FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 3, Number 6 November-December 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 Verses Wesley Britten "Sisterhood is Powerful," a short story Alan Vanneman "Konstanze," an excerpt (chapter 17, part 1) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Greed," a scene (#4) from the play, "Act of God" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS WESLEY BRITTON teaches English at Grayson County College in Denison, Texas and is a noted Mark Twain scholar. His poems have appeared in "Lynx Eye," "Cafe Belles Artes," and "Kensho," and recently won first place for humorous verse at the first annual Texoma Poetry Workshops. 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. ALAN VANNEMAN is a writer and living in Washington. He is a professional editor, currently working in educational research. ================================================= VERSES by Wesley Britton FUZZ "You know in the sixties in my home township, we had one cop, one constable for our whole county. Judge Beamer. Old guy, daughter in my class. I leaned over her huddled against the school hall wall in fallout drills as we practiced for Russian invasion. Called him once on a dog bite. Then, we got to junior high and they hired a police chief & built a cop station by the Skat Oil gas station & then hired two cops & put in two traffic lights & a new gas station opened up across the highway & people started dying crossing the highway. "Chief was divorced, left his second wife down the street. Step & step family new center of township Like Stephens' jar in Tennessee. He's gone, a series of fuzz come through now Like football players in helmets whose faces you never see or know or forget. Wish I'd married Judge Beamer's daughter." THE UNFORTUNATE FUNERAL In the quiet breeze through her hair the thin wife stood over her husband's grave framed by her girls & the camera box aimed square on her peculiar moment in the sun fifteen years after the battle of divorce sent their children spiralling into disconnected paths. & she tried not to look into the open hole or into the camera's eye knowing she didn't belong there knowing how he would cringe knowing she stood there passively for the camera shot by his survivors in the green field below the canopy & she thoght of the other men, man after man after him Well, Charlie worked out o.k. sitting at home waiting for her dinner. & the cameras did their work like the smiles of her black and white wedding not a pretty day like this not a colorful day like this with all the flowers. Weren't there flowers at the wedding? She couldn't remember. There must have been flowers. But the pictures of gray were what held her memory. ==================================== SISTERHOOD IS POWERFUL by Alan Vanneman "Dad, are you going to wear your mustard pants again?" "They aren't mustard, Richard. Don't gulp your milk." "They are too! And I wasn't gulping my milk." "They're canary, aren't they, Dad?" Harding Davis put down his copy of the Post. It was difficult to be too angry, because the article he was reading was quite complimentary of himself, for the Post, at least. But at the same time he had to try consciously not to throw an angry look at his wife. He hadn't seen his children in a week, and this was how they were behaving. "I don't think we need to argue about the color of my pants. It will all depend on the weather. Marie, my coffee is cold. And Richard, hold your knife properly." "I was!" "Richard. You were not. Unless the little things are done correctly, nothing good can happen. Please remember that." Marie intervened to take Mr. Davis' cup, She disappeared into the kitchen and then returned, placing the newly filled cup exactly where it had been, as if to illustrate his remark. For the moment, there was quiet in the Davis family. Sunlight streamed through the windows of their porch, while outside the faint hum of a powerful air conditioner kept the Washington summer at bay. "Are you going to the office today, Dad?" Barbara asked. "Children, haven't you bothered your father enough? This is the first chance he's had to be with you in a week, and this is how you behave." Mr. Davis drank gratefully from the cup Marie had brought him. Thank God it was decent coffee. He was just beginning to realize how tired he was. For the last three months his life had revolved entirely around the fate of a handful of hostages in the Middle East. There was not a day in the last three months that he had not expected their release. Now, at last, they were free. The President had received them, and State had won a victory. The Secretary had divided the glory between the President and himself—hardly a surprise -- yet within State his own stock was at an all-time high. If anything, the praise for him in the Post was too egregious. Thank God it was well off the front page. A telephone rang faintly in the background. Marie disappeared again and then returned. "It's for you, Mr. Davis," she said, uncomfortably. "Who is it, Marie?" "Your sister, sir." "We're not home." "She says she can see you, sir. She's in a car out front. She says she has a car phone." Harding Davis spread butter evenly on his toast. He placed a spoonful of strawberry jam on his plate. Looking down at his hands he remembered that they always had strawberry jam because he liked it as a boy. As a boy he and Susan had gathered strawberries on Spring mornings in the mountains. He spread the jam on his toast and took a bite. Then he drank from his coffee. "Tell her we are at breakfast. Tell her I will call her when we're finished." There was a dead silence at the breakfast table. Even Richard knew better than to ask about crazy Aunt Mary. "What did the Post have to say?" asked Diane at last. "They were reasonably complimentary, even though half their facts were wrong. Harvey won't like it, I'm afraid." "Dad, why don't you tell them, so they get it right?" "Speaking with the newspapers is a difficult and dubious art, dear. You must never let a reporter realize how very much more you know than he does. Otherwise, he will never forgive you." The phone rang once more and Marie dodged quickly out into the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance the Davises could hear the sound of a car horn. "It's your sister again, Mr. Davis," said Marie, feeling put upon. "Yes, Marie. Bring me another half cup of coffee. Tell Gladys she can hold the line if she wishes. Richard, please sit up." "Dad, are you going to get away at all this summer?" "Your mother and I will probably do some sailing with Chris and Anna. He was kind enough to offer." "He ought to be," Diane said, slicing the last of her melon. "The Post wasn't very nice to him." "Perhaps not. It's a marvellous boat. Well, you must excuse me." He rose from the table and brushed his lips with his napkin. The walk from the breakfast porch to his study seemed unusually long. He sat at his desk and picked up the phone. "Good morning." "Good morning to you too. Hope I didn't disturb you." "Why have you called?" "To give you the good