FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 6, Number 2 March-April, 1999 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 downloading from the website http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue, courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the following URL: http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm 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 Songs of the elders of Argos, poems E. James Scott "The Day the Music Stopped," a short story Bunny Brown "Little People," an excerpt (chapter 13) from the novel "Ay, Chucho!" William Ramsay "Decisions," part 4 of the play, "Julie" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS BUNNY BROWN is the nom de plume of a Palo Alto (CA) clinical psychologist who specializes in the treatment of abused adolescents. She is also a watercolorist and occasionally writes articles for newspaper travel columns. 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 Folder Library in Washington.. His play, "Season in Hell," recently had sixteen performances at the SCENA Theatre in Washington. 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. His play, "Revenge," recently received readings by the Actor's Theatre of Washington. E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and has taught at gourmet cooking schools in Chicago and Mexico City. His latest researches have been on pre-classical Greek civilization. ================================================== SONGS OF THE ELDERS OF ARGOS by E. James Scott Feast of Revenge Woe to the House of Atreus, Killing the killers and then again killing, Boiled golden curls and nets full of royal gore. Now the killing is over, Soon the killing begins again. Death is justice, And justice destroys all! Games of the Gods Round, round, round, round: Love turning to hate. The hearth becomes a battle ground, Crimes punished, Punishments avenged, Vengeance repaid Blood, blood, blood. Round, round, round: The circular games of the gods. ================================================== THE DAY THE MUSIC STOPPED by Bunny Brown Julie always got up each morning in a bright, positive, if somewhat brittle state of mind, but found it difficult to keep it going for long. Chaos shoved its ragged claws even into the process of selecting something to wear from the assorted scraps of partially dirty clothing lying between the piles of books, magazines, and half-eaten snacks that carpeted her tiny bedroom. Pulling on a wrinkled but only slightly musty sweater from the heap, she checked quickly to make sure it didn't pull too tightly across her newly swelling and already quite obvious breasts. No point in getting Daddy raging again, she thought, as she noticed that the tear in the back of the skirt hardly showed. Even though she hadn't as yet gotten into the bathroom to brush her teeth, she took out her shiny new lipstick, stolen on a dare at the dime store yesterday, and carefully applied it, admiring the effect in the cracked mirror of her little compact. She could practice putting it on a little more once she got to school. Trying to get some time in the bathroom was a daily ordeal. Her bratty, noisy brothers stormed the door each morning and stayed in the shower for what seemed like hours, resisting her pleas to let her in for just a few moments. The door was locked again this morning, so she retreated to her room to reread her diary notes from the day before. "All the boys seem to like me, but Joey likes me the most -- he said so in his note yesterday!" Absently, she drew a little heart with "Joey loves Julie" inside, and began to decorate it with frills and ruffles as she listened for the sound of the bathroom door opening. She glanced again at her little mirror, to be sure the bruise from Daddy's slap last night was covered by her bangs. Suddenly, her heart sank. She'd completely forgotten - today was piano lesson day, worst day of the week, and she'd as usual neglected her practicing. The big recital was looming, and her teacher was determined that Julie be the star of the show. Auntie Clem, her teacher, bragged to everyone about Julie's talent, and talked effusively about how extraordinary it was to have a child only twelve years old playing Beethoven's "Sonata Pathetique". Julie actually loved the piece, and enjoyed playing it on her old, out-of-tune piano. Quiet moments to practice were really hard to come by in their turbulent household, though, and her brothers took special delight in banging on the piano as Julie tried to practice. She'd given up hope of mother ever trying to get them to stop, especially since the baby came. She played with bravado, with passion, with dash - never mind a lot of wrong notes. She felt the music and its melancholy deeply, and often heard the notes echoing in her mind while she tried to do homework. And yet, she dreaded the weekly lessons. With every wrong note, Auntie Clem would shriek, "no, no, no" as she