XVII

She could be sustained, Marie decided, if she could be with him once a week, perhaps twice. Not that it would satisfy her need for him, that overwhelming addiction to his person. That was the way she could justify the madness to herself, an addiction to his person.

She would endure Claude, endure her children, endure the guilt, endure whatever humiliation to her body, endure anything ... providing she could one day look forward to his possession of her, forever.

"You mustn't flog yourself," Eduardo had said.

"It is unbearable," she had told him, deliberately censoring her mind's picture of it. "I am living a gross lie."

"We cope," he had said, as if the purpose of life was merely to endure. "There is something greater to be considered, beyond our personal desires."

"But my cause is you," she had protested. It was a familiar refrain, and he was expected to understand.

Yet she could not bring herself to tell him how the device was planted in the ambassador's study. She had wiped the ugliness from her mind. Only the objective was important. The means were trivial. There was solace in such reasoning, tempering her disgust. Not that it had been easy. She had lain awake that night, tossing and turning next to Claude, who slept, finally convinced that he had won her affection again. He might even have been thinking that life had slipped back into its accustomed groove. To him she was surely the great success of the evening, having drawn the attention of the ambassador to the exclusion of others. He could enjoy living in the glow of her success and, of course, the implication that it reflected on him, the husband, for having the power to have won and kept her.

In her hurt body, she carried the reminder of the scene. Was it seduction on her part? Or rape on his? A few months ago, perhaps weeks, it would have been unthinkable. But she had done it. She had done it for Eduardo. She took pride in that. The violation was simply necessary, hardly deserving of more than passing interest. Convincing herself eased her mind, although she slept fitfully.

In mid-morning, Eduardo called. She had dashed to the telephone, hungry for the sound of him.

"It is done," she said.

"Where?"

"In the dust jacket of one of the books in the study."

"Excellent."

"Eduardo.... "Her voice trailed off. She felt her body's sudden need for him. "I need you, darling."

"I will call you."

"Please, Eduardo. Today. Now. I will come to you now."

"You must understand."

"I need you today. Now." She felt the sob take shape, an inflating balloon inside her and soon her body was shaking and she was verging on hysteria. "I can't stand this, Eduardo."

"Please," he said softly. "I feel helpless now. I cannot explain."

She tried to bring herself under control, but her breath would not catch and she could barely talk.

"Please," he said again. She knew she was trying to say something, but could not make herself understood, the anguish real, painful. The idea of losing him became suddenly more painful than the realization of her need for him.

He did not call back that day. Or the next. And, as always, the waiting took on the characteristics of a nightmare in which she saw herself as a fly trapped in a spider's web, her wings desperate for flight while her legs moved helplessly, entangled in the sticky strands. Then he called, beckoned her, and the hurt disappeared in his arms.

"It is impossible to convey how much you mean to me," she said, her eyes feasting on his body, transfixed. "It is also a joy to be watched," she said.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Do you feel what I feel, Eduardo?" His hands caressed her hair, stroking as she bent down to implant a long, lingering kiss on his penis.

"You are beautiful," she said, knowing that she had come to uncharted waters. "I live only for you."

He said nothing. In reliving her moments with him, she tried to will in herself a sense of what he felt, what he was thinking. Which was where the abyss began. Do I really know him, she wondered, growing suddenly sad, thinking of the empty moments of her life away from him. Then she drew him inside of her.

"Tell me about your life in Chile," she asked later. She had been greedy for him. Yet there was no surfeit. It was an endless hunger.

"A life," he answered. She could sense his reluctance, but it did not deter her. She would continue to probe, she decided. It was her right.

"And your wife?"

"A wife."

"And your child."

"What can I say? A boy, Manuel."

"Do you love them?"

"I.... "He hesitated.

"Is this too painful, Eduardo?"

"It is unnecessary."

"But I want to know about you."

"Later."

"It's always later. What of now?"

"There is no now."

"I am not made from such stuff," she said, entwining her fingers in his. "You are the central point of my life, Eduardo. I can separate nothing. My children, my husband, my other life. All that has no meaning whatsoever." She put her arms around him. "If I died now. In your arms. Right now. It would be enough. Can you understand that?"

He did not answer. She could hear the beating of his heart, strong, rhythmical, powerful. Often at night, in her own bed, she had heard that sound. "Can you understand that?" she repeated.

"I don't know," he said quietly, as if he had given the matter much thought. She felt his heartbeat change its pace. Perhaps there is a message there. And then his heart speeded again as he said suddenly, "Do you think I am cruel, Marie?"

"Cruel?" It seemed an odd characterization.

"Perhaps callous might be a better description."

"You are confusing me."

"I hadn't meant to," he said gently. Then he turned his head and lifted her face. "Whatever do you see in me?"

"See in you?" She rose on one elbow and tried to probe beyond his eyes, which searched her own.

"What is this quality.... "He paused, sighed. "It is an enigma."