news. I'm getting married." "Well. Congratulations." "I knew you'd be thrilled. You never thought it would happen, did you?" "Of course I did." "Of course you did. Of course you did. I forgot you know everything. That's how dumb I am. I even forgot you know everything. Well, your dumb sister's got a man. Can I come inside?" "My family is just finishing breakfast, Gladys. It's hardly time for a visit." "Oh right, I forgot that. I do forget things, don't I? Well don't forget your sister's getting married. Are you going tell Mom and Dad?" "I thought you would do that." "Harding, you're so helpful. They ought to call you helpful Harding. Bye, bye." "Good bye, Gladys." "There's a crushed rat by the entrance. Can we have that disposed of?" "I'll have that done immediately, Mr. Davis. The Secretary would like to see you at 9:30 to discuss the White House reception. Here are the morning dispatches." Davis took the stiff, white paper folder from his secretary and walked into his office. He sat behind his desk and drank the coffee that waited for him. He placed the dispatch folder on his desk, the white rectangle brilliant against the dark, polished wood. The afterglow of the hostage release shone through the reports. Mentally, Davis compared himself against the prose of each ambassador. Since they, or their staffs, all strove to achieve the same style—understated, yet authoritative—the overall effect was exhausting. There was not an individualist in the lot. As he read he marked an occasional passage with a red pen. He had not finished the last report when the intercom buzzed softly. "Five minutes to your appointment with the Secretary, Mr. Davis." Harding Davis squared himself before the mirror in his office. This was very good. He took the stairs up to the Secretary's floor, preferring not to wait for an elevator, and was ushered in directly as he arrived. "Harding!" The Secretary rose from his chair, grinning. "The man of the hour." "Your flattery is too much, Mr. Secretary," Harding began. He could not remember when he had been caught so off guard. "Nonsense! This was a big win for State, and I love a big win. That's what this game's all about." Harding half expected the man to light up a victory cigar. Instead, he sat on his desk and motioned Harding to a chair. "Harding, I'm putting you up for a medal, and you're going to get it. I can't give myself one, and I want State to be out in front on this. The White House is scheduling a show for the hostages—you know how they are. It's their show. But damn it, you're going to get a medal, and the President is going to give it to you. I've got it right here." The Secretary went around his desk, opened a drawer and took out a flat leather case. He clicked the case open and handed it to Harding. Inside was a highly polished bronze medal with the State Department's seal. A glossy red, white and blue ribbon curled round it. Embedded in the case itself was a small bronze plaque. Harding's name and title were engraved in the plaque. "Had it done when I heard we had a liftoff in Beruit. I had been thinking, God damn it, let's not let some Marine walk off with the credit for this one." "I certainly appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Secretary." "Call me Bill. I get so damn tired of the military grabbing all the glory. And I liked the way you handled our friends in the press. There are plenty of people around here who know when to keep their mouths shut, and a few who don't. But there are damn few who know when to shut up and when to talk. It was nice all around." "Thank you, sir. There are times when the press requires guidance." "There are indeed. Listen, Harding. Join me for lunch. There's a fellow I want you to meet, and who I want to meet you. I won't keep you in suspense—it's Milos Layton. Meet us at the Cosmos Club at 12:30." "My pleasure, sir." "Excellent. We'll see you then." Harding shook hands with the Secretary and departed, trying just a little to relax. The Old Man was certainly piling it on. He couldn't say what it was all for. Harding was certainly in the top half of the assistant secretaries, but no more than that. He had no particular friends in high places, at least not in very high places. As he rode down the elevator the blood buzzed softly in his ears. A gentleman, he thought, can never be afraid of luck. His cab pulled up along the club's curving drive at 12:20. Harding found the Secretary in a large easy chair, deep in conversation with Milos Layton. Harding's father would have referred to Milos Layton as a typical businessman, though in fact there was nothing typical about him at all. He was in his early fifties, stocky, but enormously fit. Seated or standing, he gave off an air of elemental vitality. He had a yachtsman's tan and brilliantly blue eyes. As Harding approached he sprang to his feet and grasped Harding by the hand, fixing him with his gaze. Harding had had such an experience only twice before in his life, and both men had been presidents. "Mr. Davis, I like what I hear about you. I like it a lot." Harding was not able to be quite as polished as he wished. Mr. Layton was worth considerably more than $3 billion. Before joining the current administration, the Secretary had been a president—one of three—at Layton Enterprises. "I'm pleased to hear it, Mr. Layton. It's quite an honor to meet you." "I'm just a businessman," Layton said, grinning. "The more people I know the better off I am. You're someone I want to know." The Secretary rose from his chair. "I think they're ready for us. I can't afford to keep Harding away from his desk too long." "You see, Harding, that's how Bill made it to the top. He knows how to delegate." A waiter led the three men to a private dining room. Both Layton and the Secretary were drinking Scotch, but Harding decided to stay with a single glass of white wine. Both men were at least fifteen years his senior. While ordering he was careful to moderate his French accent, which was noticeably superior to that of either of the other two men. Yet Layton spoke French remarkably well for a man who prided himself on his simplicity. As the meal progressed, Harding drank rarely from his glass of wine, and let the other two men lead the conversation. Eventually, his caution caught him up. "You know, Mr. Davis," Layton said formally, "for a man who was in the thick of it you don't have much to say. Just where do we stand over there now? Have we got any real friends? And do we have any enemies? Or is it all just talk? I say you're the one man who can give me a straight answer." Harding managed a quick look at the Secretary—not for guidance, but to see his face while Layton was talking. He paused carefully, feeling the exhilaration rise inside him, and then began to speak. For the first time, he had entered that realm where the walls between public and private dissolved completely. For the next half hour, he told Milos Layton as much about the Middle East as he would tell anyone, with the two exceptions of the Secretary himself and the President. Layton listened as though he were hanging