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  She was a pale little thing, homely almost, with large almond eyes over a hawklike nose. Her cheeks were as sunken as those one sometimes saw in the camps during the war. Something about her helpless, plaintive demeanor attracted me to her, as one is attracted to the sufferings of a poor animal. I smiled; she blushed. Perhaps I had made a mistake? Perhaps one of those stupid, insensitive farmers had actually brought along a daughter or servant who had been forced to wait downstairs while the padrón did his business upstairs? But this simply couldn’t be, I thought. Señora Flores would never allow such a thing in her establishment. Yet this girl continued to look very uncomfortable under my gaze.

  Perhaps it is my age that affects her so, I thought. The thought of coupling with a man in his sixties must be disgusting to this young girl of say, twenty at the most.

  At that moment Señora Flores bustled into the parlor, attired in a bright floral kimono, her blond wig slightly askew. Finding me gazing at the youngster, she clapped her hands delightedly.

  “So you have finally met! I was hoping you two would hit it off.”

  “Actually—” I began, but Señora Flores cut me short.

  “So sorry we couldn’t have our usual little chat, Señor ____. But you see how hectic things are here. All topsy-turvy with the coffee growers in town.” She turned toward the girl: “Miranda, take our friend upstairs. There’s a good girl. The red room.”

  Then to me: “You’ll find a bottle of Moselle chilling, Señor ____. And please do forgive my seeming bad manners in not greeting you earlier tonight.” Then coming closer, Señora Flores whispered in my ear: “She’s a sweet child. I would trust her with no other man her first time.”

  Señora Flores hurried out of the room before I could protest her trust. I felt little inclined this night to the momentous task of inaugurating a virgin. The child rose: She was no taller than the young boy who sometimes cleans fish aboard the Clan. She moved listlessly, without a word, toward the stairs. At first, I did not follow, and, from the first landing, she looked back at me, her moist eyes cast down under her long, black lashes. It was not so much a beckoning glance as a recognition. I followed.

  Upstairs in the red room, she fussed over the wine. Obviously Señora Flores had instructed her in the ways of the wine steward, though the lesson had just as obviously been inexpertly learned. She managed to break off the cork in what looked to be a tolerably decent ’65 vintage of Moselle. Without speaking a word, I took the corkscrew from her trembling hand and pried the rest of the cork out, then cleared the lip of the bottle with a splash into my glass, which I threw into the sink.

  “You don’t like the wine, sir?”

  I laughed and explained what I had done.

  “Do you always drink wine?”

  She asked this as if such an activity marked me as special, as a man of the world. I must have seemed as cosmopolitan to her as if I junketed around the world on an expense account.

  “Not as often as I would like to,” I told her and took a sip of the wine. It was too sweet. “It’s not the easiest thing to come by here.” I put the glass down on the small table with the bottle.

  “My father used to drink the local beer.”

  “Smart man,” I said. “The wise and economical minded sticks to what is domestically manufactured, and they have a quite decent beer here.”

  It was a lie, both parts of the statement, but “he used to” had not escaped me. I wanted to be gentle with the girl.

  “You’re from the town?” I asked.

  She seemed not to hear me.

  “Madame says you are a gentleman.”

  “I hope I am.”

  “That would be good for me.”

  She stood near the bed—it is impossible to stand anywhere in the red room at Señora Flores’s and not be near that gigantic bed. I was hardly overcome with desire. It was all too pat, and much too demanding of the eventual outcome. Señora Flores, usually so conscious of subtleties, had put us in the worst room in the house. It was one disallowing any function save that of fornication, and rather athletic stuff at that, as the size of the playing field indicated.

  Miranda stood in such sharp contrast to the room with its livid red curtains and matching satin bedspread that it made me smile. She was so small and frail looking that it appeared she would shatter if touched. Yet again, I was drawn to her eyes, now half covered with bangs of luxurious black shiny hair that hung down deep over her forehead. She brushed them back with the palm of her right hand and looked at me almost defiantly.

  “Do you think you could be?”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Good for me. The first time. I need to learn of love.”

  This said, and not waiting for my reply, she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders, revealing silky white skin so unlike the sallow color of her face. It was delicious skin: taut, sweet-smelling, and downy. Her tiny breasts were perfectly formed and crowned with nipples of an elegant pink hue. This was a transformation that suddenly exactly suited the precincts of the red room; a transformation that so excited me that I felt in the grips of another Frau Wotruba.

  I see no sense in minutely describing each action of my life. Particularly the “bedroom” scenes. I have no desire to share this part, to risk prurience by depiction. The silky feel of her skin against mine, the weightlessness of her body, the surprise of the rose tattoo on her left buttock, her hip bones jutting against me, a secret provocative region just under her left ear, her big toe scratching along my shin, her tiny hands in the small of my back, these are the impressionistic recollections of that coupling—and of subsequent ones.

