FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 3, Number 5 September-October 1996 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment. 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William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Pensees," verses by Hamid Temembe "Scotch Tape," a short-short story by E. James Scott "A Kick in the Pants," an excerpt (chapter 16) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Gluttony," a scene (#3) from the play, "Act of God" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was presented last fall at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland. E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and plays the viola da gamba. He lives in La Jolla, California and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he practices his hobby of photographing and charting the migrations of cetaceans. DR. HAMID TEMEMBE attended lycee in Abidjan and received his medical training in Montpellier and Paris. Before his recent untimely death, he was the director of a psychiatric clinic in West Africa. ================================================= PENSEES by Hamid Temembe My Father Les yeux me suivent, Les centres bruns, et a l'entour, les cornees Ornees aux jaunes rayons de la colere indigene. L'homme est mort Et fourre dans une voute civilisee A une eglise importee d'Europe. Mais les yeux... Non. Ils brillent encore des toits de paille D'un village fonce dans la foret noire et verte,. Temoins a la memoire De la magie Qui a survecu les millenaires sauvages Et qui ne me laissera jamais tranquille. [The eyes follow me/ Brown centers, and around them, whites/ ornamented with the yellow streaks of the anger of the race./ The man is dead/ And interred in a civilized vault/ In a church imported from Europe./ But the eyes... / No./ They continue to shine from the straw roofs of a village swallowed up in the black-green jungle,/ Witnesses to the memory/ of magic/ Which has survived the savage millenia/ And which will never leave me in peace.//] * Waves A la plage, en regardant Les ondes sans couleur -- Cependant blanches et vertes et bleues, Des etincellements d'argent dore qui sautent dedans-- Qui balayent les sables fins De la patrie brillante et noire, Je grippe les grains blancs et diamantes Et je pense au paysage au bord de la mer -- Humide, fetide,. Sale, vivant --- Et a un avenir ou des anges memes Ne pourraient pas y faire face Sans tomber dans le desespoir. [At the beach, looking at/ The waves, colorless --/ Yet white and green and blue,/ With sparkles of gilded silver leaping through them ---/ Which sweep the fine sands of my bright black country,/ I squeeze the white and gemlike grains and I think about the land behind the shoreline --/ Humid, stinking,/ Filthy, alive --/ And about a future which even angels/ Couldn't face/ Without falling into despair.//]* * Translations by the editor ================================================= SCOTCH TAPE by E. James Scott She's so cute. A darling. The littlest, sweetest pink fingers. One day, maybe I'll have one of my own, just like her. Red hair, strawberry blonde really. My hair is such a mousy brown. She doesn't want to go to sleep. Well. Mommy said you had to b in your little bed by eight. Yes, eight. No, well, maybe another story. I never had stories read to me. So this will be for both of us, Shelley. No, don't throw the book. No, no. Give it here, you sweet thing. Let go! My God, you're strong. Such a big girl. No, stop crying. Come here. I'll hug you. Yes, that's better. Does your mommy give you great big hugs like that? I thought so, I could tell, I hug good, don't I? Not that I learned that much from all those foster mothers. Yes, one more hug, O.K., two, then to bed. Oh, I'm so sleepy myself. The noise from the neighbors, going at it in the wee hours last night. Drives me crazy, gives me a headache listening to them. Yes, that's a bunny rabbit, yes. God. You're a smart little girl, Shelley. Yes, and that's the fox. Well, the fox wants to eat her up. No, don't dry. Lets; read something else. No, this is about snakes, I can't stand snakes. Evil things. Why does God allow such things? Ecology, I guess. But still, they're things of the devil. No, don't tear the page. Oh, it's all torn off. Oh dear. What will I do? I need to find some scotch tape. You stay here. Where the hell is there some? Not in this drawer, maybe somewhere in the other room. Now, you just stay there. Nice furniture. The crystal chandelier must have cost a fortune. Some people. And the sideboard. Ah, there's a roll of tape. Shelley! Not my can of Coke! All over the Oriental carpet. Oh God. No, stop that. I mean it. Where's a sponge? Oh God. No, you're coming with me this time. You can cry all you want. Why can't people keep their kitchens