"Yes, that," she said. "Believe me, I have tried to understand it. One would think there would be a logical explanation. But I have given up on that. You are the sun that gives me life. I would die for you, my love."

"Die?"

"Yes."

"I can understand that there are things worth dying for, Marie. That I can understand quite well. For a dream, for an ideal. I would gladly die for the cause of my country's liberation. But to die for me, a person. I think that's quite foolish. Schoolgirl nonsense."

She wanted to be angry, but the heat of rage would not ignite. He does not understand. Perhaps it is because he is not a woman, she thought, giggling suddenly.

"It is funny?"

She let her hand move downward over his bare chest, caressing his penis, feeling the hardness begin under her fingers.

"I was thinking," she said, wanting to be accurate, "that you don't understand because you are not a woman."

He looked downward at himself, the mysterious hardening, perhaps feeling the strange flow of his blood into that part of his body.

"Now there is an absolute truth for you." He smiled and she felt his body suddenly shake with laughter. "It is all so ridiculous, the human body. Why does it do things like that?"

"I am sure there is some scientific explanation." She paused. But I would not want to hear it, she thought, moving her body over his, inserting him, feeling instantly the waves of joy, the sense of life.

The image of their lovemaking was an essential part of her sustenance, a kind of refreshment that, like the reserves of a camel, could keep her alive for long periods in the desert.

"You seem distracted," Claude had said politely a few evenings later at dinner, when the image had been particularly clear in her mind. He seemed carefully polite, avoiding any condescension, as if the wrong phrase, the wrong look might set her off again. If only he could look into her mind, she thought, wondering if the time had come to finally confess it.

"Just tired."

"Then perhaps it would not be the time to tell." Understanding was long in coming, as she fought to retain the image. Finally she looked up at him, saw him watching her benignly, smiling.

"Tell?"

"I have a bit of news." He was feigning innocence. It was a familiar pose and she knew that there was, indeed, something about to upset her life.

"It is by way of an announcement." He seemed to want to squeeze the last bit of suspense out of his news.

"Come now, Claude. This is ridiculous."

His face transformed itself from innocence to disappointment. But once again, as he had been doing during the past few weeks of their domestic dilemma, he denied his instincts. She knew he was itching to be sarcastic and she enjoyed his discomfort.

"You are looking at a new ambassador."

"Ambassador." It had been the overriding goal of his life. To be an ambassador before he was forty. In a strange way, she felt jealous of his success.

"Well, aren't congratulations in order?" She got up, as if in a dream, and went over to him, bending, kissing him on both cheeks in the French way. She felt nothing, even when he grabbed her and pressed his lips to her. She endured it.

"You will adore Egypt."

Stiffening, she stood over him, feeling a sudden deep chill. "Egypt?"

"Quite an important deal for us," he said, perceiving nothing of her panic. "It will be in the Mideast where reputations are made. Finally." He paused. "Finally, we are getting the recognition we deserve." He was being the consummate diplomat now, creating the false humility of his trade. I can't bear it, she thought. A few months ago, she might have reveled in the idea of it, prepared the gift of herself for him, the ultimate act of obeisance and worship that he was expecting. Now the thought of what was coming was terrifying. The need for Eduardo overwhelmed her. We are coming to the moment of truth, she told herself. I will never go to Egypt.

Later she let him extract what he might have construed as his "reward" for his success, letting her body be used without apparent purpose, for which she cursed herself, although she told herself that there had to be a reason for postponing the inevitable. Thankfully, it was over quickly.

The next few days were barely endurable, and she hovered on the edge of despair, listening despondently as Claude made his plans known.

"Thirty days," he said. "We will have to start preparing almost immediately. You have to begin the packing, the arrangements."

She said nothing, and when three days had passed and she had done nothing, he said again, "Really, Marie. There are deadlines. Shipping deadlines." The packing crates had already arrived and were cluttering up the hallways.

She nodded as if in affirmation. "I've got to get to it tomorrow."

But when tomorrow came, all she could do was listen to the impending sound of the telephone, and when it rang she rushed to it only to hear the sound of a stranger's voice. This is absurd, she told herself, trying to gather her strength and end the drifting and uncertainty.

By the time five days had passed and Eduardo had not called, her sense of endurance had vanished, and although she had made some halfhearted attempts to fill the packing cases, she knew she was merely buying time, keeping Claude at bay, waiting. He cannot expect me to have that much courage, she decided, taking the car one morning after Claude and the children had left the house and driving to Eduardo's apartment house. Ignoring the attendant, she walked past the desk and, taking the elevator to his floor, knocked boldly at his apartment door. There was no answer. She put her ear to the door, listening. No sound.

She lingered in the corridor, pacing its length, watching his door, knowing how ridiculous she must have looked to the occasional people who passed her on the way to the elevator. She felt their eyes brush over her and sometimes she stared back at them with brazen haughtiness. How could they know her anguish?