  But far more meaningful than any of the animal “meltings” we experienced (that was Miranda’s way of describing the sexual act) was the connection we developed with each other as human beings. Slowly, incrementally, almost imperceptibly, Miranda became an intimate of mine, privy to my insides as well as my exterior. She was only nineteen when we first met and, despite what Señora Flores said, she was no virgin. That state had been altered by her father six years before we met. I did not care. But I did begin to care for her, to miss her even between visits to Señora Flores’s establishment. The spectacle of it: me, a man more than three times her age, doting on each word Miranda uttered, suffering pangs of jealousy about other customers so acute that in the end I paid the money to keep her solely for myself. I set her up in a domestic nest: a studio apartment in the hills above the old city. My monthly visits became weekly, and even at that, the intervals seemed too long for me.

  Miranda, whose smell still lingers in my nostrils. Just like the lullaby Frau Wotruba sang to me as a child, Miranda’s particular scent is conjured up to me every so often, seemingly out of nowhere. In ways, she is in my blood: It is as if I sweat her out of me still.

  Several days have passed since last taking up my pen. The sea is no longer calm. Autumn tides have begun. This morning, I had to make a special trip to the harbor to secure the Clan. Out at the major bathing beach, waves were crashing over the seawall, spilling foam onto the road. Even here at the house, I can hear the waves at night. The rain has been coming in torrents, as well. The seasons have turned the corner.

  I have accommodated Miss O’Brien as best as I know how in the guest room, but I now am preparing more pleasant quarters for her in the basement. We shall see. She refuses to adjust to the realities of the situation: It will take time.

  Señor Alvarado at the hotel did not seem in the least surprised when I went to fetch her things. He is not the type to ask questions, and of course it helped matters when I offered to pay for the rest of her reservation. Neither did Señor Alvarado comment on my explanation that Miss O’Brien had been suddenly taken ill and was returning to the North. A discreet man is Señor Alvarado.

  I must admit that Miss O’Brien, upon seeing me bring her suitcases and portable typewriter to her, broke into a mome
ntary fit of hysteria. I believe she had been holding out hope that such detritus of her life would ultimately effect her rescue. She was unaware of how deeply enmeshed in the infrastructure I am here. She is the outsider, the unwanted one here. This fact only became apparent to her when I brought her things.

  “How did you get these?”

  “I thought you might need a change of clothes.”

  “He had no right to give them to you!”

  “I also took the liberty of checking you out of the hotel. Such a waste of money.”

  “You have no right.”

  “In point of fact, it is said in the village that you were taken ill and are now back in New York.”

  “How long do you intend keeping me here?”

  “—”

  “I have friends. They know where I am. My editor, my agent. They’ll start asking questions.”

  “I hope you have been warm enough. Nights turn a bit chilly this time of the year.”

  The evening chorus of the ravine came in through the open window.

  “I can’t stand that noise! It’s driving me fucking out of my skull. You can’t do this. They’ll catch you. Look, I promise. I’d never tell. Never. I don’t give a bloody hoot what you’ve done. Please. Please.”

  Of course I feel badly about the situation, too. It is not enjoyable keeping the Irish locked in that room, pointing a revolver at her every time I bring her something—she has attacked me three times already, hiding behind the door, in the closet, under the bed, actually using a fork one time. She is reduced now to eating with a spoon only. Nor do I take any joy in having to stand guard outside the toilet as she passes water. This is surely an insupportable situation. Inhuman, even, to guest and host alike.

  The alternative that immediately suggests itself is more than logical, it is prescribed: I should eliminate her. After all, it is not I who has gone snooping into her affairs, thereby endangering her. I did not request that she come into my life and turn up the past. In a way, it is as if she deserves death, as if she has willed it upon herself. Yet I cannot bring myself to do it: to put a gun to the back of her head and pull the trigger. It is a ghastly thought. Or to slip poison into her food. Even if out of earshot, I would “hear” her subsequent retching and gagging for the rest of my life. I suppose I could have Cordoba get in touch with certain of his less-than-savory friends to do the deed for me, but that would rest even worse on my conscience.

  No. Contrary to Herr Wiesenthal and the kangaroo court at Nuremberg, I am no killer. Not of defenseless ones, at any rate.

  There is another alternative, one that I have already alluded to, and that is to make Miss O’Brien’s living conditions somewhat better and on a more or less permanent basis. I need to house her with me long enough so that I will know positively what she would or would not do with the information she now has. Besides, I am coming to rather enjoy the notion of having her nearby for a time. Of course she rails at the idea now: Soon enough, she will calm down and become real company for me. It’s strange how quickly one adapts to the absence of loneliness.

  To this end, I have begun renovations on the basement room. She hears me hammering down there and asks me what is happening: Am I building her gallows? But I do not answer these sallies. I want it to be a surprise for her. I am outfitting the space quite nicely, as a matter of fact. There really should be everything that a young woman could want in a room. I have used all my designing ingenuity to make it look quite special, unique, cozy and warm.

  From a spare single bed, I have constructed a fairy-tale four-poster canopy bed. I even created a frilly border to the canopy out of the flounces of one of Miranda’s old dresses. There are no windows in the basement, but I have unrolled some of the canvases I brought with me from Europe: a Waldmüller, two von Alts, and an attributed Rubens, though I rather believe this is from the school of Rubens and not from the brush of the master himself. I also constructed passable frames for these pictures. It has been so many years since I last viewed these glorious things—ironic that it should take the Irish for me to reinstitute my art gallery! The paintings now grace the cinder-block walls of the basement room.