organized? If only I had one like this. So cry! Have a tantrum. I wouldn't have to drag you if you'd do what I say. You have to do what adults say. Do I have to shake you again? Listen! All right. Into the playpen with you. You're too old for that, but you won't do what I say. Now. Oh. It's going to leave a spot. And there's sugar in Coke. What will I tell Mrs. Miller? She'll kill me. And Mr. Miller, those looks of his. Like that last foster father I had. The bastard. Stop crying. Why can't people be happy? People who have so much. If only I had a baby like this. Stop crying. So sweet, such round little cheeks. Stop crying. Do you need changing? Yes, I see. All right. Just a second. Stop crying. I have to fix the page in this book first. There, it's just as good as new. Yes, yes, you're unhappy. Now. Let us get you changed. Don't kick. Stop it. Stop kicking. My God, at last. Stop crying. Come along. Now. Yes, your little beddie-bye. Stop crying. No, lie down. Now. Stop crying. I'm turning the lights out. Stop crying. Stop crying. All right, I'll leave the light on. Will you stop crying? Lie down. That way. Lie down. Lie down. Stop crying. Stop crying. Maybe some water. Now you've spilled it. Where's the sponge? Well, I have to get it. Oh, never mind. Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying. Why won't you listen to me! Ohhh. Ohhh. Uhhh. There. I'm sorry, but I had no choice. Quiet. All quiet. But Shelley, you're all broken. Where did I put that scotch tape? ================================================= A KICK IN THE PANTS by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 16 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] The sun shown brightly above a high bank of clouds that hung over the dark hills beyond the Danube as Wolfgang drove into Vienna. He recalled the day twenty years before when he had first caught sight of the forest of steeples rom the decks of the boat from Linz. As they passed through the archway of the Salztor he caught sight of the towers of Maria am Gestade and St. Stephen's. The lead horse stumbled and almost fell on a loose paving stone on one of the long narrow streets approaching the Graben, quite near to where he had practiced on the white clavichord in preparation for meeting the old Emperor and Empress, when he was six. At the corner of Rotenturmstrasse, he caught a glimpse of the "Iron Hat" eating place that he especially loved, and further on he peered in the direction of the tavern on the cramped, narrow Plankengasse -- the "Old Tomcat's Cellar." Turning into the Graben, they were halted for a moment behind a line of donkey carts, and he could make out the words, scrolls, banners, and fantastic monsters and devils on the column of the Plague Monument. Vienna -- it was good to be back. A chance to see old friends -- Mesmer, Lautgeb, and Frau Weber and the younger girls were there now. He ordered the driver to stop at his new lodgings at the Archbishop's Vienna establishment, the House of the Teutonic Order on Singerstrasse. He left his trunk and his bag with the porter and went up to inspect his new room on the third floor. Three hard beds, two red-flowered chamber pots, a small window overlooking a courtyard and rows of red-brick buildings. He changed his breeches and his neckcloth. It was lunchtime when he came downstairs, so he went into the refectory. Refectory meals were new to him: he had been classified as a servant of the Archbishop for a long time, but in Salzburg he ate at home. The room was dominated by a long plain wooden table -- monastery style. He started to sit next to Hans Meyer, Count Arco's valet, near the head of the table. "Oh, Herr Mozart, you'll find your place is down there," said Meyer with a smirk. And he pointed toward the middle of the table. And there Wolfgang saw his colleagues Brunetti and good old empty-drawers Ceccarelli. The musicians' section. So he squeezed in next to Brunetti, asking him if he'd tried reading Wolfgang's new violin sonata yet. Brunetti, that boorish idiot, grunted something. Wolfgang then said hello to poor Ceccarelli. Then he looked to see who was at the foot of the table. It was -- the cooks. The table of precedence was evidently (1) valets, (2) musicians, (3) cooks. The nerve! He speculated idly on possible mnemonics for the scheme -- "hose before bows, but tones before bones." Or "credenzas before cadenzas, but keys before peas." Or maybe "catguts before fatguts." Then he quickly gulped down his bread and stew, got up, bowed to the company, and resolved to eat out from then on. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's search for himself seemed to be turning up someone who looked very like a serf. The line from his great-grandparents was breeding true. Cavaliere di Cowdung, wake up! A week later, he walked up the flight of marble stairs to the front door of the Russian Ambassador's mansion, stepping heavily and with lips pursed. It was a beautiful spring day, the leaves were just recently out on the lindens along the street. He had just finished one of the cigars his friend Dr. Mesmer had given him, and his mouth still tasted of tobacco. Konstanze Weber had told him that he could smoke in her house if he wished, but he didn't feel it was the thing to do when he was calling on a young lady, so he had waited to light up until after he left the Webers'. He spit into one of the pots of paperwhites set along the wall. Konstanze had admired his new sky blue suit with its pale mauve trimming. She had good taste, at least. As he reached the door, he felt himself starting to get angry again. The Archbishop had had his nerve, sending that asshole Brunetti to summon him to show up at seven on the dot -- "on the dot," mind you -- so that he and Brunetti and Ceccarelli could go together over to perform for Prince Galitzin! It was getting worse and worse. Well, he was there, it was seven-thirty, and he didn't much care if those two assholes had gotten there or not. At the door, a lackey in black livery asked his name. He said, "Chevalier de Mozart" and brushed past the man. There were only a sprinkling of people in the room, but the small orchestra was playing a quadrille. He saw the Prince, fortyish and tall and thin in a violet-colored suit, standing with a dark-haired young lady in red. "Your Excellency!" "M. Mozart, how delighted I am to see you!" "It's been some time, Your Excellency." "Yes, may I present my daughter, Anastasia." She appeared to be about eighteen years old, with a nice cheekline and glowing skin. "Enchante, Mademoiselle la princesse." "Enchantee, Monsieur Mozart. I've been an admirer of yours for some time." "Where are your colleagues, M. Mozart?" said Prince Galitzin. "I don't know, Your Excellency." He looked around. Finally, he saw them, behind the orchestra, sitting on a bench in the corner. "They are here, Your Excellency." "Good, well, we'll get started before long. Oh, by the way, you are going to play for us in the Tonkuenstler-Sozietaet concert in two weeks?" He felt the blood rise to his face. "I'm extremely sorry, but the Archbishop won't give permission." The Prince's mouth dropped open. "The Musicians' Society concert is the most important benefit of the season. For the widows of musicians, it's a very good cause. This is our tenth year." "I know, Your Excellency, I regret it more than you do." "Oh," he said, putting his hands to his head, "this is disgraceful. We've got to do something about it." Wolfgang bowed. "Your Excellency." "All right, I'll see what I can do. Well, I suppose you are anxious to begin your concert." "Yes, but first could I ask the Princess if she would grant me one dance?" He turned to her inquiringly. She blushed slightly, then she looked at her father. The prince smiled thinly. "Maybe you should begin the concert, M. Mozart," said the Prince. He looked around the room at the thin scattering of people. "The guests will be waiting impatiently to hear you." "Of course, your Excellency. But perhaps after the concert, Mademoiselle la princesse?" She looked at her father again. Galitzin gazed upward. She turned to Wolfgang and said, "I'm not sure I'll be dancing much tonight, M. Mozart." She frowned as she looked into his eyes. "Perhaps some other time." "Yes, of course, Mademoiselle la princesse," he said, making a low bow and heading swiftly for the orchestra. Aristocratic swine! Brunetti came over to him. "What shall we play, Mozart?" "How about 'Three Blind Mice,' for falsetto, fiddle, and keyboard thumper!" he said in a hoarse voice. He began to pace back and forth, shuffling pages of music manuscript. He bumped into a music stand, making it rock back and forth. He kicked at the swaying stand, knocking it over, and it fell with a clacking crash. Looking up, he saw Brunetti staring at him astonished. In the background, some of the guests were looking his way. But not the Prince and the Princess. So much for the social status of the Chevalier de Mozart! But he'd have those fops eating out of his hand before he was through with Vienna. Lion strength, lion strength! *** A bad day at the Deutsches Ordenshaus. It was lucky he couldn't keep wome around. Because he couldn't trust his roommates not to drink it up, or else he would really have gotten soused. Well, later, he'd go out after he finished writing to Papa. He had to finish by sundown. The Archbishop's household was moving back to Salzburg, and they were running short of everything, including candles. He had just two of those cheap tallow candles left, and they stank up everything, leaving a greasy smell in the air. He peered out the tiny window. It was