FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 4, Number 1 January-February, 1997 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. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from ftp.etext.org where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. The FICTION-ONLINE home page, courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the following URL: http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm Back issues may also be accessed through the Writer's Center BBS archives. (Call 301-656-1638 and log in as "new user.") COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved. William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Earth," a poem Diana Munson "Love Story," a short story Arlene Ang "Triumph," concluding excerpt (chapter 17, part 2) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Sloth," a scene (#5) from the play, "Act of God" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS ARLENE ANG is a writer and poet. She lives in Manila, has a German Shepherd named Ginger, and is currently studying Italian. 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. DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C. She writes short stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in _Rent-A-Chicken_. She has published numerous poems in magazines and anthologies. 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. ================================================= EARTH by Diana Munson Soft clay I've churned, kneaded and turned on wheel under pain of strained palms, into cooking pots and angels. Apprenticed to stone carvers I've studied, too, Sig. M. Buonarroti's spirits, how to destroy first in order to create; learned to appreciate chisel, mallet, hydraulic drill as I registered dates of death, and experienced the chill of absolute hardness. The loan in my garden of desire once flowered too, but is now dust. Earth I have known, but none lasts well -- clay, stone, or loan, soft, hard, or fertile -- before the Wind that blasts us all, born as we are, on to infinity. ========================================== LOVE STORY by Arlene Ang At first, it amused me. She talked dirty. But after a year, it didn't seem so amusing any more. Many times, when she lay sleeping in my arms, I got the urge to shake her. And once or twice, I did. `Hey, fuck off!' she muttered, turning to her side. She knew what I wanted. Why won't she say it then? Is it so hard to do? Every morning I'd nagged her - almost like my mother used to do. She was turning me into my mother.... Good grief. I swear that woman was driving me crazy. Every morning when we sat down for breakfast, I watched her. She liked to cook. Said it relaxed her... prepared her for the day. Sometimes it was an omelette or flapjacks, other times she just made a salad. Nice bum. I couldn't help watching while she moved about the kitchen. I guess I'd get that funny look in my eyes. And, as always, in that unnerving way of hers, she would catch me with it. `Don't start again, Daniel.' I would hide behind the coffee mug, mumbling my innocence, `What?!!' She gave me a wry look. `But do you love me, Vera?' I asked, setting down the mug. `What do you think, shithead?' With her hands on her hips, she didn't look very loving. `It's hard to say.' `Oh, screw you. I'm damn hell sick of this game! Every morning the same question. What is this now - a fucking obsession??' Well, she certainly took the words right out of my mouth. And I never even realized it until then. It began as a game, I suppose. A challenge. I have to admit it wounded my ego. It still does in a way. But after a while, it just continued to gnaw at me. Why won't she say those three little words like a normal girl? She didn't even want to discuss it. I found myself dwelling on this more often - in the office, at lunch hour, the moment I stepped in or out of the apartment. I was even keeping me awake at night. I just didn't get it. But as a man of action, I devised a plan. I would make her spit it out even if it's the last thing I ever do. Vera worked in an advertising agency. Flanked with people day in and day out. It was always a full and stressful schedule. No time to relax or enjoy the work. Compared to her, I had it pretty good. I liked my accountancy job. So, one day I sent her a large basket of roses. Women like that sort of stuff, but I never got around to giving her any. Thought it was a nice gesture from my part. Sweetening up the kill. She returned home from work that day -- furious. It was really incredible. `What you did today,' she said through clenched teeth, `was fucking