on every word. When Harding finished the businessman slapped his palm on the table. "Harding, you're my expert. I want you, and your wife, to join me, not this weekend but the next, at my place in the Carribean. I'll send you tickets. And make it a four-day weekend. Tell your boss I said so!" Their laughter carried them out the entrance way, where the Secretary's limousine was waiting ahead of Forman's. Harding noticed the smile of pleasure on the Secretary's lips. As the doorman opened the car door, the Secretary gestured for Harding to join him. "Milos is a little overpowering," the Secretary said once the door was safely shut and they were underway. "He's a remarkable man." "He is. He wants a great deal, and it's worth it to give it to him. He's been trying to exploit me ever since I got this job. Hasn't made a dime yet, but I keep telling him to look for the long term." "Was he serious about his invitation?" "Sure. Go down there and stay for four days. Just remember you'll be on duty every second you're there. It's a shame you'll have to take vacation time." Harding returned to his office with a distinct sense of anticlimax. He wanted to play tennis or swim, or have a gin and tonic and a cigar at a really first-rate country club, not read memos. His secretary gave him a worried look when he arrived. "Mr. Davis, your sister has been calling. She won't leave a message." "I see. If she calls again put her through." "Of course, Mr. Davis." Harding picked up the latest copy of Foreign Affairs and sat at his desk. He thought he would not have to wait long to hear from Gladys and he was correct. "Back from lunch, huh? You must have enjoyed yourself. You big shots have it easy. Did I tell you I'm getting married?" "Yes, you did. Earlier today." "Yeah, I did, didn't I? I guess I forgot. Are you excited for me, Harding? Mom and Dad are excited for me. Well, are you?" "I'd like to meet the man, Gladys. Next week sometime, perhaps." "I wish I could arrange it, Harding, but there's this problem, see. My fiance's in jail." "I see. Do you expect us to get him out?" "Yes I do, Harding, but it's kind of difficult because he was convicted of armed robbery and second-degree murder. Also it was his second conviction, just for armed robbery. Of course he's innocent. Does Dad know anyone on the Supreme Court?" "No." "Do you?" "No." "You're not much help, are you, Harding? Were getting married in two weeks—Bowling Green, Kentucky. It's real pretty out there. Of course the prison's not so nice." "The prison's in Kentucky?" "That's what I just said. I think he comes from an old Kentucky family, you know, like Helen." "I see. I don't think my schedule will permit me to attend." "You don't think your schedule will permit you to attend. I think you said that the last time I got married. When are you going to come see me, Harding? You know, I can come see you now that I got my car." "I'll come see you soon, Gladys. If you've been reading the papers you know how busy I've been." "Oh, you're famous now! No, Harding, I haven't been reading the papers. I've been writing letters to the most wonderful man in the world, and now I'm going to marry him. Goodbye, Harding." "Goodbye, Gladys." Harding took out his telephone credit card and dialed a number. "Dad? This is Harding. Has Gladys been talking to you?" "Yes she has. I gather she's been talking to you." "Well, is she making all this up?" "No. Herb Willer is a member in good standing of the Kentucky State Penal System and will be for a minimum of another twenty years, even with good behavior. And he has applied for and received a marriage license." "And he's really a murderer." "I'm afraid so. A young woman in her thirties. He says it was an accident, and apparently it was. He was shooting at a security guard." "Have you met him?" "No, but I've read the court records. Haven't you known about this?" "No, I haven't. I've been busy. We did have a crisis down here, Dad. Why didn't you tell me last week?" "I was probably hoping that it would go away. I thought Gladys had told you, and thought maybe you didn't want to talk about it." "I don't want to talk about it, but we have to. This would kill Helen, Dad. We've got to stop it." "I don't think we can, Harding. I've talked to a few people down there, and the Kentucky State Prison Board appears to be a relatively free-standing bureaucracy. You could talk to Helen's family if you like, but they really aren't that well connected, you know. Maybe you better talk with Helen, and let her decide." "Dad, there's got to be something we can do." "I don't think so, Harding. I think they like to have their prisoners get married. It sort of calms them down." "Dad, I'm scheduled to get a medal from the President in two weeks' time. I don't want my sister marrying a murderer." "I know you don't, Harding. I'm sorry. But it's making her happier than she's been for a long time." "I don't think that's adequate! She's down here, you know. I have to put up with her. I bailed her out when she was selling prescription drugs. Do you remember that?" "I do, Harding, and I'm sorry." "She didn't want to live at home. She insisted on coming down here, God knows why. I've accepted that. I can't accept this. Where is she getting the money for all this—the car and the cellular telephone?" "I didn't know she had a cellular telephone." "Well, she does." "She does have a trust fund, Harding." "I see. That's your decision, of course. Dad, I think it's time we had her declared incompetent." "Your mother would never go along with that. I don't think I would. Harding, don't you think she would contest it? Wouldn't it be worse than what we have?" "Worse than marrying a murderer. Suppose he gets pardoned. Weren't they selling pardons down there?" "I don't think it will come to that." "Yes, one can hope." "The wedding isn't for three weeks. Harding, no one is going to crucify you for having a crazy sister." "So that's your decision." "I don't know what else to do. Which means that that's my decision." "All right. I suppose I have to live with that." "It's the best way." "I don't agree." "Harding, don't wear yourself out trying to turn this around. It's not salvagable." "Dad, you're up in Boston. I do have a family." "I think we've discussed this long enough." "All right, we have." "Congratulations on your medal." "Of course. I don't know what the ceremony is going to be like. It's all for the hostages. I'll see if I can get you in. This is the Secretary's idea. We haven't heard from the White House." "You deserve it, son." "Thanks. I hope everyone is well." "Reasonably well." "Good. We're fine here." "Goodbye, son. We're proud of you." "Yes, of course. Goodbye, Dad." =============================================== KONSTANZE by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, part one of chapter 17 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] A glass of wine—well, two—and a nap had made him feel steady again after the run-in with Asshole-Arco. He awakened to a chirping. A thrush, chirping in E-flat, twittered nervously on the sill of the window