Later she waited in her car, watching the entrance, a posted sentry, feeling stupidly helpless, annoyed at her dependency. She watched the shadows lengthen as the sun swept westward in its great arc, feeling the chill as the light faded. She started the motor, waiting for the heat to come. Where was Eduardo?

On the edge of the driveway, leaning against a tree, she saw a tall woman, her face an expressionless mask. Like her, she was watching the entrance to the apartment house, her hands thrust into the pockets of her trench coat. She seemed hawklike, predatory.

Marie had noticed her peripherally at first, and as the day wore on and the woman continued to remain immobile against the tree, she began to inspire greater interest. It was only when Marie had gunned the motor of her car that the woman turned toward her, looking at her briefly, then continuing her vigil.

Darkness descended quickly. The lights in the apartment house, like match flickers, suddenly appeared and the traffic along Massachusetts Avenue thickened. The tall woman's tenacity was compelling, the study of her a distraction. She could see clouds of vapor coming from her mouth as the night chill became more intense. The clock in the dashboard read six o'clock and Marie knew she should have headed home long ago. Vestiges of her old life, the old middle-class programming. The home! Motherhood! How she detested them. Claude would be arriving in a half hour. The children were hungry. By now, they had called Claude at the embassy, wondering where she was. Worry had begun, all the usual anxieties. But she remained strangely calm. Indifferent to their pain. She was waiting for Eduardo.

Then she saw him. He was driving a car into the parking lot, passing in front of her car, his head slightly tilted as he searched for a parking spot. Shutting off the motor, she waited, watched as he maneuvered into a parking space, heard the slam of the car door. She got out of her car and her gaze was pulled suddenly toward the tall woman, who had moved deeper into the shadows, her eyes fixed on Eduardo. He headed for the lobby entrance. Marie moved swiftly, catching up with him as he entered the lobby.

"Eduardo."

"You." He looked beyond her. But her eyes did not waver from his. Eduardo punched the button of the elevator, showing some irritability.

"I had to see you, Eduardo," she said. "I have been waiting all day."

"I told you that you must never do this," he hissed. "They might be watching. It is dangerous." He looked up to check the progress of the elevator, which was moving at a maddeningly slow pace.

"It is important," she pleaded. She watched his effort to control his temper. She felt her throat constrict.

"Claude is being transferred to Egypt," she said. An older couple moved through the lobby, standing behind them, also waiting for the elevator.

"Egypt?" He lowered his voice, obviously trying to achieve a casual air. She wanted to scream, but she held herself in, smothering the urge.

"I cannot go, Eduardo," she whispered. "I will not go."

"We will discuss it tomorrow."

"Now," she pleaded. "Now."

"Please, Marie."

"What can I do? Tell me what to do?"

"Tomorrow."

The elevator opened and Eduardo stepped inside and let the elderly couple enter. Then he turned toward her once more, his eyes narrowing, his lips tight.

"Tomorrow?"

"When?"

"At ten. I will be waiting."

Then he stepped in and the door shut. She watched the numbers above the door chart the elevator's progress, felt the weakness in her knees as she tried to move, the feeling of abandonment a terrifying reality. Others had come into the lobby, pressed the elevator button, and waited. She tried to compose herself, confused by her own emptiness and his display of indifference. Surely, he cannot let me go. She fought for the return of logic. Perhaps I have endangered him, his work. The thought seemed to calm her as she moved toward the entrance, remembering the children. She saw a pay phone at the end of the lobby, and dipping into her pocketbook, she put some coins in the box and dialed her number.

"Mommy." It was her daughter.

"Mommy's fine. The car.... "She cleared her throat. "The car needed repairs. I am waiting for it. Take some cold cereal and tell Daddy I will be late." She did not want to say more, could not, afraid that she would soon attract attention. She hung up quickly and passed through the entrance, moving toward the parking lot again. She groped for her keys, then opened the car door.

The woman was sitting there, watching her, her face shrouded in darkness. She wondered why she was not frightened.

"Is there some mistake?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," the woman said. Marie could feel her eyes probing her.

"I saw you earlier," Marie said. "You were standing there." She pointed to where the woman had been standing.

"We were apparently waiting for the same man." The words came through tight lips, but ejaculated in a tone of condemnation. There was no subtlety in it, executed like a missile aimed directly at soft tissue.

"You?" She could not reconcile another woman's image in the context of Eduardo. My Eduardo? They are related in some other way, she assured herself. She could now make out the specifics of the woman's face, older, drawn. Many lines crisscrossed her skin. A sister, perhaps? What else could she be?

"What is he to you?" Marie asked.

"I was planning to ask you the same question," the woman said.

"Who are you?" Marie felt that she was losing the edge of politeness. There was a snap of admonition in her tone.

"Who are you?" the tall woman asked. Marie could sense a touch of rage.

"This is ridiculous," she said with contempt. "You get in my car and then you ask me these impossible questions. You have no right, you know." She paused, glaring at the woman. "I wish you would leave immediately."