embarrassing. If you do anything like that again, I'll kill you.' `You didn't even bring home them home,' I said, disappointed to the point to annoyance. `Do you know how much they cost me?' `Daniel, go screw yourself.' She strode into the bedroom and locked the door. I had to sleep on the couch for the night. Back to square one, I thought. Maybe even negative one. But I still had more tricks up my sleeve. As peace offering, I made dinner the next night. It was something of a disaster - I was never much of a cook. But I was flattered. She ate everything... chewing the tasteless morsels in a thoughtful manner while watching me. It was encouraging. So, since then I made supper for both of us. I even bought a some cookbooks on sale. I thought I was making progress. It was becoming rather fun even. `Why do have to cook every night?' she asked me one time. `So you can relax, darling. I know you're tired from work and everything,' I replied absent-mindedly, stirring the broth. The chicken and vegetables seemed to be coagulating. `So, what shall we do tonight?' I grinned at her devilishly when she remained silent. `I think I'll sleep early. I'm dead tired... as always.' A week after I gave her this silver brooch which I knew she wanted. `That was 10 years ago, moron,' she smiled, shaking her head. `Well, now you have it,' I smiled back. She shrugged. `Thanks.' `Still sleeping early tonight?' I asked, tugging her dark hair. `Yeah. I think I'm coming down with something,' she sighed, turning off the her bedside lamp. `Night, Danny.' `Night, honey.' How disappointing. Well, there were still other nights around the corner. And then it was a poem. I'm not really good with words, but I think what I've written was pretty good. She looked at me strangely after that, but remained silent. She must have been deeply touched. Were those tears in her eyes?? `Hey... why so sad?' I touched the side of her face. `It's just this headache. Don't worry about it. Think I'll make an early night of it again.' She pecked me on the cheek. `Thanks, Danny. It was really... nice. Let's go out and do something tomorrow night, ok?' I was making progress, after all. At any rate, I seemed to be curing her of those obscenities. She came home late the night after. `Daniel,' she called from the hallway, `there's something I've been wanting to tell you.' I emerged from the bedroom - this was as I had anticipated. We entered the kitchen in silence. She leaned against me on the counter. Looking down on her at that moment, I knew I've caught the beast. She touched my cheek gently, `You know I love you, don't you?' Finally, there it was. What a triumph. I bent down for a soul-kiss.... She pushed me away. `I didn't mean it that way.' `Hmm?' `That was not what I meant. I love you....' Ah, another one! She was getting better with practice. She was really spoiling me. `I'm leaving.' `Hmm? Where are you going now?' It must be that damned work of hers again. `No, you don't get it. I'M LEAVING YOU.' `What?!!' I backed off. I didn't get it. `You've just become impossible to live with these past few weeks, that's all.' `Impossible?' `I don't know what the fuck's gotten into you. You're suffocating me!' `Suffocating you?' What can I say, I was shocked. I could only echo her words. `Yes, you moron! In every little thing I do you're right there... waiting to stop me! If you could brush my teeth, I believe you would have done it, too. I'm just sick of this sick game, that's all,' she jabbed angrily. `I'll pack my stuff.' I followed her to the bedroom. It was really fantastic. Her words finally sank in as I watched her empty the drawers one by one. What a bitch. `Hey,' I said, putting wrapping my arms around her waist. `What about one last fast-fuck? It's been quite a long time....' `Fuck you,' she said struggling against me - then stopped. `Leave me alone, Daniel. It's over. Someone's picking me up in an hour.' `C'mon, just a quick one,' I continued, `you bitch.' It was becoming a turn-on. `You did say you love me, didn't you?' `You motherfucker! I said let go of me!' she broke off when I tossed her onto the bed. Well, some guy did come an hour or two later. So, it was officially over even then. Bitch. Saying she loved me and then pressing charges.... Since then I've been doing some thinking in prison. I guess those three little words don't mean that much, after all, do they? ========================================== TRIUMPH by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, part two of chapter 17, the final chapter of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] It had been a cold