of his new room in the Weber house. He got up carefully, but as he approached the window, the bird flapped off. Just like a woman, her thought. To hell with archbishops and their toadies. He sloshed some water on his face and dressed himself. As he came out onto the landing, he heard the sounds of the piano downstairs. It must be Josefa or Konstanze. The sound was interrupted as the player hit a wrong note. Then she started up again. The rhythm of the Johann Christian Bach piece was ragged—it had to be Konstanze. He started down the stairs, the ancient banister rail creaking under his hand, still seething over Count Arco and his big boots. He was on edge and anxious to go out, but he could still spare a few minutes. The gold clock on the white and gilt mantel said it was only half past five. Konstanze, sitting at the piano, looked particularly charming in her blue frock—hoopless, in the latest Parisian style -- with matching ribbons in her dark hair. He was glad that he had decided to wear his stylish new puce-colored plush breeches. He should have put on his silk stockings. He backed up a few steps and took a look at himself in the hall mirror. He smiled and felt confident, looking back at the sparkling blue eyes of the slim, elegant young man in the mirror. He stuck out his tongue at the image. Shit on you, 'Cunt' Arco! Then he walked into the parlor. "Good Evening, Fraeulein Konstanze, have you been down here long?" She lifted up her pale, triangular face to look at him. She was not powdered, and her short brown hair gathered in little curls around her forehead. "Not long enough, I'm afraid, I'm having difficulties with this piece. We can't all be so clever at this instrument." She waved her hand airily at the white spinet, a little battered now after its sojourns in Mannheim, Munich, and Vienna. "Oh, well, you know the advantage of being a composer is that no one knows whether you're improvising or not. If I make a mistake, I can always claim I was making it up as I was going along." He laughed nervously. So many people resented his talent. Oh, who cared what she thought! He had enough problems today without worrying about her. "Oh, I wish it were that simple for me," she said with an exaggerated sigh. And then, head lowered, looking up at him from under her eyebrows, she added, "You seem upset tonight, Herr Mozart." "Yes, yes, you're right," said Wolfgang, putting on a smile. "Nothing much, just some more trouble at Deutsches Ordenshaus. The usual nonsense." "Too bad." She pressed her thin lips together. "I'm not sure that the Ordenshaus is the right place for you, if you don't mind my saying so." "I don't mind at all." "I think the Emperor should find a special place for you. It isn't right that you should have to compete with ordinary musicians." She laid aside the sheets of music on the stand. "I don't know if the Emperor would agree. As it is, I'm just one musician among hundreds." "No, indeed you're not, Herr Mozart." "Well." He made a face. "Let's talk about something else. I don't want to burden you with my problems, when you and your family have been so kind to me. And don't apologize for your playing," he said, "the piano sounded good, go on playing. Was that Bach?" A little tact Wolferl, he told himself, a little tact! "Yes, it's hard, but I'm working on it—vigorously," she said, replacing the sheet music, shuffling the pages, and then starting to play. She missed several notes and then lost the tempo. She started up again and again faltered. He sat back on the overstuffed silk-covered ottoman and resisted the temptation to tell her to count more carefully: eins, zwo, drei, vier; eins, zwo, drei, vier. He looked at the portrait in the gilt frame on the wall over the piano. He hoped that the old man in the wig cap was tone deaf. After a minute or two, she stopped playing. "Mother's odd, she seems to think that since your mother is dead, she has to come in and mother you. I hope you don't mind that too much," she said seriously. He felt his face become warmish. She looked into his eyes, smiled, and then laughed. "Not at all, I love being taken care of," he said, smiling. "But please, don't you start too." "Don't worry, I'm not the type." "What type are you?" At least you're not the stupid type, he thought. "Never mind." she said smiling. "I don't think you want to know." "Oh, but I do want to know, I do." Konstanze, playing arpeggios, smiled tentatively. "By the way, Aloysia called at the house yesterday. She sends her regards to you," she said. "She hopes you will call on her and Herr Lange soon." "Thank her for me. And tell her I'm happy that she's doing so well at the Opera." Today, of all days—Aloysia! "I hope you're not still angry with her." "No, _Al_oysia is _all_owed to do _all_ she pleases," he said. He could see her thinking. Then she said, with the merest trace of hesitation: "While wistful Wolfgang wildly wonders why." He managed a subdued laugh, looking away from her, staring at the gold fleur- de-lis design in the worn tan carpet. "You're too sharp for me—especially today," he said, raising his head. "Why don't you tell me what's new with you, while I play something. It will be good for my nerves." "Play something soothing, please. I feel a headache coming on." She mimicked a distressed look, and put her hand to her forehead with a dramatic gesture. He sat down to the keyboard. "I've got just the thing. A soothing 'Evening Serenade' by a struggling young composer. In a premiere performance of a new piano transcription!" And, improvising from his memory of the orchestral score, he launched into the march-like first movement of his "Serenata notturna." Konstanze listened silently to him. She sat staring toward where the late afternoon light fell on the tattered damask pillows on the green silk chair. Aloysia had bought the pillows for her family when she had landed her new job in the Vienna German Opera. "I love the rondo in that one," she said after he finished. "I remember it well. You used to play it in Mannheim." She smiled. "I'm sorry you need so much cheering up today." "Oh, I'll be all right." She didn't look much like Aloysia. The nose was sharper. And Aloysia had been so petite. Konstanze wasn't really large, but she was no Dresden doll, she had breasts—nice ones. He sat there for a minute brooding over the past. Then he said, "Well, I'm off." "Out with your friends?" "Yes," he said, thinking of the "Altkaterkeller' and the redhead he's met there the previous week. "I wish I could go too. It's so dull, being a 'lady'!" "I know what you mean," he said, looking at the smooth skin on her neck and thinking how he'd like to be able to pull up her skirts. Finally he added, "Well, sometime!" "Yes, after I'm married. A married lady would be allowed to go out with you and your friends." "Yes, after you're married." He kept his tone absolutely expressionless. Yes, married, and respectable, and probably dull and boring, he thought. And in the meantime, she was a hell of a tease. God, "nice" girls were a pain sometimes! He'd settle for the not-so-nice. And making