Angel Eyes Read Free

knew I was the equal of any man-not sexually, and certainly not emotionally. But still I felt equal. A man could kill, and so could I. I was respected, even at times deferred to. Then, at last, there was no difference between us. You understand."
    Tori looked at her. "What changed?"
    Adona shrugged. "The world turns on its axis, the seasons change, day into night. Who really can say with certainty? But I suspect that I have found that whatever I was reaching for is nonexistent or, at least, illusory. I feel as though in trying to measure up to men's standards, I've been sucked whole into their world. And I've discovered I don't like it."
    "What does Estilo say to all this? He met you in the jungle; that's where you fell in love."
    "Estilo doesn't know."
    "But you must tell him," Tori said. "Estilo loves you; he wants you to be happy."
    Adona's liquid brown eyes locked with Tori's. "Yes, he loves me. But happiness, now that's another matter entirely. Estilo is the consummate businessman-he lives for the deal, it doesn't matter what the deal is. Because each deal is well-defined, and Estilo's world is well-defined. I have spent so much time and effort to become a part of that world, and now, as far as he's concerned, everything meshes perfectly. He couldn't let me go. My role is too well-defined. If I were to leave, a black hole would appear, an undefined gap he could not tolerate.''
    "But do you want to leave him?"
    Adona gave off a little smile, like the glow of a tiny candle as darkness falls. "I don't know."
    "Don't let him go," Tori said. "He's a good man."
    ' 'Well, at least he's a little good.''
    Adona suddenly leaned forward, kissed Tori on both cheeks. "Go enjoy the party. Too much gloomy talk is bad for the soul.''
    Tori squeezed Adona's hand, left her to monitor the coming food. The rooms were filled with people-Buenos Aires' most famous artists, models, chantas-and smoke, but somehow Estilo found Tori, pushed a Kir Royale into her hand, kissed her on the cheek, murmured an endearment in German. He used German infrequently, only when he was slightly drunk, and never in a place where he could be overheard. He was Argentine, after all, and had his own myth to foster.
    "It is times like this," he said, linking his aim in hers, "when I miss Munich most.'' Tori knew he traveled to Germany several times a year. "Have you ever eaten in Die Aubergine?"
    "I've never been to Munich," Tori said with a sense of deja vu. They'd had this conversation many times.
    "Ah, to look out on the Maximilianplatz and dine on such food!" Estilo shook his head. "Still, Buenos Aires is home. And, after all, Munich is not such a mysterious place. And the Germans-ach, the Germans never change. That is supposed to be their great strength. But I have never found much to admire in stone and concrete."
    He guided her outside, onto the terrace that overlooked Buenos Aires. It faced west, and one could see the boundary, the end of the city's lights, the darkness along the wind-whipped plain where the Pampa-Argentina's great prairie, filled with cowboys, ranchers, people used to a hard, dusty existence -- began.
    Estilo pointed to the darkness. "There is where I was born, schatzie. Not in Germany, like my father. He married the daughter of an estanciero, and I like to think I was born atop a horse.'' He laughed abruptly. "But that may be just another myth. My analyst says I rely too heavily on myth. But she doesn't understand. I am half German; I, more than most portenos, need the sanctuary of myth in order to live with myself. I don't know what my father did during the war and, God help me, I don't want to know. Do you think I can tell my analyst this?" He shrugged. "It doesn't matter, really. The truth is, I'd rather take her to bed than talk to her." Estilo looked at Tori suddenly. "And you, schatzie. What is the truth about you?"
    ' 'I thought we had an agreement,'' Tori said.
    "We do. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, yes? We have