winter, and the warm yellow-orange flames filled the fireplaces in all the salons in the east wing of the Hofburg. What a waste, he thought, as he strode through the corridors. The Emperor should be setting an example. He was asking his nobles to make some sacrifices, it would cost them large sums of money to free their serfs. He should try to do more about the money wasted by the hangers-on around the palace. He hurried down the long corridor, past portraits of his ancestors—dark, grim faces. Count Harnack scurried along by his side, his short legs pumping fast to keep up. Count Rosenberg, a black scarecrow, stood in their path. "If I might, Your Majesty?" "Well, just for a minute, Count, I'm busy. I have a stack of police reports to go through." Rosenberg blanched still whiter than normal—Lord, thought Joseph, is he wondering if he's in the reports? What has he been up to? If I find out he's been keeping a whore somewhere, I'm going to have his hair cut off and send him out to sweep the streets—like all the other fornicators! "Your Imperial Majesty, about the timing of the operas." "Yes, yes." He tapped his foot impatiently. "I suggest we schedule the remaining Gluck performances next and have the Mozart last. I also would like at some time to discuss with Your Majesty Court Composer Salieri's ideas for his own opera." "Why so many Gluck pieces in a row? Oh, that reminds me, there's something I did want to speak to you about." He turned to his aide. "Harnack," he said, motioning, and Harnack and the other aides and servants withdrew down the hall, leaving him alone with Rosenberg. "Count, you know Gluck has had two strokes, and the Lord only knows how long he's got to live. I was thinking, when my dear old friend goes, maybe we should offer his Chamber Composer post to Mozart." "Mozart, Your Majesty?" "Yes, Mozart. I know, I know. I've never been such an advocate of his. But the Archduke Maximilian and Herr Haydn tell me he's a national treasure, and all that. And I must say I was impressed how well he did in that little piano contest we just had between him and Clementi." "I don't know, Your Majesty." "It's not a big post, you know. But it would be something to keep him here in Vienna." "If Your Majesty wishes, of course." "No, not 'of course'," he said, waggling his finger, "I want your advice. Ask Salieri too." "I think I know what the Court Composer's opinion will be, Sire. "Count Rosenberg! Please listen to me and understand me. I want you and Salieri to consider this carefully, together, and give me your well-reasoned opinion. Get back to me on this, Count!" Rosenberg bowed low. He waved him away and hurried, Harnack trailing behind him, down to his official study. He sat down at the small rosewood table in the small mahogany-paneled room and had the door closed. "Here are the reports, Your Majesty. You might be interested in reading this one first," said Count Harnack, smiling oddly. Joseph picked up the pages, detached the pin holding them together, and read the first page: In accordance with the Imperial instructions, a surveillance has been carried out on several persons believed to be agents of foreign powers. On the night of January 6, the house known as "Am Auge Gottes" on Am Peter was watched by a team of two Imperial agents, on advice received from confidential sources. The house is located in a busy section of Vienna, but nothing untoward was noticed during the early evening. However, at half-past twelve in the early morning, when the street was dark and empty, a person was seen emerging from an upper-story window. The person, acting without hesitation, grasped a drainpipe passing close by the window and pulled himself over to it, then slid gracefully down to the street. "Gracefully"! he thought. Policemen as poets! Our agents moved to apprehend him. He attempted to escape, but our agents caught him before he had gone ten feet. The person was somewhat hindered in his flight by the fact that he was carrying his shoes tied by a cord around his neck and his breeches knotted about his waist. Our agents started to question him. He asked first for a chance to put on his clothes. The agents proceeded to question him while he was donning his breeches. He said that his name was Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and that he was a musician. He offered to prove that to the agents by playing a violin or other instrument. However, there was no instrument available for this test. He said that he used to live in the house, and that he was visiting a friend there. Just then, a head was extended from the window, and a loud female