smacked Julie's fingers with the sharp edge of her ruler. A quick glance at the clock confirmed the usual bad news - late again! Never mind the unbrushed teeth and unwashed face - she grabbed her books and jacket and tore downstairs, nearly colliding with her father as he emerged from the bathroom set aside for his exclusive use in the mornings. "Where the hell do you think you're going, young lady!" he barked, stepping back to take in the sweater and the lipstick hastily smeared over her unwashed face. "You're not wearing anything that tight out of this house" he roared, "and wipe that garbage off your face while you're at it." Julie thought briefly about trying to explain, but knew it was hopeless in the face of her father's rage. Dreading the prospect of another scene like last night, she dragged back upstairs to try and find a less offensive sweater, knowing that she'd probably have to make a mad dash for the school bus once again. The metallic brightness of the day's prospects seemed to dim with each passing moment. If she had to wear one of her old, lumpy sweaters Joey probably wouldn't even notice her! Her eyes smarted, remembering the mean comments yesterday from the catty group of girls who used to be her friends. Ever since she got her period, way before anyone else in the crowd, they never missed a chance to poke spiteful fun at Julie's clothes. She walked into the kitchen just as everyone around the table was grabbing the last bites of breakfast. Her father greeted her arrival with a storm of angry invective about being late, not having the wits to get herself together in the morning, going out looking like a slut. Knowing it was best not to provoke him further by saying anything in her own defense, she slumped into her chair and began mechanically shoving food into her mouth, fighting down the alarming waves of nausea that usually accompanied family meals. Her brothers smirked as Daddy's attack intensified, and John, the next oldest of the group, gave her a sharp mean kick under the table as if to underscore the invective. Mother, head down and apparently oblivious to her husband's rapidly escalating rage, smiled sweetly as she continued to feed the baby. Everyone said Daddy's heart was really in bad shape -- he was supposed to try and be calm, but he didn't seem to be making much headway on that problem, nor on the heavy drinking the doctors insisted must stop. Despite her good intentions, she finally lashed back at him. "Daddy, that's just completely unfair!" she protested, "John and Jack monopolized the bathroom for more than half an hour, and there's no clean clothes to wear!" At this statement Julie's mother looked up from the baby for a second and said sharply, "That's a lie! There's plenty of clean clothing in the laundry room -- all you have to do is get down there and iron it! And by the way, Auntie Clem called to say you haven't been practicing, again, and the big recital's only ten days away!" This was the final straw for Julie's father. Yelling "I told you those lessons were a complete waste of money" he leaped up, kicking over his chair. "And I told you to wipe that goddamned lipstick off your stupid face." He grabbed Julie by the hair and dragged her to the bathroom, where he forcibly wiped all the lipstick off. Fuming to himself about being late, he ran for the door, without even his usual muttered good-bye. For a moment, the little family group sat very quietly at the breakfast table. Mother cooed to the baby, who stopped screaming and responded with smiles and gurgles. Fighting back tears, Julie made her way back up to her room. Once upstairs, she locked her door and sat on the bed, staring dejectedly at the mess. No point in rushing to change again -- she was sure to miss the school bus now in any event. Mother called up, "Julie, get down here right now. You're going to miss the bus! And don't forget your piano lesson this afternoon!" Julie threw on yet another sweater and dashed downstairs. From the moment she climbed panting onto the waiting bus to the jeers and catcalls of all the kids, the day darkened into an ever descending spiral of despair. Julie plodded numbly through her classes all day, her spirits hardly lifted at all by Joey's little notes scribbled on scraps of paper dropped by her desk. The prospect of facing Auntie Clem again with no progress on the Adagio made her tremble every time she thought of it.. By the end of last period, when she gathered her books and started out alone on the long walk down to Auntie Clem's house, she felt like she was walking to an executioner's block. As her fingers stumbled through the opening bars, Auntie Clem started in again as usual, screaming at her, slapping her with the ruler, working herself into an ever escalating frenzy. Julie hunched over the keys, trying not to cry, and started playing it again from the beginning. However, her playing and the screaming just got worse, and she finally