raining, and there was a line of moisture forming along the big crack in the pane. It felt good, anyway, to put it all down on paper: ...In short, a week from Sunday, April 22nd, Ceccarelli and I are to go home. When I think of having to leave Vienna without bringing home _at_ _least_ a thousand gulden, I'm heartbroken. So for the sake of a malignant prince who persecutes me every day and only pays me a lousy salary of four hundred gulden, I'm to give up a thousand? Because I'd certainly make that much if I gave a concert. When we had our first grand concert in this house, the Archbishop sent each of us four ducats. At the last concert, where I composed a new rondo for Brunetti, a new sonata for myself, and also a new rondo for Ceccarelli, I didn't receive anything. But what almost drove me crazy was that the very same night we had this stupid concert, I was invited to Countess Thun's, but of course I couldn't go. And who should be there but the Emperor! Adamberger and Madame Weigl were there and got fifty ducats apiece! Besides, what an opportunity to talk to the Emperor! Well, he could finish the letter tomorrow. What was the rush? He picked up the pathetic sliver of mirrored glass and looked at his hair in it. It would pass. Maybe not for princesses, but for barmaids it would do. It was warmer than it had been all year. He decided not to take his coat along to the Altkaterkeller. The wine and, he hoped, women, would keep him warm enough! *** In Salzburg, the Archbishop stood looking out his window at a crippled flower girl in the Peterplatz. His face was screwed up, his hands clenched behind him. The May sun shown brightly in the square. It was noon, and clergymen on foot mixed with crowds of women dressed in shawls and vendors selling hot rolls and sausages. "Geniuses!" he shouted at Count Firmian. "Lord help us, I didn't ask for this cross!" He paced up and down his room. "Has Mozart arrived yet?" "Yes, Your Grace." "Show him in." *** Leopold entered the baroque throne room with a heavy step. The Prince-Archbishop looked even more testy than usual. "Well, Kapellmeister, what about this son of yours?" "I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said. "What has Wolfgang done now?" "It's what he hasn't done, Herr Mozart. What he hasn't done," the Archbishop repeated loudly. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I beg your pardon. What precisely hasn't he done?" "He hasn't been a faithful servant, that's what! He's never there when I need him, he spends all his time playing music at other people's houses. And also... Well, since you are his father, I'll spare you any comments about his immoral behavior." Leopold felt his stomach sink. "Anything I can do, I'll be glad to do, Your Highness." "Well, for one thing, see if you can get him to return to Salzburg. I suppose I have a right to have my musicians in Salzburg when I myself am in residence here?" "He intends to return soon, Your Grace," he said in a soft voice. "Hmmphh. 'Soon.'" the Archbishop put his hands on his hips. "Do you know when I ordered him to return ?" Was it April 29? he wondered. "No, Your Grace, I don't." "The third week in April, that's when he was supposed to be back. And it's now past the middle of May. Is that good, loyal service?" "I'm sure he had his reasons, Your Grace." "His reasons!" said the Archbishop sarcastically. "Yes, his reasons. I'm sure he has. All having to do with women. Or wine." The Archbishop smiled bitterly. "I've tried, I've written him twice a week,Your Highness, I don't know what else I can do," he said, his voice trembling. "I'll leave it up to you, Kapellmeister. But I wouldn't want to see anything disturb the long relationship we've had with your family." "No, Your Grace," he said, biting his lip. "I wouldn't want your son's misbehavior to be a burden on you in your own work here." He kept silent. His cheeks began to burn. That disgrace to his cloth, threatening me as if I were some lazy tradesman! "You take my meaning, Kapellmeister." "Yes, Your Grace," he said. He stood there a minute, his stomach hurting, and then he repeated in a very loud voice: "Yes, Your Grace!" Firmian's head shot up. The Archbishop stared at him. He bowed and left abruptly. He would have to write to Wolferl. There was no help for it. He walked swiftly home, waving at the Abbe Bullinger in the street but not stopping to talk to him. That Beelzebub! Threatening Leopold Mozart like a common lackey! Well, he'd have to write to Wolferl -- but he felt more like spilling blood than ink! *** The room was like a dungeon. It was small, with a high ceiling. The windows were high and narrow, and the sunlight shone in little splotches over the head of Count Karl Arco, as he stood beside a narrow dark wood table. Like his father, Count Felix Arco, he was a