voice cried, "Herr Mozart, is that you? Herr Mozart!" The man then tried again to escape. On being prevented, he begged the agents to take him away with them. However, they declined and continued the questioning. While they were talking with him, the door to the house opened, and a middle-aged lady appeared, carrying a long object, perhaps a broom. Our agents, having satisfied themselves by the fact of his small stature and fair complexion that he was not the person they were watching for, withdrew at this point in order to prevent compromising their investigation. Herr Mozart was observed to shrug his shoulders. He then walked slowly back to the house, where he said a word to the woman and went inside. For the sake of completeness, we are checking on whether Herr Mozart is indeed a musician and a friend of the Webers. The surveillance will continue in an attempt to intercept the suspected Bavarian agent Braun if he should try to meet his known Vienna contact, Fraeulein Josefa Weber. How absurd and disgusting! He put down the paper and frowned. "Regrettable, Your Majesty," said Harnack. He took a pinch of snuff. "People who should be concerned with the higher things in life, and look at what happens. Well, it's just as Salieri warned me about Mozart. Disgusting. Don't mention his name to me again." Harnack bowed and handed him another report. What more was he going to find out about what he didn't know—and maybe didn't want to find out? He sneezed and rubbed his nose with a handkerchief. He dropped the handkerchief on the floor. A periwigged servant handed him a new one, another servant picked the brown-stained one up off the floor and handed it to a third, who ran quickly out of the room. Joseph sighed. A lonely, lonely life—overburdened with responsibilities. And no children. He often tried to remember his own childhood—but very little came back to him. Now he did remember the "musician's brat." Disgusting, disgusting! *** Wolfgang put down the score for the "Ich moechte doch der Kaiser sein" aria. He looked at the bottle of wine on his writing desk but decided he had had enough. This opera would be the most modern piece ever seen in a theater. If the production went successfully, he would be independent even of the Emperor. And even if that damned Karl Arco had been right about the fickleness of the Viennese, it didn't matter, there were always other cities in the Empire, Prague and Pressburg, Milan—not to mention in the rest of Europe, Paris, London, even St. Petersburg. Sooner or later, the rest of the world would see what people like Joseph Haydn saw in his work. And now he could risk having a woman of his own. He would take the final step to having what other people have—a wife and family. *** The Emperor heard them talking. "His father won't approve, I'm sure, it's not a brilliant marriage for him," said the stranger. "Parents rarely do, in my experience," said von Strack. "For instance...oh, Your Majesty!" Von Strack bowed low as Joseph came around the corner from his hideaway entrance to the library. The other person, a lean dark man dressed in plain brown stuff, bowed very low and backed away quickly and then hurried out of sight around the next corner into the long corridor beyond. Outside, the gloriette on the hill was bathed in the late morning light. "Hello, Strack, who was that you were talking with?" "If it please Your Majesty, one of my oldest friends, Joseph Leutgeb, a cheese merchant here in Vienna." Von Strack smiled with a self-possessed grin. Joseph thought that his valet was the one who looked like a cheese merchant ought to look, blonde, beefy and solid-looking. "And whose marriage are they talking about?" "Young Mozart's. Leutgeb is a great friend of his family. The old man Mozart helped Leutgeb get started in business here." "Oh, so Mozart's getting married? To whom, do I know the girl?" Von Strack scratched his head. Then he rearranged his wig. "I don't know, Your Majesty, her name is Konstanze Weber." "Well, I do know of her. I certainly do." He thought a moment. "I'm very glad to learn of this." He thought von Strack looked puzzled. Well, let him puzzle, he knew much too much already. Valets were always snoops. It's nice to see young people married, isn't it, Strack?" "Yes, Your Majesty, indeed it is. Why, I remember myself when I was getting ready..." "Do you remember the day I married the Princess Isabella, back in '63?" "Yes, indeed I do, Your Majesty. It's lonely, sometimes." "Your Majesty has his family." Von Strack looked concerned. "Yes, my brothers and sisters and their children, yes. And my work. Now