an exaggeratedly low bow with a sweep of his hat in his outstretched hand, he took his leave, walked down into the tiny square of Am Peter, and headed out for a glass or two of wine at the "Old Tomcat's Cellar." And maybe a redhead or two, he thought. There hadn't been much rain lately, so when he turned off the Graben onto the unpaved Dorotheergasse, he didn't have to worry about soiling his shoes, with their carefully polished silver buckles. He swung his malacca walking stick, pushed his coat aside to display Archduke Ferdinand's gold watch and chain across his belly, and gripped his three-cornered hat proudly under his arm—no person of fashion actually wore his hat anymore, for fear of disturbing carefully powdered hairdos. He grunted as he jostled against a water carrier in the place where the street angled and narrowed abruptly. As he turned left at the next corner into Plankengasse, the bells of St. Stephen's were ringing for evening mass. No thanks, he thought. Drinking tonight, mass tomorrow. Going down the second stairway off Plankengasse, he entered the Altkaterkeller. The Old Tomcat's Cellar stank of pipe smoke and urine. He was temporarily blinded as he picked his way into the darkness from the outside glare. But in the far corner, under a tiny window, some daylight did make its way in, and he could see Damian and some of the other boys on benches set at a long table. He made his way over some old bottles and rags and broken chairs. "Wolferl, you look as if you'd lost your last friend!" said Damian, in his Salzburg accent and his singer's resonant voice. "Yes, he sure looks sad," said Sepp. "What's up, Wolferl?" "Nothing. How's the printing business, Sepp?" "Terrible, but not as bad as you look." "Tell us about it, Wolferl," said his friend Egon, a coal dealer and a big stock market speculator. So he told them the story about Count Karl Arco and getting fired, complete with kick. "I'd have smashed his face," said Sepp. "He's a big bastard," said Wolfgang. "We ought to teach him a lesson," said Damian. "What will you do for money?" said Egon. "If you need a loan, let me know." "Right now I could use a drink." "Wine!" shouted Egon. "And beer!" "How about the opera for the Emperor?" said Damian. "That isn't arranged yet. Some key people at Court are not on my side." "You're too hard to please," said Egon. "You're spoiled, Wolferl, spoiled! Come on! You'll get paid for the opera, won't you?" A short, fat young man with a dirty leather apron brought them more wine and some steins of beer. Wolfgang drank greedily, the raw white wine biting his lips. "Yes, I'll get paid—if it happens." "Then here's to the Emperor." Sepp's small brown eyes wrinkled up as he raised his stein. "May he appreciate our friend Wolferl Mozart as much as we all do!" "Hey, hey!" said Egon. "I feel a song coming on," said Damian. And he stood up and started to sing an aria from "Idomeneo." Bell' alme al ciel dilette Si, ah! respirate ormai Gia palpitaste assai E tempo di goder. The noises in the tavern hushed as Damian's tenor sang out the optimistic words. As he finished and sat down, Wolfgang hugged him. His eyes teared up. "You can do it again, Wolferl," said Sepp. "Right you are!" said Egon. "Thanks, all of you." They all embraced. "I'll thin about the new opera tomorrow. Tonight, let's drink." "And how about a woman?" said Egon. "I wouldn't say no," said Wolfgang. Then he felt a sudden coldness on his bottom. He had sat down in a small pool of spilled beer. He moved quickly aside on the wooden bench and felt his behind. His new breeches! Today just wasn't his day. *** The sun shone brightly on the off-white far wall of his top-floor bedroom. He struggled to pull the comforter up over his eyes. It didn't help much. Then the clock in the hallway began to chime, and the bells of St. Stephen's rang. Then St. Peter's and several other churches also joined in. It was eleven A.M. He reluctantly opened his eyes. The room still had a slight tendency to spin. He closed his eyes again, and lay there, his head throbbing. Oh, God. He writhed briefly, then he turned over on his side, to face away from the light. His throat was parched. Oh God. His bladder was painfully full. His headache let up for a moment, he raised his head, and then the ache hit him again. How much did I drink? Jesus. Ohhhh. Won't I ever learn? Why did I do that? Then he remembered why. Still, I didn't have to drink that much! Oh, Jesus. Do I have to destroy myself, why couldn't I leave it to people like Arco to do it for me? Bastard. God, the Viennese called a hangover a "tomcat." What a name for a drinking place! I'm never going to get up. He reached for the chamber pot and leaned over the side of the bed to use it. Oh, God. That was better! There was a knock on the door. Who the hell? "Coming!" He raised himself up carefully, feeling slightly faint as he pulled himself upright. He grabbed his breeches, which he had evidently left on top of the comforter. They still smelled slightly of beer. The smell made him gag. There was a ring on the fabric where he'd sat in the beer spill the night before. He got himself over to the door and opened it a crack. There stood Frau Weber herself. Astonished, he opened the door wider. She had on a light yellow dress, with a white house bonnet, yellow ribbons dangling from it. He smelled the coffee on the tray she was carrying. It smelled good, but still he thought he was going to throw up. "Good morning, Herr Mozart." He tried to say good morning, it took two tries before he could clear his throat enough to get the words out. "You didn't come down to breakfast, so I thought you might like some coffee." "Oh, thank you. That's very nice of you. I'm sorry you had to trouble yourself." He felt dizzy again and grabbed onto the doorjamb to steady himself. "I hope you're feeling all right." "Oh, yes. Just a little headache." "You've been keeping very late hours, Herr Mozart. I know young men must have their fun. Friedolin was just like that in his younger days. But don't injure your health, now. You have to guard your talent." The thought of that poor old fart Friedolin Weber—God rest his soul—as a rollicking youth startled him. This whole conversation was becoming like a dream. His headache suddenly intensified. If she doesn't stop talking, I'm going to puke all over her, he thought. "I know, I know, " he said desperately. "Of course I wouldn't dream of interfering. But I'm concerned. And Konstanze is concerned too." "Oh, I'm sorry." "She's a very sensitive girl, you know." "Yes, yes." "I haven't discouraged her friendship with you. After all, you are a man of honor." "Yes, of course." "I know I can rely on your high principles." Oh God! "Certainly." God, please leave. "I hope everything's all right with your job." "Sure, sure." So Konstanze may have talked to her already. "Excuse me, Frau Weber, but I have to go and lie down now." "Of course, please call if you need anything, and I'll send Katherl up with it." "Thanks," he said, taking the tray and closing the door. He felt better once he sat down on the bed. He