big man, with a large round face and a giant nose. But he hadn't inherited much else from his intelligent, charming father, thought Wolfgang. My God, he was still wearing a wig, in 1781! And not a very clean one, at that. "Sit down, Mozart." "Your Excellency." "See here, Mozart, the Archbishop doesn't want to be unreasonable." He scratched his nose, thought a minute, then took out a snuffbox and applied some to his left nostril. Little bits of snuff stuck to his long nostril hairs. Wolfgang stood silently. He shifted his feet. "We know that life in Vienna can be tempting, and that all the amusements here can make you reluctant to go back to Salzburg." "Count Arco, when the Archbishop's household here broke up, I had to take a room with my friend Frau Weber and live at my own expense, so I can't leave until I've collected some money due me for lessons and concerts and pay my debts." Arco sniffed. "The Archbishop is paying you a salary, that should be your first priority." "Nobody can live on 400 gulden." "That depends on the way you live, doesn't it?" the Count said sarcastically. "I live like anyone else." He gritted his teeth and glared at the Count. "Hasn't your father written to you about this? He's written to me, and he complains bitterly about your actions." "Oh, he's written me, all right," Wolfgang said sadly. "His letters have torn me apart, God knows!" "Look, Mozart, you're letting yourself get carried away by Vienna. The Viennese have their enthusiasms, you can make a lot of money and get plenty of applause for a while, but then they turn to other things. Don't give up something steady with His Grace to risk everything here." "'Steady'! The salary is laughable, and I can't get permission to do outside commissions. And besides that," he said, raising his voice, "the Archbishop thinks he can treat me like dirt, call me names, go to my father with tales about the so-called disgraceful life I'm leading here." Arco smiled. "Well," he said softly, "you know how the Archbishop is. Don't you think I've had to take some abuse from him too?" He raised his eyebrows, comically. "I suppose you have your reasons for taking the abuse, Count. I also have my reasons for not taking it!" The Count bristled. "Your reasons! _Your_ _reasons_!" "Yes, my reasons." "We know what your reasons are, Herr Mozart," he said in an unctuous voice. "They usually involve chambermaids or tavern girls! Can you really reconcile serving a prelate of the stature of the Archbishop with leading a life of such blatant immorality?" "What do you mean, immorality?" he shouted. "Who are you to raise your voice to me, little Mozart! Everybody in Vienna knows what I mean," he said loudly. "To the Viennese the name 'Mozart' means everything that's dissolute and disgraceful. Drinking, gambling, and whoring. Your father must be dying with shame!" "Leave my father out of this." "You don't think about fathers at the billiard table, or when you've got some tart in your lap down at the Altkaterkeller, do you?" he said sneeringly. "You forget Salzburg, your family, your patron, your religion. Then there's just little Wolferl and whatever filthy pleasure he happens to be indulging in at the moment." "I don't go to whores!" The Count looked at him disdainfully. "Spare me your lies, please." "Lies! Lies! You bastard!" The Count took a step toward him. "What did you call me?" You bastard, you son of a bitch, you can take the Archbishop's job and shove it up your ass!" The Count's face turned red. Wolfgang suddenly realized how large Arco was -- the Count towered over him. "Get out of here," the Count shouted, seizing him by the arm with his giant hand. "Get out, get out.." And he shoved him toward the door. Wolfgang stumbled and almost fell. He righted himself, facing Arco. The Count raised his fist over his head and shouted, "Get out of_here_! AND NEVER COME BACK!" Then Arco lifted his foot, with its long, shiny black boot. Wolfgang turned to escape, but all of a sudden he felt the impact of the boot on his backside. He flew through the door and landed on his hands and knees in the hall. The door to the room slammed behind him. His hand had landed on a small brown cockroach. He rubbed the gooey jelly from the crushed thorax of the dying insect off on his stocking. He stood up, slowly, pulled up his breeches, took a step, stumbled, and then continued on down the hall to the landing. When he had descended halfway down the first flight of stairs, his legs started to shake. He sat down on the stairs, under a portrait of the Archbishop Sigismund against the background of St. Peter's in Rome, put his head down in his arms, and began to cry. After a moment, he pulled out his lace handkerchief, blew his nose with a loud snort, and stood up. He wiped his cheeks. He wouldn't have wanted his mother