that I've promulgated the decree of religious toleration, and abolished the Leibeigenschaft in Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia, I feel I've made a good start." "Yes, Your Majesty." He sat down and motioned von Strack to stand next to him. "Tell me, Strack, what are the people you know, like Leutgeb, for instance, saying about my measures, do you know?" His valet made a face, squeezing his broad cheeks up and pouting his lips. "Well, I don't know about religious toleration, most people are good Catholics and they don't like Protestants or Jews. And I myself don't know about freeing the serfs in Bohemia, because I'm from the Tyrol, where we've never had that kind of thing. But I know people think that Your Majesty means to do right by them." "Oh," he said. "And Your Majesty has closed the monasteries and gotten rid of those lazy monks, that's one thing most people will like." "That wasn't exactly my intention... Well, anyway." He took out his snuffbox and fondled it. Von Strack furrowed his brow. "Your Majesty has many worries. He should rest more." "There isn't time. No time, Strack. Life is too short." He put his hands on his hips. "You know, ever since I can remember, I've known that my business in life would be to rule people. Think of that, always knowing that you would be different from other people. It's not a life like everyone else's. "Ah well, Sire." "I know, as Christians, we should be thinking not of this life and its difficulties, but of the next world. But I hope I've tried my best to do my duty in this earthly life." "I'm sure you have, Your Majesty." "Sometimes one has to be alone to accomplish one's work, Strack. Some occupations are lonely. Rulers, artists, we must all be alone. But still, I wish that Isabella had been spared to me." "And your second Empress, too, taken away like that." Von Strack bowed slightly. "Yes, of course. Her." That woman! He looked at the seal of Parma on the snuffbox, remembering his beloved Italian princess. "Sometimes one has to be alone. But people who are not alone are lucky. Like you, Strack." "Thank you, Your Majesty, Frau von Strack and I have been very grateful to Your Majesty for all your kindness to us." "Aside from my affection for you Strack, I want to encourage Christian marriage." Von Strack stood attentive, not saying anything. "All right, Strack, you may go. Thank you for listening to me." "Your Majesty is too kind," von Strack said, bowing and turning to go. "Oh, Strack, one thing." "Yes, Sire." "The next time you see your cheese merchant friend, tell him he may mention to Herr Mozart that even if his father doesn't approve of his marriage, the Emperor does." "Gladly, Your Majesty." He bowed again and left. In this very room, young Mozart had dared to sit on his mother's lap. He remembered how he had resented it. Why? Any little boy might want to do that - - especially a little boy that didn't see his mother much, one that didn't have many friends. His mother the Empress had had a nice, comfortable lap. He walked to the window and looked out on the gloriette that his mother had built. The noontime shadows were harsh, hiding the details of the colonnaded portico. The sun's gleam on the waters of the fountain were too bright to look at, and he turned away. *** The tall, beautiful slave girl Constanze said, in a sweet, thrilling soprano voice, "Then forgive me!" Her graceful figure, dressed in a long tunic and a small, chic turban, turned away from the husky figure of the Pasha and faced the audience again. She waited, standing in front of the star-decorated facade of the seraglio, turning her face to look directly at him in his seat in the Imperial box. Hundreds of candles gleamed in the sconces around the walls of the Burgtheater. The oboe began alone. The soprano opened her mouth and a bright sweet voice cut into the silence: Ah, I loved and was so happy... The strings and the rest of the woodwinds began to come in. To the Emperor, Mozart's hands, moving against the glare from the footlights, were the only constant factor, steadily marking out the rhythm. I knew nothing of the pain of love I swore faithfulness to my beloved And I gave him my heart. The music shifted, became stormier: But how quickly my joy vanished Separation was my dreadful fate And now my eyes swim with tears Care dwells in my breast. The last note tore into Joseph's soul. He repressed a gasp. Isabella, Isabella. The applause welled up, was sustained, and then began to die away. Then the hisses began and grew louder and louder. Joseph put his hands to his ears. He looked around and saw where the