The woman did not move, obviously contemplating a new tack. "I have been through this before," she said, a note of reconciliation in her voice. "And it is ridiculous." She seemed to squirm in her seat. "I don't mean to be belligerent, or even rude." The woman paused, marshaling strength. "It is Eduardo.... "she began.

"What are you to him?" Marie snapped. Vague street sounds filtered through the air, but the silence in the car seemed dense, atrophied.

"I am not sure," the woman said, with a tinge of sarcasm. Then came another ejaculation, wrung out of her depths, reluctantly. "A mistress?" she cried. "Is that the right word?" The question seemed rhetorical. It did not escape the stunned Marie.

"What?"

"A lover?" the woman persisted. "What does one call it?" A dash of bitterness was creeping into her voice now. "One of three. At least three."

"Three?" It was making no sense at all. "What are you saying?"

"Am I on the target?" the woman said. "Have I hit the mark?"

"One of three." Marie whispered, accepting the inference, but denying the implications to herself. "And you are one?" She looked at the aging woman, who touched her face as if to hide the damage of time.

"Is it so strange?" Malevolence hung in the air again. "I can show you one that is younger than you."

"I really don't understand any of this," Marie said. It was time to run from this madness now. "And I think you had better go. I must get home to my children, my husband. I have had quite enough...."

"What is that supposed to mean?" the woman asked. Marie's efforts at denial were straining her. There was no place to run, she decided, feeling the emptiness balloon inside of her.

"I think you should come with me," the woman said.

"Where?"

"To meet the other sister."

"Sister?"

"I suppose you think I'm talking in riddles."

"I don't know what to think."

"It is a riddle. I was merely trying to be delicate. But I'm afraid there is no substitute here for the truth, for the brutality of it. Are you prepared to be hurt?"

"I'm prepared for nothing," Marie said, feeling the sense of surrender, still hoping for the miracle of a mistake. "Are you sure we are talking of the same person?" She felt a tug of trepidation waiting for the answer, which came quickly.

"Eduardo Allesandro Palmero," the woman said. "The man you were talking to in the lobby just now. You are only one of the women in his life. There are three of us. Perhaps more."

Yes, I can understand that, Marie thought, proud of her logic. He was not, after all, a newborn baby. A man with such power. Naturally, there had been others. She was calming now. She could understand this woman's anguish. An older lover. She was proud of her conquest now. She must be gentle. Sympathetic. I am the victor, she told herself.

"One must learn to accept what is over," Marie said gently.

"Over?"

"He is an extraordinary man," Marie said, flaunting her present possession of him. "But why disturb his tranquillity now? There is much on his mind."

"It still escapes you?" the woman said. "I mean he is my lover now. I mean he is the lover of this other woman now. And you?"

It was a hurled gauntlet.

"I think that is particularly vicious and offensive," Marie said with contempt. "Do you expect me to believe you?"

"Come with me," the woman said briskly, businesslike. Despite her reluctance, Marie put her key in the ignition and gunned the motor, moving the car out of the parking lot.

"Turn right here. The turn south on Wisconsin."

Marie drove the car along Massachusetts Avenue. Briefly she thought of her children, but she continued, gaining speed as the traffic thinned ahead.

"Where are we going?"

"It is futile to speculate at this stage."

Marie darted a glance at the woman, who looked straight ahead, her chin raised in what seemed an arrogant gesture.

"I can understand. Really I can."

"You understand nothing," Marie said belligerently. "How can you understand?"

"You'll see."

The car headed south on Wisconsin Avenue until the woman directed another turn onto Calvert, where they found a parking space. They proceeded on foot to the large apartment house on the corner of Wisconsin. In the elevator, Marie looked at the woman in the light, confirming her age, feeling superior to it. In the polished metal, she saw her own face, the lines smooth, the skin still creamy, despite the lack of makeup. Surely, an old rejected mistress. All right, I am jealous, she thought. I am jealous of his whole life without me.

A young woman opened the apartment door and they went in. The woman was blonde, full bodied, in a tight blouse and slacks. She moved across the room with a youthful grace.

"Another one," Anne whispered. She removed her trench coat, revealing a thin, barely defined figure in a loose sweater and nondescript gray slacks.

"This is Frederika," Anne said. "What is your name?"

"Marie." She had not wanted to give her name and was surprised that it came out. "Marie LaFarge," she said.

"I am Anne McCarthy," the tall woman said. She walked to the couch and sat down heavily. Marie felt the eyes of the younger woman on her.

"I don't know what this is all about," Marie said, actually feeling her sense of superiority. He is my man, she told herself.

"Tell her, Frederika," Anne said. "I have tried. Really I have."

"Faith, hope, and charity," Frederika said. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the smoke disgorged like a dragon's breath. "That's us. Which one are you?"

"Probably faith," Anne said. "You know that's a marvelous metaphor."