to see him like this. Damned bully! The cobblestones on the Graben seemed rougher than usual as he jostled his way through the heavy foot traffic toward his room on the Am Hof. He could smell the aroma of numerous "grosse Brauner" and "kleine Schwartzer" from the coffeehouse on the corner of the Kaertnerstrasse. A birdseller was hawking two yellow-flecked black mynah birds from the jungles of South America. He wasn't about to give up Vienna without a fight. He blew his nose loudly. A tremolo in the lower basso range. Take that, all you aristocratic assholes -- a blast from the common man -- the uncommon common man! He raised his fist at the Plague Monument and its celebration of the power of man over nature -- take that! ================================================= GLUTTONY by Otho Eskin (Note: This is scene 3 from the full-length play "Act of God") Cast of Characters JOHN An unemployed actor weak, shallow and self-absorbed. SATAN TODD A middle-class, yuppie twit. Scene The action takes place in the living room of Martin's apartment. Time The time is the present. ================================================= SCENE 3 AT RISE: The stage lights are down and most of the room is in shadow. A spotlight is on JOHN, alone on stage. JOHN Sometimes I think life's like high school except you never graduate. God is home room teacher and His favorite teaching aids seem to be plagues and other disasters. A few months ago, the roof of a church somewhere in Texas collapsed killing most of the congregation. This, we're told, was a test of faith. I suppose these things can be seen as a divine pop quiz. "You down there. That's right the one with the girder in your chest. Tell me honestly, when you saw your family destroyed, did you have just a moment's fleeting doubt about God's mercy? I thought so. You'll have to repeat a year." Some people see a divine plan in existence but the ultimate purpose has certainly escaped me. Personally, I think God makes it up as He goes along. You think I'm being paranoid about God? That's what my friend Todd says. He tells me these spiritual obsessions are irrational. Todd's very sensible and practical. Todd will tell me what to do. He'll know the answer. (The door bell rings, lights up, and JOHN opens the door. TODD stands in the doorway.) JOHN (Whispering) Thank heavens you've come, Todd. (TODD enters) TODD (Also whispering) What's the matter, John? You sounded terrible on the phone. JOHN Todd, you're my oldest friend. We've always helped one another... TODD I'm here for you, John. Why are we whispering? JOHN I've had an experience like nothing I've ever had before a kind of revelation of evil. TODD I've told you a hundred times, there's too much sugar in your diet. (JOHN looks around the room, sees no one.) JOHN I think I may be possessed by the Devil. TODD You must learn to let go of these negative feelings, John. Let go of your anger. JOHN The Devil has appeared to me. He talks to me. He drinks my beer. He eats my pretzels. And he wears really tasteless clothes. TODD You say the Devil's here now? JOHN Somewhere in the apartment. (TODD looks around the room with exaggerated care.) TODD I don't see a thing, John. There's no one here. JOHN Maybe he's in the bathroom. He seems to spend a lot of time there. TODD Honestly, John, don't you know the Devil's a myth? JOHN If there's no Devil, how do you explain misery and suffering in the world? TODD Too much animal protein in our diet. JOHN Animal protein? That's it? TODD The Devil is an illusion. Probably no more than a piece of undigested food from last night's supper. JOHN He seemed awfully real to me. TODD Get in touch with who you are. Political activism will take your mind off your problems. There's a meeting this Saturday of Gays for Whales. Why don't you come? Next Tuesday, Jennifer and I are having a fund raiser for Concerned Chicano Women Against Toxic Dumping in Southern Africa. It will do you a world of good to take part. Do you think you could bring a pasta salad? JOHN I wouldn't be good company. TODD You've got to change your life style. Take up jogging. JOHN This is more than a bit of depression. I swear, the Devil is as real as you are. He sleeps there on the couch. He sends out for pizzas. What am I going to do? TODD I can give you the number of a support group for people involved in devil worship. JOHN (Angry) I'm not into devil worship! (There is the sound of martial music which slowly rises in volume.) TODD Do you have a radio on? JOHN No. TODD Don't you hear it? That music? It's awful! JOHN I don't hear a thing. (The music subsides.) TODD Has anybody else seen this Devil? JOHN Not exactly. Maggie said she couldn't see him. TODD There you are! You're the only one who's had this experience. It's a fantasy. Are you still seeing your psychiatrist? (The