claque was, in the right middle seats. He recognized one of the musical copyists from the Court staff. A few "bravo's" were heard. He motioned to Harnack, mouthing a word, and the Baron said, tentatively, "Bravo." He motioned 'up' with his hand, and Harnack said, more loudly, "Bravo." His brother Maximilian and Baron van Swieten joined in. The Burgtheater walls echoed back the mixed clamor of hisses, applause, and "bravos." A voice from the stage: "Ungrateful!" said the Pasha. "I knew that you would hate me...," began the soprano, Constanze. The singers tried to continue the dialog on the stage, but it was almost impossible to hear what they were saying. Finally Mozart motioned "stop" with his hands, and then the oboe lead-in was heard again. The hisses began immediately, but not as loud, as the aria was repeated, and they were drowned out by the applause when the soprano finished singing the last word, "breassst." After a long minute, the noise died down and the opera peacefully resumed with more spoken dialog. Then a trio with the Pasha's steward, the hero, and Pedrillo, his faithful right-hand man, was applauded—and hissed. The applause continued, louder. The short, slight figure of Mozart stopped again and motioned and the trio was repeated. And then the curtain came down on the first act. More applause, more bravos. And more hisses. How ugly the hisses sounded! thought the Emperor. Like angry geese. The opera. He had never seen anything like it. He was numb. So complex, so many melodic lines, too many, perhaps. He looked around. Swieten looked at him inquiringly. "Remarkable, don't you think, Your Majesty." "Yes," he said. He thought a moment. "Salieri." Harnack leaned over the seats to those in back of him and said loudly, "Salieri!" The dark, dour Italian jumped up and came quickly over. "Your Imperial Majesty?" "Herr Hofkomponist, the noise of the hissing disturbs my ears." Salieri's face fell. "Yes, Your Majesty, but what can I do about it, with all respect..." "See what you can do, there's a good fellow. You're very influential." Salieri's face became more composed. "Yes, your Majesty, of course." He went off toward the group in the right middle seats. He took out the snuffbox with the Parma coat of arms on it. He rubbed it. "Harnack." "Yes, your Majesty." "The opera's very nice. But complicated. Perhaps slightly too much so. What do you think?" "I agree, Your Majesty, my thoughts precisely." "But still very nice, you know." "Yes, your Majesty, very nice indeed," Harnack said hurriedly. "Which of you saw that opera he did for that man in Munich?" He looked around, examining the watchful faces. "I did," said Count Rosenberg. "I'll bet that this one is better than Karl Theodor's. Am I right, Count?" Rosenberg hesitated and then said, "Yes, Your Majesty, this opera is decidedly superior to 'Idomeneo.' Although I do think it has too many notes." "I thought it must be better than his. I was sure of it. Much better!" He tapped his hands excitedly in his lap. "Your Majesty," said van Swieten, leaning over toward him, "if 'Idomeneo' is half as good as the 'Abduction' is so far, we should have it staged in Vienna immediately." He smiled. Then he motioned to Harnack and the way was cleared for him to walk outside during the intermission. They walked up the aisle, two grenadiers in red-plumed helmets preceding them. Harnack indicated two people carrying scrolls, but he waggled his finger sideways, meaning that he was not in the mood for petitions. His work was never done. Nice opera, very moving. If a bit too much, too many notes, perhaps. *** One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three- four, measure 160, one-two-three-four... The tiny pink-cheeked English slave girl raised her violet-sleeved arms to the audience. Blonde's voice rose, fell, and then ended: ...love and faithfulnehhhhhhhhsss. The second act had just begun, but Wolfgang felt sweat running down his cheeks already. He tensed, waiting for the reaction to the first aria. A roar. The applause was deafening. "Bravo!" "bravo!" he heard. "Bravo!" More applause. And no hisses! After a minute, he motioned for the action to go on, and while the spoken dialog got under way, he sat down behind the music stand, put his arms over the top of his head, cradling it, and rocked back and forth. He had done it! This was it! Onstage, Blonde shouted, "So get out!" It was the cue for the next aria. He stood up for a second, looking for Schiefer's tiny figure in his bright blue coat, taking over the conducting. It was all right, the concertmaster had his violin under his arm and his