"We are all his lovers," Frederika said. "The three of us. We all share one man. Am I correct, Anne?"

"Well, we are missing one admission." She looked at Marie. "At least three."

"And she is married," Anne said, the sarcasm thick.

Marie felt her knees buckling, the blood draining from her head, dizziness descending. She reached to the wall for support. Frederika rushed to the kitchen and brought a glass of water.

"Here," she said, offering the water, which Marie took with shaking hands, trying to hold down a few swallows. Marie felt her strength ebb. She sat down.

"The reality is terribly demeaning," Frederika said. "I'm sure we hadn't meant to be cruel. I've had my shock already and I'm learning to live with it."

"I love him," Marie said helplessly. "He is everything to me." She felt a hand on her back, a gentle caress.

"We know," Anne said, softer now.

"But it doesn't seem possible.... "Marie began. She pictured his body, the surge of strength, the beautiful, graceful sexuality. Can it be the same with them? It is casual with them, she decided.

"It is embarrassing," Frederika said, as if reading her thoughts. Marie could sense her attempt at lightheartedness, although the sadness and resignation beneath the cheer was quite obvious. She moved across the room, then sat down on the bed.

"He was here with me last night. I feel silly saying it. But I feel that we must.... "She swallowed deeply. "...be as accurate, as truthful as possible. I knew then. Anne had told me. And although I could not wash the knowledge from my mind, it was the same with him. Can I describe how much I love this man?" She closed her eyes, holding back tears. Her chin trembled. "I feel so naked, telling you both this. But if you could get inside my body, my heart, my soul, you would see how important it is to say this.... "She stopped, gulping for air, breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself.

"It is hateful for you to say that," Marie said, standing up, wobbly, her rage beginning. "It is simply not possible. This is a dream. It is not possible. I will wake up soon."

"There is no point in hating each other," Anne said quietly. "Or bickering. There is a compelling reality here." Her eyes turned from Marie to Frederika. "We are all in love with the same man."

"You?" Marie turned toward her, searching for a gesture of humiliation.

"Yes, me too. You're thinking that I'm older, a bit over the hill. Well, maybe more than a bit. But what do either of you know what is inside me? I love him. I am not ashamed of that. What he gives me is more than I ever thought was possible in life. I will give him anything, anything...."

"Money," Frederika said. "She gives him money."

"You mean you buy him?" Marie said, thankful for the clue.

"And you, Marie," Anne said. "What have you done for him? We are all doing something. Frederika here is a courier. We have, we know, been responsible for helping him kill his enemies and innocent people, as well."

"Yes, I have delivered information," Frederika said, with odd precision. "Tapes."

"Tapes?" A little scream came out of Marie's mouth, a compulsive cry.

"So you have done something?" Anne said. "Did you think you had a special role here? Come on, tell us. What have you done for him, for the cause, for Chile?"

"What I did, I did for him," Marie said, angry now.

"What?"

"I don't think it's any of your business," Marie said, suspicious now. "You could be agents, enemies."

"Something with the tapes, right, Marie?" Frederika pressed. "You did something with the tapes."

"No. It's not true."

"What are you? Who are you?" Anne pursued. "You are obviously French."

"You have no right."

"No right?"

"You're his enemies." She started to move toward the door.

"Believe me, Marie," Frederika said, gently now. "There is no escape from the reality of it."

"He wouldn't," Marie began. Eduardo, she cried within herself.

"He did.... "Anne said quietly. She looked at the two women, the sense of commonality coming quickly. She was trying to conclude something in her mind, to accept something. She could see the anguish in the other women's faces.

"I planted a device in the embassy" she said finally, remembering what she had done for it, remembering the pain, the humiliation.

"So you see.... "Frederika said. "You are in it with us."

She turned toward the wall and banged her fists into it, more in anger than despair.

"My God, how I hate him!" she cried, feeling the essence of her life slip from her. How could he betray me? Surely, it was different with them.

"Hate?" Anne asked. "You said hate."

"What else is left?" Marie cried, turning again. "Do you feel as foolish as me?"

"Not foolish," Anne said.

"Used?" Marie asked.

"Not that either."

"What then?"

"I'm not sure," Anne said.

"Nor me," Frederika interjected. "It is too complex to fathom."

Too complex to fathom. A wisp of an idea intruded in Marie's mind. It was the mode of Eduardo. If he did not want to explain it, it suddenly became too complex. And she had accepted that explanation. She had accepted every explanation from Eduardo. Now the truth was emerging, like a chick from a cracked egg. He had felt nothing, nothing. Only the nerves of his body had reacted, mindlessly.

"It is possible he loves all three of us?" Marie asked suddenly, surprised at her own lucidity.

"He loves none of us," Anne said, her lips tight. Her face had paled. There was a long silence. "Perhaps Miranda."

"Who?" Marie asked.

"Miranda."

"I never heard her name."

"Nor I," Marie said. "Who is Miranda?"