put lots of sugar and milk into the coffee and took a few sips. Then he suddenly felt nauseated, grabbed the chamber pot and vomited into it, repeatedly. The vomitus was scaldingly hot in his throat. Then he lay down on the bed, still a little nauseated, but feeling relieved. His head still spinning slightly, he sank gratefully into sleep. When he awoke, the sun had move over across to the other wall. He got up, feeling better, and looked out the window at the court and the windows opposite. A beautiful day, for a change, what there was left of it. One thing—he was free. It might take some getting used to, but there he was, a free man. No more Salzburg. And he sang, hoarsely, a little ditty he had made up in Munich a few months back when he had learned he was going to Vienna: "No mooore Salzburg..." No more money, either. He'd see how cordial dear Frau Weber was when she found out he was unemployed. Maybe she'd stop trying to marry Konstanze off to him. Oh, God, how was he going to explain this to his father? Maybe he didn't have to explain things to fathers any more. What an interesting thought. Anyway, Papa wouldn't be surprised, that much was sure. He would have to struggle. Every commission, every lesson, he'd need every kreutzer he could get his hands on. But he _was_ free. It was all up to him. It was up to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Knight of the Golden Spur, member of the Accademia Filarmonica di Bologna— nobody else. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—best opera composer in the world! *** "What's wrong, Father? Why aren't you shooting?" Nannerl moved over to him, put down her air rifle and squatted down beside him. The day was gray but warm, and the shooting meet in the meadow at the base of the slopes of the Kapuzinerberg was crowded. At first she hadn't noticed him sitting there by himself behind a knot of spectators. "Nannerl, I'm beaten." "What, Papa? Do you mean about Wolferl?" "He won't apologize. He says that Count Arco has to apologize to him first." Nannerl laughed, her light cotton shawl shaking on her shoulders. He frowned. "You may think it's amusing, I don't." "I'm sorry, Father, I was just picturing that big ape bowing and scraping to my tiny little brother." "He isn't so tiny!" "But Papa, what can you do? You can't keep on trying to live his life." Her father looked uncomfortable. "You know, Papa, we've talked about this," she said, taking his hand. "You can't hold on forever." *** Leopold Mozart felt the hot tears forming. "I'm just trying to help. Just to help him." He looked into her blue eyes. "You know, don't you?" "Sure, Papa." She hugged him. "Pick up a gun, Papa, and come shoot! "No, I'm not in the mood." "Pick up a gun. We've got Voltaire as a target today, you can get it all out of your system." He stood up and followed her over to the haystacks which marked the shooters' line. Julius Hagenauer greeted him with a smile, and his boy Heinz handed him an air rifle. He looked at the target and took aim. The first shot missed. "If Voltaire doesn't inspire you," said Julius, "pick someone else." He imagined a tall, pot-bellied man with a thin, wrinkled face— dressed in a black cassock. He took aim and fired. Bulls-eye! That night, after tossing and turning for an hour, he drifted into a light sleep and dreamed of three white horses. They were galloping in place and snorting. One of the white horses said to Leopold, "He's with us." Then the horses were clergymen, in black, and one was Cardinal Pallavicini, wearing a bright yellow biretta. Pallavicini looked at him and then covered his head with his cloak and fell down in a heap, disappearing into the clump of his clothing. He awoke and thought about the dream. He thought about how short life was. About Wolfgang's talent. He lit a candle and went downstairs. He leafed through his papers and pulled out one of Wolfgang's recent letters. He searched for one particular passage that had stuck in his mind: ...Arco asked me whether I didn't imagine that he too had had to swallow some very disagreeable words from the Archbishop. I shrugged my shoulders and said: "You must have your reasons for putting up with it -- and I have my reasons for not putting up with it." He wondered whether he himself could have written those lines. His own father never could have, he would have been another Arco. But his father-in-law, old Max. And his wife, Max's daughter, she had had some of the fire, she wouldn't stand for being crossed when something was really important to her. Wolfgang was like her. Lord, he missed Marianne. May she rest with the angels in heaven! His son had had such a hard time trying to discover who he was — and that was largely his, Leopold's fault. He felt warmed by the realization that Wolferl was apparently finding out something of who he was—he was someone who would finally, eventually stand up to the high-ranking bullies of this world. Who was young Arco to behave so arrogantly to a Mozart, anyway? Who was the Archbishop for that matter? Why had he himself had to knuckle under to them all these years? Well, it was a price that had to be paid—but a high price. And for a modest enough return— "Deputy Music Director"! In the morning, he sat down and wrote a letter to his son: Salzburg, July 7, 1781 Mon tres cher fils I have been thinking over the situation with the court here. I'd like very much to see a rapprochement between you and them. But I recognize that it may not be possible any more. He switched to the cipher they sometimes used to guard their privacy from prying eyes in the Archbishop's postal service: The Archbishop doesn't like music and he doesn't understand music or musicians. That's not his fault, but it makes him incompetent to judge people like you -- or me, for that matter. Then, reverting to plaintext: Whatever happens, I'll always back you in whatever you decide you truly want to do. Your sincere old father MZT P.S. I hope you have made arrangements for new lodgings. This is an important matter! *** It was late at night in Vienna, the heat of the day had abated somewhat. But it was still uncomfortable on the top floor of the Weber house on Am Peter. Shirtless, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart read the letter from his father for what must have been the tenth time. Then he locked it away in his strongbox, humming Dolly Wendling's second-act aria from "Idomeneo." Poor Papa and his anxious P.S. His father was insisting on his moving out of the Weber house—it was not "respectable," since Wolfgang had taken up with Konstanze. Poor conventional Papa. Moving would an inconvenience—but maybe it would be look better. If he wanted to write that new opera, he would have to watch his image with the Hofburg. *** "Mozart! We're glad you were able to join us tonight. I hear you've been very busy on your opera." "Yes, Herr Baron, I have been." He had decided to come to Baron van Swieten's soiree, despite the pressure he felt to finish the opera, because van Swieten's parties attracted the elite of the Vienna musical world. The Baron's