bow out and was marking time for the introduction to the "Ich gehe, doch rat' ich dir" duet. He sat down again, next to the keyboard bench, and listened, captivated with what he had done. Constantinople! Would he ever see Turkey? Why not, after tonight? Nothing was certain. Nothing would ever be certain for him. Why should it be? Nothing was impossible either! He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked around and into the broad, smiling face of Haydn. He started to say something, but Haydn put his finger to his lips and backed away, clasping his hands together in front of him, shaking them up and down. Wolfgang felt a warmth passing through behind his eyes. Constantinople. Why not St. Petersburg, Philadelphia, Pekin? Anywhere in the world where he could put on an opera. Onstage, a cowering Osmin was beginning to back away from the furious Blonde. He placed himself in front of the orchestra again. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four... Constanze's recitative and aria. He had his own Konstanze now, she would be a part of his destiny. He looked over toward her seat in the side box. Not a goddess, not like he remembered her sister. But she was a _woman_. She looked very elegant in her white silk gown. She was poking her mother, whose chin had dropped onto her chest. Her face, in profile, appeared very small and delicate under the gigantic new wig she was wearing. One-two-three-four, one-two... He would carry her along with him—everywhere. He would go everywhere and do everything. For as long as God would spare him on this earth. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four... More applause. He signaled for a repeat and motioned to Schiefer to take over again. He gave himself over to listening as Mlle. Cavalieri opened her red-rouged lips and sang: O Belmonte, those joys have gone That I once knew at your side Mama. If she could have been here. And his father. He would have him come from Salzburg to hear one of the next performances. Everything had turned out for the best. My soul's bitter sorrow What happiness! It was orgasmic, a gush of joy. He was together with the rest of the world. He was back home at last. His Grand Tour was over. He wondered how the Emperor had liked it. He thought of Osmin's aria, which was coming up, "If I were only Emperor." He remembered the friendless little boy who wanted to be a prince, and then the youth struggling for recognition—love. Love from women—and love from the world. "Ich moechte doch der Kaiser sein"—in former days he had spent his energies lusting after the power to control his destiny. But now he felt as if he had succeeded, as if he were the emperor of his own life—a life different from all others, his own. His empire was a fantasy, perhaps an empire in the stars, not on solid ground. Not there on earth at all, but in one of the spheres, where it resonated in tune with the harmonies that Padre Martini had believed ruled even the trumpet of the Angel Gabriel. But his empire was real, as real as flesh and blood. It was there, all around him, he could feel it. It vibrated throughout his being! THE END ======================================== SLOTH by Otho Eskin (Note: This is scene 5 from the full-length play "Act of God") Cast of Characters JOHN An unemployed actor -- weak, shallow and self-absorbed. SATAN TOWNSEND An attorney -- arrogant, pompous. Scene The action takes place in the living room of John's apartment. Time The time is the present. =================================== AT RISE: JOHN is alone in his apartment. JOHN Now I've no choice but to accept the fact I'm living with the source of death, destruction and misery on earth. My roommate is Evil Incarnate. Actually it isn't that much different than my sophomore year at college. But I can't go on like this forever. It's ruining my career. Satan keeps telling me the key's in my pocket. All I have to do is deliver Maggie. I can't say I'm not tempted. I want her very much and I certainly want out of the contract. But there must be a better way of getting out of my commitment. The time has come to play hardball. (The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the door. Standing at the door is TOWNSEND dressed in a conservative suit and carrying a briefcase. His manner is pompous and disdainful.) JOHN Thank you for coming, Mr. Townsend. Please come in. (TOWNSEND enters, glances with distaste around the apartment.) TOWNSEND My secretary told me you needed to see me urgently. JOHN I've got a real serious legal problem. TOWNSEND I don't see why you didn't make an appointment at the office. JOHN I