"Maybe all of us," Anne said. Marie turned to Frederika, echoing her confusion.

"What does it matter?" Marie said bitterly. "He is beneath contempt, a Casanova. One woman is like another." There was never anything beyond "the event," the sexuality, and the way in which they, the women, could be fitted into the master plan, the cause. The words, as they cascaded in her mind, had the ring of truth. But there was something peculiar in her perception of it. The story of Casanova, or what she imagined was the story of Casanova, was never told from the woman's point of view. It is a fraud, she told herself suddenly. She leaned against the wall, watching the other women.

"I am sick in my heart," she said quietly. "I feel unclean." She wanted to say more, hesitated, watched the other women watching her, feeling their pain, as if they were all in the same hospital ward isolated because of the same disease. "I am deeply jealous, as well," she admitted aloud.

"It will curdle your insides," Frederika said. "I have already passed through that valley." She tossed her head. "I am still passing through that valley. The idea of it inflames me, burns me inside. The thought of Eduardo. My Eduardo." She paused. "You think I am cruel and presumptuous. That is the way I think of him. My Eduardo! There, I have said it. Later when I picture Eduardo, my Eduardo, in the arms of each of you, I will ache. I will want to die from the pain of it."

"Yes," Marie said. "I see." There was a stab of compassion as she looked at the older woman, who turned her eyes away.

"I suppose you would think it ludicrous if I were to confirm the same reaction in me ... the older woman." Her fingers worked together nervously. "I am nearly fifty," she said. "And I was under control. I had seen it all, all except.... "She swallowed hard. "...love." Standing up, she faced the blinds. "What a ridiculous stupidity. I had no idea what it was to be a woman until Eduardo. Such a gift demands repayment. What is anything against such a value, the knowledge of oneself? My life was a charade until Eduardo. And yet, despite what I feel, I could not bear to share him. Up till this moment, I thought perhaps I could resolve to do so. Now I am certain. I could not bear to share him. I would rather die."

"Nor I," Frederika said.

Marie felt now the sense of terror. "What then?" she said. Then loudly. "But I need him. I cannot leave him."

"Don't you see, Marie. It is impossible," Frederika said. "He cannot be possessed. He can only be shared. If not with us, with others. None of us know him. None of us have him. We have, all three of us, been betrayed by him."

"But why us?" Anne said. They turned to her, watched her hands move together, her fingers constructing an abstract cathedral. "He must have searched carefully, seeking out the most vulnerable.... "She looked at the two women. "...like us. Smoldering ashes in dead bonfires, waiting for the gift of renewal, of fire. I was ready for him. I was vulnerable...."

"He was laughing at us," Frederika said.

It's true, Marie thought. Eduardo had cast the line. And we bit like hungry fish. Who could possibly live with that? The bastard. She cursed him now.

"He is a bastard," she said aloud.

"I am not made for a sheik's harem," Frederika said, an edge of humor breaking the tension. "Not me," she emphasized. "The idea is disgusting." Then she laughed. "We could pass him around between us like a credit card. Use his flesh. Treat him as a kind of game, a toy."

"He could never be a game to me," Anne said. The words carried a sense of authority.

"Then there is no solution," Frederika said. She sighed. "Look at us," she said sadly, shaking her head. "Three intelligent women, rendered hopelessly incompetent ... no, paralyzed, by the effect of one man. I don't know how you both feel, but I feel ashamed, ashamed for myself, ashamed for my ... sense of womanhood, that I should even feel this dependence, this lack of control. How dare he exercise such power? How dare he do this to me, to us? I love him, yes. Does that sound so terrible coming from me, knowing how you must all feel?" She paused. "But you know, at this moment, just now, I could kill him and feel no remorse whatsoever."

Marie felt the idea pass into the air, loose and free, a bird suddenly released from its cage, swirling above their heads, a loathsome thing, with a furred beak and little barbs on spindly legs and shaggy wings with an odor that was thick enough to induce nausea. It was her bird, as well, she thought, now that it was loose, her possession as well.

"How can you kill what you love?" she asked, knowing that she was speaking for all of them, certain that they had run to ground on the same track, as if they had suddenly possessed a single heart, a single brain, a single nervous system.

"Better to kill it than suffer with it." It was Anne speaking, softly, but it was their voice now.

"Kill Eduardo?" Frederika asked, her voice low, in the same key as Anne's. "Did I suggest that?"

"I can't believe we are thinking it," Marie said, calmer now, a tranquillity descending over her like a shroud.

"Not thinking it, Marie," Anne said, her fingers entwined, the knuckles white. "Concluding it."

"It was only a metaphor," Frederika said. "A figure of speech."

"Was it?" Anne asked.

"I hadn't meant...."

"Come now, Frederika," Anne said. "It's hardly the time for dishonesty between us."

Marie forced her mind to darken, to pretend that she was not in this room, that she was not really herself, that she was somehow someone else, watching, merely observing.