father must have made a good thing out of being the Kaiserin Maria Theresa's physician, he thought, looking around at the large paintings in their gilded frames and the immense library of books in expensive bindings. Baron van Swieten looked at him kindly out of his small gray eyes. "When shall we have the pleasure of seeing this—what is the title again?" "'The Abduction from the Seraglio,' Herr Baron. In December, I hope." "Well, we'll have to see about that," broke in Count Rosenberg. He shook hands with the Count, thin and elegant, but looking sickly, dressed all in black. "Yes, Baron, the Count has been in charge of the production for the Emperor, so you really should ask him." "You know, Swieten, we have a long season this year. Herr Mozart's opera will not be the only one in the vernacular, the Chevalier de Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris' will also be given in German. Scheduling may be difficult." "You have Fischer, I hear, for your baritone," said van Swieten. "You know, his voice is so impressive that I'm busy getting the villainous but lovable Osmin's part enlarged for him." "I wish you success," said van Swieten. "Thank you, Herr Baron. Since I've left the Archbishop's service, I can't afford anything but success!" Van Swieten smiled and shrugged. Rosenberg looked down at his fingers, idly spreading them in and out. Wolfgang heard the piano being played in the next room. He excused himself and walked through the doorway, found a chair in the corner, and sat down to listen. It was a piece he had never heard before -- and different from anything he knew. When it was finished, the music stopped and a buzz of congratulations started up. He could hear the phrase, "...second time I've played it." The knot of people around the piano parted as Wolfgang walked up. "Herr Haydn," he said, "we've met before, this spring at Prince Galitzin's, I believe." Haydn's broad, grave face, looking something like his brother Michael's, was smiling. "Herr Mozart! I know your wonderful music much better than I do you." He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "I'm extremely complimented. And I was bowled over by the piece you just played." "You are too gracious, Herr Mozart." Rosenberg was whispering something to Salieri. The short, dark, Mediterranean- looking Court Composer and Director of the Opera was frowning as he bent over to listen to the Count. Wolfgang could hear "... never says that... two of them..." Then Salieri whispered something back that he could not hear. "Play us something from your new opera," said van Swieten. Haydn said, "Please!" He sat down and played the first act aria of Osmin's, "Solche hergelaufne Laffen." As he played, he tried to give some impression of the vocal line with his true but small baritone voice. Then he played the tenor Belmonte's second aria, about separation and reunion from his sweetheart, the Christian slave Constanze: O wie aengstlich, o wie feurig Klopft mein liebevolles Herz! Und des Wiedersehens Zaehre Lohnt der Trennung bangen Schmerz After he finished, he felt an arm around his shoulder. He looked up from the keyboard. It was Haydn. He stood up, squeezing Haydn's arms with his hands. Glancing across the room, he saw the Kaiser's youngest brother, Archduke Maximilian, smiling and clapping. Then he noticed Hofkomponist Salieri, one elbow propped up by the other hand, looking at them, frowning. Let his enemies glower. They could only touch him when and where he didn't know who he was. And tonight he had discovered one more thing that he knew himself to be: a friend of Franz Joseph Haydn. ================================================= ANGER by Otho Eskin (Note: This is scene 4 from the full-length play "Act of God") Cast of Characters JOHN An unemployed actor weak, shallow and self-absorbed. SATAN Dr. CHILDRESS A psychiatrist bordering on the seriously deranged. Scene The action takes place in the living room of John's apartment. Time The time is the present. =================================== AT RISE: JOHN is on stage alone. JOHN I can't have seen what I thought I saw here last night. I called Todd's house this morning but he was out. Jennifer said he was behaving strangely. He has cancelled his membership in the Sierra Club and was down at the local newsstand reading Guns and Ammo. Maybe we're all going crazy. I mean, what else could it be? I think I need professional help. (The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the front door. Dr. CHILDRESS is at the door, dressed in a tweed sports jacket.) JOHN Thank you for coming, Dr. Childress. I know this is a big imposition coming to my home like this... CHILDRESS This had better be important. What's the problem, John? JOHN I may be having a nervous breakdown, Doctor. CHILDRESS I'll do the diagnosis, if you don't mind. God, it's hot in here. (CHILDRESS loosens his tie.) What are your symptoms? JOHN I keep seeing the Devil here in my apartment. CHILDRESS Very common syndrome. Happens all the time. (CHILDRESS takes a cigarette from a pack, lights up and takes a deep drag.) JOHN Is it serious, Doctor? CHILDRESS Not if treated promptly. This is just a delusion caused by unresolved guilt. (SATAN enters from the kitchen. HE wears a tweed sports jacket and a red tie.) JOHN Look! There he is now. See for yourself. (Dr. CHILDRESS shows signs of being uncomfortable.) CHILDRESS Don't try and involve me in your personal delusional system, John. JOHN Talk with him. Tell me if I'm crazy. CHILDRESS I don't want to talk with him. SATAN You seem nervous, Dr. Childress. CHILDRESS (Agitated) Who said that? SATAN No need to be tense. CHILDRESS Who says I'm tense? I'm not tense. (To JOHN) Do I look tense? (SATAN holds out his hand to CHILDRESS. CHILDRESS recoils.) JOHN (To SATAN) Please! This is a private consultation. SATAN How do you do, Doctor. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been looking forward to this for a long time. JOHN (To CHILDRESS) Isn't there some kind of pill you could prescribe that would make all this go away? CHILDRESS (To SATAN) Who are you? SATAN I'm a great admirer of yours. Your work has been an inspiration to me. CHILDRESS Are you a psychoanalyst? SATAN I was a colleague of Dr. Freud in Vienna and I've been able to apply many of his insights to my line of work. JOHN Please tell me I'm imagining all this. CHILDRESS (To SATAN) I don't have time to talk. I'm here on an emergency. Normally I don't make house calls. SATAN Normally, I don't either. CHILDRESS (Looks at his watch) Hour's up, John. Call my secretary and make an appointment for next week. SATAN Don't go, Doctor. We should get to know one another better. CHILDRESS What are you? SATAN I am Satan. (CHILDRESS is profoundly agitated.) SATAN It's all right. I'm not violent. JOHN What's your diagnosis now, Doctor? (CHILDRESS tries to get himself under control. He lights a cigarette.) CHILDRESS How long have you believed you're the Devil? SATAN Since the beginning of time. CHILDRESS You have a very serious problem. SATAN Now you mention it, I do have this feeling nobody likes me. I