lights begin to brighten revealing the figure of a man, his back to the audience.) JOHN You think I'm going crazy, Todd? TODD You worry me, John. I think you'd better get medical attention. (TODD senses that someone else is in the room and becomes uneasy. Once again the music is heard.) TODD Is there someone there? JOHN Who are you talking to? (TODD sees the figure and is transfixed.) TODD What are you? (The figure turns and faces TODD. It is SATAN, in the uniform of a Nazi SS Officer. HE wears a red Nazi arm band, with swastika. HIS appearance is military and smart, even elegant. SATAN touches the visor of his cap with a gloved hand in a salute.) SATAN Good evening, Todd. TODD You know me? SATAN Of course. We have the same friends. We go to the same parties. We sit on the same steering groups. TODD That's impossible. You are the incarnation of everything abominable, loathsome and detestable in the world. JOHN I see you two have met. (To TODD in a loud whisper.) I told you. I told you. TODD Get out of my sight. I can't bear to look at you. SATAN I'm disappointed in you, Todd. We used to be so close. TODD Never! JOHN Why are you arguing with an illusion? It is an illusion, isn't it? SATAN Listen to the voice inside you, Todd. You're still attracted to me. TODD I hate you. JOHN (To SATAN) I think you got the wrong guy. Todd here is not that kind of person. TODD (To SATAN) I reject you. JOHN (To TODD) Tell him about your activities on behalf of the snail darter. (To SATAN) You wouldn't believe this guy. He's always out there demonstrating on behalf of lesbians from El Salvador. TODD I work to defeat everything you stand for. SATAN Don't be afraid, old friend. JOHN You tell'm, Todd. (To SATAN) He and Jennifer are always protesting against the destruction of the rain forests. You'll never get anywhere with Todd. He's incorruptible. TODD I struggle for good causes. I give to the homeless. SATAN Do you give them love? Do they eat at your table? Do you comfort them when they weep? JOHN Tell him how Jennifer is going to learn Spanish so she can speak with their cleaning woman. SATAN Remember how you felt when someone broke into your car and stole your tennis rackets? You assumed it was some black kid. And you wanted to kill him. As you stood by your car you were filled with rage and hatred. If the kid had been there if you had had a gun you would have killed him, wouldn't you, Todd? TODD No! No! SATAN Every time you see a black man on the street you feel fear. You feel hatred. JOHN Tell him what you've told me about how noble the poor and homeless are. Go ahead and tell him. SATAN You love the idea of the poor. But you are disgusted by their filth. You are bitter when they show no gratitude to you. Don't deny yourself, dear friend. Don't deny the real Todd the real you. TODD I am Todd! SATAN No you're not. You're an invention you made up. The real Todd has been locked in a secret room for years. Set him free. TODD No! JOHN Tell him he's got you mixed up with some other guy. Tell him these things he's saying are lies. Please tell him. SATAN Think back to when you were a child. Remember the games you played? The movies you loved? The guns? The flags? The uniforms? TODD I was a child. SATAN You still are. Remember the jack boots? The Death's Heads? TODD No! (SATAN reaches out to TODD who becomes panicky and backs toward the door.) SATAN Remember your fantasies of the beauty of force, the music of authority, the poetry of violence? Let me give you the power you hunger for, Todd. I can make you strong. I can give you the instruments of domination. You will grind your enemies beneath your heel. TODD Stay away. JOHN This isn't you he's talking about, is it, Todd? This can't be you. SATAN Do not be afraid of your midnight thoughts. Face them and grow strong. Think of women, helpless and submissive before your brutality. Do not forget your whip. TODD Please don't. SATAN Take my hand, dear friend, follow me into the recesses of your soul where no others may follow. TODD No! Never! SATAN Come to me, Todd. Embrace me. (TODD bolts out the door.) JOHN I don't know what happened. Todd just wasn't himself today. SATAN He never was himself. Someday he'll belong to me. He's not ready yet. But he will be one day. JOHN You've got to stop this! You can't go around corrupting people like that. SATAN I can't? (SATAN cracks his knuckles.) JOHN And would you stop that! I hate it when you do that! SATAN Got any more friends we can have over? JOHN I don't want them to meet you. SATAN Who are you to talk? You'll do anything to get out of this situation. You'll sacrifice anybody to save yourself. (SATAN goes to the kitchen door.) JOHN That's not true. SATAN We'll see, John. We'll see. BLACKOUT ==================================================================================== 18