felt, knowing his own. He wanted his father to embrace him.

"I'll be all right," he whispered, knowing that it would never be true.

"Is it the girl?" his father asked gently. He did know.

Eduardo did not answer.

"So.... "his father began, swallowing what was to come. So they had found his vulnerability, he told himself, feeling his head clear momentarily. It was the time to offer a denial. But none came. And he knew that he was ready to sell his soul for Miranda.