McGarvey didn’t bother to turn around. But he knew she had gotten out of the car. He heard the door close softly.
“He was afraid that the moderates would someday take control of the Soviet Union and give away everything they had gained since the war,” she said.
“He wanted to speed things up.”
“He wanted to be first secretary and premier.”
“Maybe he will be.” McGarvey flipped his cigarette off the side of the road and walked back to the car. Evita stood, one hand on the roof, her hip leaning against the door as if she needed support, which in a way she certainly did.
“I could go up there now and he would welcome me with open arms.”
“Do you want to take the car, or walk?”
She looked up toward the house. “Who’s to say he isn’t right?”
“And I’m wrong?”
She looked at him. “Yes.”
“Depends upon the geography. If we were standing below his dacha outside Moscow, I’d have to concede that he was right. But we’re not.”
She thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. “Can it be that simple?”
“Probably not. But I’ve run out of answers. Two good people have been murdered in the last few days because of him. One of them was my friend. He left a wife and children.” He started for the other side of the car.
“No, don’t,” Evita said.
“Whatever you do or don’t do, I can’t leave it,” McGarvey said. He thought again about Kathleen and about Marta. Both were strong women. And yet he couldn’t get over the feeling that Evita was vulnerable, that she needed someone to hold her close, that that was all she had ever needed.
“Then go up and kill him!”
“I need the answers first.”
“They won’t do anyone any good.”
“I think they will.”
“No.”
“Yes, Evita,” he said softly. “I want your help. I need your help.”
“I can’t,” she cried in anguish.
“Then go to him,” McGarvey said harshly. “I’ll do it myself.”
He got in the car, started the engine, and switched on the headlights. Evita stood at the side of the road for another moment or two, then turned, opened the door, and got in. She hunched down in the seat, silent and pale, a little leaf of Autumn caught against her will in the ocean currents, totally without hope or control.
29
It was after two in the morning by the time they got back into the city. Traffic was still heavy. Fires could be seen here and there. Big crowds had gathered on many of the street corners, in some of the plazas and squares, and in front of American business establishments and offices. Banners seemed to be everywhere, proclaiming “Liberty from North American Aggressors,” “Freedom From American Colonialism,” and “True Independence At Last.” Ordinary traffic was still barred from a wide area around the U.S. embassy so they couldn’t get close enough to see what was happening. They returned to the hotel instead.
“What happened between you and that desk clerk earlier this evening?” McGarvey asked as they rode up in the elevator.
“Nothing,” Evita said woodenly.
“Did he say something to you? I couldn’t hear it.”
She looked up. “Nothing. It was in his eyes.” She looked away again. “He thought I was your whore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “You know the funny thing about it is that I’ve been nearly everyone’s whore except yours.”
“What did you say to him?”
She actually smiled a little. “I told him that if he couldn’t keep his dirty little thoughts to himself I would cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.”
McGarvey sat in a chair by the open window smoking a cigarette and watching the dawn break over the city as Evita slept on the bed. She was keyed up. She had wanted to talk, to be comforted by him, but he had made her take a bath and crawl in between the clean sheets. “You’re going to need your strength when Basulto shows up,” he told her. She wore one of his shirts as a nightgown. He had tucked her in and had kissed her on the forehead as he might a young child. She was asleep within a minute or two.
The demonstrations across the park had broken up sometime in the early morning hours, and from here the only traces of unrest he could detect were the lingering odors of smoke from the fires. Blue and white police cars continued to cruise past at regular intervals, each time a different car. Most of Mexico City’s police force seemed to be on duty this morning. At four o’clock a convoy of army trucks rumbled past. At four-thirty a big automatic street washer lumbered by. At five the morning delivery vans and trucks began coming, bringing milk and bread and laundry and fresh meat and vegetables to the hotels and restaurants. At five-thirty the eastern sky began to lighten perceptibly.
His mood darkened with the morning. It was exhaustion, he knew, yet he could not help himself from sliding toward the edge of despair, where he began to doubt his abilities as well as his sanity. He was frightened that he no longer had anyone to trust and just a little intimidated by a sudden inability to envision Marta’s face in his mind’s eye. When he tried to think of her, he could only see Evita’s face and eyes framed by her long dark hair. Thinking that way was nonsense because in truth she had been everyone’s whore except his. And he felt more pity for her, he thought, than lust.
He turned around. Evita was sitting up in bed, the covers gathered in her lap. She was watching him, her eyes wide, her face almost serene, guileless in this light.
“I want you,” he said, surprised by his own words.
“I don’t want charity.”
“It’s not charity.”
“The spoils of war, then.” Her voice was flat, dull.
“Not that either. I don’t think I give a damn about any of it now. If Baranov wants Mexico he can have it. It’s not up to me to decide, or to change the world. I don’t care if there is a traitor in the CIA. That’s not up to me to fix, either. And I don’t know if I really care about you. I don’t know if I’m still capable of caring, if I was ever capable of it. I only know that I want you.”
She pushed the covers back. Without taking her eyes off his, she took off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. Her chest was heaving, her nipples were erect, there was a faint flush to her forehead and cheeks, and her lips shimmered. She lay back on the pillow and reached out a hand for him.
“Come,” she said. “I will be your whore as well.”
He got up and took off his clothes. She watched him. When he came across the room she spread her legs and reached up to him, pulling him down. He entered her immediately, gathering her in his arms, kissing her deeply, her tongue darting against his. Her hips rose to meet his, and she wrapped her long dancer’s legs around his waist, drawing him even more deeply inside of her.
“It will never be all right between us,” she said softly. A low moan escaped her lips as he thrust against her, trying to bury himself in her.
“Only now matters,” he said.
“We may be dead tomorrow.”
He wanted to say they were dead already, but he was losing himself with her, and nothing truly mattered except for this moment.
“I don’t love you,” she cried.
“No.”
“I’ve never loved anyone.”
They lay in each other’s arms watching the sun rise, listening to the sounds of the city coming alive beneath their open window.
“As a young girl I studied to become a classical guitarist.” She touched a scar on his chest with a long, delicate finger. “I used to wonder how my life would have turned out had I never met Darby or Valentin.”