couldn't get away. I seem to have this contract... TOWNSEND Have you signed another second mortgage on your co-op? JOHN This time it's an agreement with the Devil. TOWNSEND I've warned you about making these business arrangements without consulting me first. JOHN I want you to get me out of the agreement. (The door to the kitchen opens and SATAN enters. He is dressed in a suit, identical to that worn by TOWNSEND, except that he wears a red tie. SATAN's manner is the mirror image of TOWNSEND's.) SATAN Good afternoon, Counselor. JOHN (To SATAN) Would you get out of here? I'm having a private conversation. TOWNSEND Who are you? JOHN (To SATAN) Can he see you? SATAN Of course. He's a member of the bar. (SATAN takes a business card from his pocket and gives it to TOWNSEND. TOWNSEND studies the card carefully, then looks at SATAN.) TOWNSEND Haven't we met? SATAN Many times. TOWNSEND The ABA Convention in Chicago? SATAN Yes. TOWNSEND The Cloverdale child custody litigation. SATAN Correct. TOWNSEND Wasn't that a hoot! SATAN I still get a chuckle when I think about it. JOHN (To SATAN) Would you just stay out of this. TOWNSEND I understand you claim to have a contract with my client. SATAN That's correct a personal services agreement. TOWNSEND I've yet to see a contract I can't break. JOHN Mr. Townsend, I don't think you quite realize... TOWNSEND I'll handle this, John. SATAN Your client has an obligation which he is failing to meet. TOWNSEND You haven't got a prayer. I can tie you up in court for years. SATAN I can wait. TOWNSEND Void for lack of consideration SATAN Unjust enrichment... TOWNSEND Res ipsa loquitur... SATAN Replevin... TOWNSEND Writ of covenant... JOHN Go for it, Mr. Townsend! SATAN Your client is guilty of conjugation. TOWNSEND You're estopped from pleading that defense. SATAN So are you. TOWNSEND I'll serve a writ on you. SATAN I'll serve two right back. Stop! Enough is enough. I think we might be able to reach an out-of-court settlement. TOWNSEND What do you propose? SATAN First a couple of questions to see if we have a basis on which to do business. How many people have you destroyed in the courts? How many people have you impoverished through the legal system? TOWNSEND All of my opponents have been represented by able counsel. SATAN I wasn't talking about your opponents. I was talking about your clients. Do you ever care about truth? TOWNSEND Of course not. SATAN How about justice? Right and wrong? TOWNSEND We have paralegals for that. SATAN Excellent. I have a proposition which I think might interest you. JOHN (To TOWNSEND) You're supposed to be helping me. Instead you're making a deal with the Devil. Who's side are you on, anyway? TOWNSEND So sue me. SATAN Shut up, John! (SATAN opens his briefcase, removes a document and passes it to TOWNSEND, who studies it.) TOWNSEND This appears to be a contract to sell my soul. SATAN Actually, a life trust with conveyance upon death. TOWNSEND Do you think you could do something about my 1994 tax return? There's an audit and... SATAN An IRS audit? (SATAN snaps his fingers.) Done! Child's play. Those are my kind of people. TOWNSEND It's a deal. (TOWNSEND signs the contract and passes it to SATAN.) TOWNSEND It's always a pleasure to deal with a professional. (They shake hands warmly. TOWNSEND goes to the door and waves cheerfully at SATAN) TOWNSEND See you in court. (To JOHN) I'll send you my bill in the morning. (TOWNSEND exits.) SATAN That's it! We're free. The spell is broken. JOHN Does this mean I can leave? SATAN Absolutely. Notice how I handled the negotiation? You could learn a lot from me. JOHN What about the part in the Broadway show...? SATAN Forget it. I'm outta here. Things are piling up at the office. Call me if you want to do a deal on Maggie. I'm in the phone book. (SATAN opens the door.) SATAN Let's do lunch sometime. (SATAN tries to leave but is blocked. HE tries again and becomes highly agitated.) JOHN What's the matter? SATAN The way is blocked. The spell is still functioning. (SATAN looks through the contract quickly.) SATAN Damn! Damn! Damn! (In a tantrum, SATAN throws the contract to the floor and jumps up and down on it.) SATAN He cheated me! The son of a bitch cheated me. (SATAN kicks at the door furiously.) JOHN What happened? Why can't we get out? SATAN He took me for a ride. I'll get him, I swear if it's the last thing I do, I'll get him. JOHN You said if you made a contract for anybody else's soul, we'd be released. SATAN There's a loophole in the contract. Lawyers don't count. BLACKOUT ======================================= ======================================== 4