  I have covered the cement floor with matting, and atop this, I have laid several of the local woven Indian rugs, giving some gay color to the place. I purchased a leather armchair, slightly used, but with a lot of life left in it yet, and also a standing lamp. These now provide a cheery niche where Miss O’Brien can read at night. There is also a table, rough-hewn but serviceable, and two basket chairs.

  The only thing Miss O’Brien now lacks in her little nest is running water. I constructed a little alcove in one corner with a draw curtain on a wire. Here I have placed a chemical toilet and washstand. She can bathe whenever she likes upstairs, but this will supply her with a bit of freedom and independence from me. It also ensures my own privacy.

  Best of all, this room is so separate from the top story of my residence that I can have visitors over without worrying that they will discover my little secret. It is a regular bunker down here in the basement—a romantic notion of mine when constructing the house, a sort of last refuge in case of discovery. In those years, I very seriously considered such a dramatic last stand against Israeli agents who might show up some moonless night. Such thoughts, however, became too morbid for me all alone in the jungle, and I never got around to outfitting the basement bunker properly. For my few intimates, it became something of a joke: my own private white elephant. But now it has finally come in handy.

  Tomorrow, I shall introduce Miss O’Brien to her new home. I am as anxious as a small boy waiting to open Christmas presents!

  The great masters, we are told, wrote, painted, or composed out of pain. What such a good burgher and great artist as J. S. Bach, however, knew of pain—other than arthritic—with his happy domestic life and material success, I am at a loss to say. Nonetheless, it is true that self-expression becomes a palliative to inner turmoil and emotional pain.

  What are the great pains we feel? Loss, betrayal, jealousy, unrequited love, sometimes even love itself. Love, of course, is the least trustworthy of emotions, the most fickle, the least responsive to self-regulation. One could well argue, in fact, that all one’s life is ruled by the presence or absence of that one emotion, that one feeling wrapped up in the trappings of a four-letter word.

  But I digress. Are these memoirs, these stories from my past and present, only a transliteration of pain? Must one truly hurt to truly feel?

  I earlier stated that I am a romantic. I am also a sentimentalist. Yet I like to believe that my emotional thermostat is set just this side of maudlin and kitsch. I do not like to think of myself as melodramatic or portentous. But today I hurt; today I write out of pain.

  All my good work has, it seems, gone for naught. I became so involved in the redecoration and refurbishing of the basement room that I lost sight of its primary purpose: that of a safe place in which to incarcerate a potential enemy. Instead, I became positively Christmas-y about the project, finding more and more things to make it perfect, relishing the moment when I should unveil the room to Miss O’Brien, savoring her elated reactions to such a wonderful gift, basking in her delight and respect.

  Alas, I sorely misjudged the recipient. Instead of praises, my work won jeers; instead of admiration, there was rebuke. First, Miss O’Brien attacked my taste, then, my very sanity. She called me a “death machine,” a “breathing cadaver.” I cull these epithets from the tape transcription—it is too disturbing for me to reprint it in its totality. One approbation particularly stung:

  “You’re a necrophile, can’t you see that? You want to encase me here like some fertility symbol, some fucking stone Madonna that you can pick out of your collection when the spirit moves you. It’s not my knowledge of your past that frightens you, that makes you imprison me. No, you aren’t human or man enough to even kill me. It’s not self-preservation that motivates
you but death. Stagnation. Rot. And you want to make me just like you. But I won’t have it!”

  At this point, she actually began scratching with her fingernails at one of the priceless oils on the walls—that from the Rubens school. She was like one possessed of a devil, and I had finally to subdue her with an injection—I have a prescription for a powerful sleeping draught that I always keep on hand against my insomnia.

  The outburst was horrible, really. After she had calmed down and was sleeping, I carried her to the fairy-tale bed and propped her up against the pillows. (This very same bed that moments before she had reviled as absurd and bourgeois, accusing me of attempting to make her my little doll.) Once lain out on the bed, she looked quite beautiful, like Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince’s kiss. So peaceful and serene, lovely really, with her hair flowing over her shoulders. I touched her face. It was warm, vital, the skin tight. She has freckles on her eyelids, which I had not before noticed. My hand moved down her cheek, across her throat and the strong pulsing artery there. I felt the collarbone under her blue shirt. It was as if she were tempting me, daring me by her very passivity to continue. Her breathing was loud, almost a snore. I unbuttoned the top of her shirt and saw the beginning of cleavage. Here too she was freckled. The skin was firm, warm to the touch. I traced my fingernail along it and watched the skin turn white and then red where I had lightly scratched. I touched the next button, but stopped. After all, a man must live by some principles. Yet after such an unfeminine display of pique, she really deserved no better handling.

  No, I thought. This would be just what she would need to fuel her attacks on me. So I left her there peacefully sleeping in her new quarters on the bed she professes to despise.

  I locked the door behind me, went upstairs, and here I sit at my desk now, looking out at the ravine, thinking about pain and creation.

  It is raining. Palm fronds hop to the fat drops of moisture falling on them.