"You are serious?" Frederika said. "I think you are both actually serious."

"Better that," Anne said, "than living with the truth of him, the knowledge that he will always be shared."

"I'll forget him," said Frederika. "You'll see. In a month, a year, he won't mean a damn to me. Not a damn. Haven't you ever been in love before when the guy meant everything? You couldn't live without him, then poof, it all disappeared, the hurt was gone, and then another guy popped up and it started all over again?"

"Is that the way you expect it will be?" Anne said.

"Yes."

"And has it been that way?" Marie asked. It will never come again, she told herself. Eduardo is mine. I will share him with no one. I would rather have the memory of him than to know the sharing of his flesh with others.

"But to kill Eduardo," Frederika protested, although the power of the protest was fading.

"We have already killed him in our hearts," Anne said.

"I will never love another man," Marie said.

"But how?"

"I have no idea," Anne said.

Silence descended in the room, palpable, thick. Marie could hear the obscene flutter of the bird's wings, the sound creating a cacophony beyond the wave of ordinary hearing. She could not tell how long the odd sound filled the room, only that she was sure that they all had heard it.

"They will think his enemies did it," Frederika said suddenly, obviously contemplating a concrete idea.

"So there is also the instinct of survival present," Marie said thankfully. She had imagined that the deed would mean the death of them as well. And she was secretly preparing herself for it, although she was afraid. Death, after all, would be the end of it. She could endure anything now, she told herself.

"An act of terrorist revenge," Frederika said. "It could be contrived. That is the business he is involved in. It could be contrived."

"How?" Anne asked.

"There are ways."

"Like what."

"Are you both sure?" Frederika asked. "It can only be a decision by the three of us." She breathed deeply and they could see a mist begin in her eyes. "I am so ashamed of my thoughts. I could not bear to know that I was thinking this myself."

"You're not," Marie said, sensing the air of finality, the ritualization of the pact between them.

"I'm scared to death," Frederika said. "My thoughts are frightening me."

"There is no other way," Anne said.

Again the room filled with the sound of the bird. Eduardo! Somehow Marie felt his presence in the room, guiding them.

"All right then. There is one logical way. The weapon is the same the terrorists use. Quick. Loud. There is no pain." Frederika seemed introspective, as if she were talking to someone else in the room.

"I could not bear for him to have any pain," Marie said.

"A bomb." Even the word, as Frederika uttered it, had the force of an explosion. They waited, perhaps sensing that the debris must settle, the psychic blast must be weathered. A bomb, Marie wondered. What did they know of bombs? But the question did not linger long.

"Arrangements can be made." Frederika looked at Anne. "It can be bought."

Even as she recounted it later in the car, Marie could not remember any conversation beyond that, no planning, no confirmation, only the understanding that something was to happen with her concurrence which would mean the end of Eduardo. It was nearly midnight, and as she drove the car toward home, she prepared herself for the inevitable explanations. She was barely in the door when her children and Claude confronted her. The children hugged her.

"We were so worried, Mommy," her little girl said.

"Daddy was going to call the police," the boy said.

She patted them both on the head, kissed them, marveling at her own hypocrisy, the ability to move in this world with such dissimulation, then dismissed them and passed into the kitchen where she heated some water and prepared some tea. She felt Claude's eyes watching her.

"What was it?" he asked, the sarcasm apparent.

"Some trouble with the carburetor. I had to wait interminably."

"Wait." He paused. "Where?"

"A garage."

"Where?" She had felt her alertness falter. Now it returned with full vigor. It's an interrogation, she thought. He knows.

"Really, Claude, I have been through a lot today. I have no patience."

"What garage, Marie?"

"Someplace near Georgetown. I can't remember the name."

"I called them all. I called almost every garage in the area. Many of them were closed." She turned, saw the redness on his neck, the inflammation of anger. His lips were tight, compressed.

"Where were you, Marie?" His eyes met hers and she turned away.

It is the moment, she thought. The opportunity. The confrontation she had longed for in her heart, the time to lift the burden, to confess. But she could not find the words and she knew they were drowned in fear.

"You simply missed the correct one," she said, her voice a whisper.

"I've been a fool. Haven't I, Marie? A self-centered fool."

"That's absurd." She turned away again and poured the hot water into a teacup. Strike me, she told herself. Punish me.

"You have been betraying me, Marie," he said. His tone seemed gentler or was it merely the air of futility? But the moment had passed. She paused, gathered her strength. I must survive this somehow.

"It is not what you think," she said. She saw her reflection in the polished toaster, distorted, swollen. Her skin was dead white, her hair awry. She saw her lips move. The distortion was the mirror of her own view of herself.

"I'm listening."

"Tomorrow, Claude. I am tired now. I promise. It is not what you think. I will tell you tomorrow." He stood stiffly, his fists balled, then shrugged.

"Tomorrow then." She heard his footsteps depart. Tomorrow. She would think of something tomorrow. Perhaps she might die with Eduardo. The thought seemed a deliverance. Without Eduardo what did it matter?