haven't got any real friends nobody I can relate to. Do you think it's something about me? JOHN This is all very well and good... CHILDRESS (To SATAN) You suffer from a borderline personality disorder with depressive features. JOHN (To SATAN) Would you mind not having your analysis done on my time. CHILDRESS (To SATAN) I'm certain your problems have their origin in your relationship with your father. SATAN How do you know? CHILDRESS They always do. SATAN Maybe you've got a point. My father's a great guy don't get me wrong but he's kind of remote. Keeps to himself, if you know what I mean. And he's very demanding and strict. You wouldn't believe the rules he has. Clean up your room. No TV on school nights. Don't covet thy neighbor's wife. And if you stray out of line pow! I must tell you, He's into wrath. JOHN (To CHILDRESS) I thought you came to help with my problems. CHILDRESS (To SATAN, ignoring JOHN) You rebelled against him? SATAN He's kind of an authority figure and he's got this 'holier-than-thou' attitude which really bugged me. I was young and headstrong and he caught me trying to hot-wire the universe. I was grounded for eternity. CHILDRESS How did that make you feel? SATAN I was angry. He threw me out of heaven. I was hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky with hideous ruin and combustion down to bottomless perdition, there to dwell in adamantine chains and penal fire in a dungeon horrible, a seat of desolation, void of light but rather darkness visible serving only to discover sights of woe, regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace and rest can never dwell, hope never comes. Wouldn't you be pissed? JOHN Look, guys, I hate to interrupt... CHILDRESS (To SATAN) How have your relations with your father been recently? SATAN We stay in touch but we're not close. CHILDRESS (To SATAN) Don't let pride stand in your way. Reach out to your father. You'll be sorry when he goes and it's too late. SATAN Fat chance. CHILDRESS You need help. I'd recommend drug treatment such as Nardil or Elavil. But you're going to need psychotherapy as well, although that would take time. SATAN I have forever. Do you think that would be long enough? CHILDRESS (Reflects a moment) Probably not. JOHN Can we get back to my problem? Not only am I having hallucinations, I'm getting the feeling no one's paying any attention to me. SATAN (To CHILDRESS) Would you be prepared to undertake my therapy, Doctor? CHILDRESS Certainly not. You're sick. I only treat well people. JOHN Time out! Dr. Childress, I asked you here because I think I'm losing control of my life. Instead of helping me, you're making me a nervous wreck. CHILDRESS Nobody ever said psychotherapy was easy. (CHILDRESS lights a new cigarette.) SATAN How long have you been chain smoking, Doctor? CHILDRESS It's none of your business. SATAN Do you think we might be on to some pre-Oedipal trauma here? CHILDRESS Fuck you too, buddy. SATAN You're kind of hostile for a healer, aren't you? CHILDRESS You'd be hostile too if you spent all your time talking with fruitcakes and weirdos. (CHILDRESS paces the floor nervously.) SATAN Why don't you relax, Doctor? CHILDRESS What are you saying? That I'm not relaxed? Of course I'm relaxed. I'm as relaxed as you are. More relaxed. I hate it when people say "Relax." I hate that. (SATAN starts to lead CHILDRESS to a chair.) CHILDRESS Don't touch me! I can't stand it when people touch me. SATAN I can help you, Doctor. I've had a lot of experience dealing with troubled people. CHILDRESS I don't need help. Least of all from you. JOHN What's going on here? Dr. Childress, I think you're just as crazy as I am. CHILDRESS I'll be the judge of that. SATAN You know what your problem is, Doctor? You don't believe in anything. CHILDRESS You're a real prick. Anybody ever tell you that? SATAN Frequently. You were upset when you first saw me. Was there something you dared not face? CHILDRESS That's ridiculous. SATAN What came into your mind when you first saw me? CHILDRESS I'm not going to play mind games with you. SATAN What did you think of when you met me? CHILDRESS Malcolm Crosby. SATAN Tell me about Malcolm, Doctor. (CHILDRESS is in obvious discomfort and says nothing.) SATAN As I recall, Malcolm murdered five people and buried their bodies in his basement. CHILDRESS I don't want to talk about it. SATAN You were a key witness for the defense at his trial. You diagnosed Malcolm as a paranoid-schizophrenic. Your testimony resulted in a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity. CHILDRESS I may get really and truly sick all over the rug. SATAN You made a compelling argument that Malcolm was not responsible for his actions. His crime was, you said, a cry for help. CHILDRESS (Pushing his hands tightly against his ears) I won't listen! I won't! I won't! SATAN You deny the existence of personal responsibility. For you, therapy is the new morality, behavior modification is grace and drugs the holy sacrament. But when you saw me, you finally understood. You knew that Malcolm belonged to me. CHILDRESS No. SATAN You remembered your doubts and questions and fears you suppressed every time you met one of those monsters. Now you know. You have finally come to understand. CHILDRESS Then you really are...? SATAN Prince Lucifer. JOHN This isn't helping me at all. SATAN Please, John, we're at a very critical stage in the treatment. CHILDRESS I think my brain just crashed. SATAN Why are you so upset, Doctor? CHILDRESS For one thing, thanks to you, I've got a whole new complex I've got to work through. I want my psychiatrist. SATAN It's too late for that now. Not after you have met me face to face. Tell me about Malcolm. CHILDRESS He was evil. SATAN Very good. Now you begin to understand. There are bad people in the world, no matter how much you deny it. CHILDRESS You're telling me everything I believe in is a lie? Everything I've done is a fraud? SATAN Try to be calm. I think we may be on the verge of an important breakthrough in dealing with your problems. I'm sure that together we can work this through. CHILDRESS You've trashed my profession, made a mockery of my beliefs and, not incidentally, given me a new neurosis I don't even know the name of. Eleven years of analysis down the drain. And you want me to be calm? I'm leaving. (CHILDRESS stands up.) JOHN Wait a minute. You haven't helped me at all. CHILDRESS Tough luck, buddy. (CHILDRESS moves toward the door.) JOHN (To SATAN) Are you going to just let him go? Won't he do? SATAN Do for what, John? JOHN Can't we work out a deal on Childress here? I'm sure nobody would miss him. SATAN Is that what you want? For me to take him? Tell me. JOHN (Eagerly) Yes! Yes! That's what I want. (CHILDRESS, close to panic, bolts for the door.) CHILDRESS You're both crazy. Everybody in this city is crazy. The world is wacko! (CHILDRESS exits, slamming the door.) JOHN What about him? We could have made a deal for his soul. SATAN We can do better than Dr. Childress. Much better. BLACKOUT ========================================= =========================================