That night she slept in the spare room, hovering on the edge of wakefulness, her mind dwelling on things of the past, her girlhood in Paris, her school days, her father's face. She sought tranquillity there, finding it in the recall of her mother's touch. She felt her mother's hand braiding her long hair. The process was long and she patiently enjoyed it, each braid tightly made, with that gentle touch, and the soft, velvet voice. Mama!

"My beautiful Marie," her mother's voice said. "There is great joy in being a woman, a beautiful woman. The world will be at your feet." One could face the world with such a thought, a mother's assurance. But she had also said, "You will see. Nothing will disappoint you." It was, of course, the ultimate lie, handed down the generations by mothers braiding the silken hair of beautiful daughters. She could see her mother's face in the reflection of the glass and the fullness of her own adolescent breasts, the nipples pink against the cream of her flesh.

She awoke with a start. The house was quiet. She ran downstairs in her nightgown. There was a note from Claude among the unwashed breakfast dishes.

"Have fed the children. We will talk later."

It was nearly ten. She rushed through her shower, dressed quickly, and without makeup ran into the car and drove quickly to Eduardo's apartment. It was only in the elevator that she focused on the reality of last night's meeting. She knocked at his apartment. The door opened quickly and he drew her in, clasping her in his strong arms, enveloping her.

"Eduardo." It was warm here. It was safe here.

"You're shivering."

"Hold me tight, my darling. Please hold me." She could not seem to chase the chill.

"Are you ill?"

She didn't answer, lifting her face, finding his lips, lingering over the proferred tongue, her hand drifting to his hardening manhood, the mystery unfolding again. She knelt, undid his pants, watched him, feeling the tears come as she kissed him. Then, at that moment, the idea of his control over her gripped her and she felt a sudden urge to kill it inside of her, to disengage. She drew him to the bed. I must feel nothing, nothing, she told herself, willing it as she inserted him, feeling his body rise within her, filling her. Nothing must touch me. I must kill him now, the idea of him.

But the will, her will, diminished as he lingered briefly and she knew instantly that it was hopeless, a vain wish. The waves came, crashing inside of her again, and despite her conscious will to kill it, the pleasure rolled over her again and again. Can it be the same with them, she wondered, waiting for it to begin again.

"Why you?" she said later, as she lay quietly in his arms. They had been the first words she had uttered.

"Why you?" she said again. "Do you understand it, Eduardo?"

"No."

"Do others react this way?" The cunning seemed so pointless. But she persisted. "Other women?"

"I don't think about it," he said. She watched him, tracing the lines of a frown on his forehead.

"How will I ever live without you?" She sighed.

"We endure," he said quietly. "The game of life is to endure. To survive."

"Then you are letting me go?" she said, surprised that there was no panic in her voice.

"What can I do?"

"It's a pity," she said.

"What?"

"That you are not a woman." It seemed a joke. She caressed his penis. "No, you're definitely not a woman. How could any of us expect you to understand?"

"Understand what?"

"The meaning."

"Meaning?"

He seemed so dense, so beyond understanding. He is an innocent, she decided. And he must be destroyed for his innocence.

"And you think you will succeed?" she asked.

"One day, perhaps." He had, after all, never been certain.

"And did I help? Was I of any service?"

"Of course. You were instrumental."

"And my reward for that?"

"That is the shame of it. There is no reward."

"I had you. That was reward enough."

He turned toward her, kissed her deeply.

"I hadn't intended to be cruel," he said after he released her, standing up, looking at her, his nude body silhouetted against the window. He is going to tell me now, she thought, to admit his duplicity, his betrayal of us. But he simply stood there, unable or unwilling to be articulate.

"I craved for you to feel as I feel," she said finally when it was apparent that he would remain silent. "You will always be my man, Eduardo." And I, she wondered, sensing a measure of bitterness, will I always be your woman? It was futile to expect more. She got out of bed, began to put on her clothes. Her fingers shook. Perhaps the end of the world will occur right now, at this moment.

"I ask only that you accept me. Not judge me." His voice seemed to plead with her, as if he understood what she knew. "I think I am an aberration of time and place.... "His voice trailed off.

"Who is Miranda?" she asked suddenly. He moved backward, as if the word were a blow, his eyes frightened. She saw him swallow deeply and his chest seemed to labor to breathe.

"We are all her, I suppose," she said finally, reaching for her clothes. He had not heard. Perhaps he had ceased to listen.

Fully dressed, she turned to look at him, a last look. He had moved slightly, and his body was no longer a silhouette, but visibly naked in all its detail, muscular and slender, its grace inescapable as he stood light on his feet, a sculpted male. Beautiful, she thought, he is beautiful. And wanting to remember him in just that way she let herself out the door and walked quickly through the corridor to the elevator. She was surprised that she was dry-eyed, relaxed, breathing easy.