collapsed in tears over the keyboard. In a rare gesture of kindness, Auntie Clem leaned over her and brushed the hair away from her face, muttering "There, there now ." She noticed the bruise on Julie's forehead, and said, "Julie dear, who hit you? That's a really nasty bruise." Julie jumped up, kicked over the piano bench, and threw the sheets of music all over the floor. "You . You . You just go to hell," she sobbed . She ran from the room, slamming the french doors so hard a pane of glass broke. Crossing the porch, she heard the broken shards of glass falling to the floor one by one. ================================================== LITTLE PEOPLE by William Ramsay (Note: the is chapter 13 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!" I had been more than four hours in the hands of G-2, and it was almost two A. M. when I found myself standing again in the lobby of the Presidente, waiting for the elevator. After only a minute or so, the elevator arrived and the doors opened. The elevator was working -- that was good. The elevator operator was Mr. Marcus in a maroon uniform with gold braid -- that was not so good. "We've made plans for your escape," he said. "But I don't want to escape." "The Fidel factor has compromised the mission." "No, no," I said. "Listen." A chambermaid got in at the next floor and we rode in silence for a few floors. As she got off and the door closed on her, I said, "Fidel wants me to do a job for him. If I finish it on time, I can get my father out." I thought "maybe" but didn't say it. "And Pillo?" he said. "Him too," I said, really stretching the facts. The elevator reached the top floor and we started back down again. "Better to abort the mission and get out." Even if I wanted to return to the States now and face a disappointed Gomez and a disillusioned I.R.S., I doubted that Fidel's boys would allow me to get out of Cuba now -- I was sure they would be watching me closely from now on. "Give me some time, Mr. Marcus -- say, what is your first name?" "Seymour," he said, making a sad face. "Two weeks," I said. "Mr. Marcus," I added. He shrugged. "Send messages through the soda bottle." A man in his forties wearing Russian-looking clothes got on the elevator. As we reached my floor I headed for the door. "Wait..." said Mr. Marcus. I got out of the car quickly. It had been a very long day. The next morning, the sunlight through my broken venetian blinds seemed to promise better things. If I could keep Mr. Marcus from panicking, I should be able to get out of the amateur spy business entirely. Instead of an impossible cloak-and-dagger assignment, I would be a professional engineer again -- just like in my days as a research assistant in graduate school. Of course I might be tackling an impossible _technical_ assignment. Impossible or not, I didn't care, any change was for the better. At least I didn't have to try to pull off a prison break in a communist country anymore, I didn't even have to pose as a harmless left-wing physician -- at least to Castro and Pineda, the only two people who really counted. I resolved to buckle down to work, not knowing whether or when I could produce Fidel's crazy phones -- but determined to give it a damned good try. The two weeks I had asked Marcus for wouldn't be enough -- but he didn't have to know that. Yet. The next week I spent sitting in my hotel room, reading articles and leafing through E.E. books, making calls, and trying to figure out exactly how I was going to pull off this cellular phone scheme. I spent a lot of time battling the Cuban international phone dis-service, bulling through busy signals and sudden disconnects to talk to my assistant Fabricio at the store in Miami and to my friend Professor Suarez at Florida State, trying to get books, articles, instruction sheets -- anything about the cable business. In Miami, my contact at McGraw Cable was out of town -- great timing. In the meantime, my mother hadn't been idle. I saw her on Wednesday when we had lunch together. I said very little to her about my interview with Fidel. She obviously suspected that something was up, but I was determined to keep mum about my deal with Fidel -- knowing her, it was best to keep her in the dark about anything even halfway confidential. "I've been thinking," she said. Oh, God, I said to myself. "Everything's so deadly serious. Like you, _hijo_ _mio_. You seem to be working so hard," she said, smearing more butter on one of the crusty hard rolls that are one of the few genuine treats that are still left on most dining tables in socialist Cuba. "It makes a person think." "Yeah." She pursed her lips and brushed a crumb of something off the bodice of her dress. It was excessively low-cut, and I tried not to stare at the curve of her breasts where the dress front hung loosely. Cover up, Mom, I felt like saying, act like a normal middle-aged woman. The color of the dress almost matched the royal blue of the corner of the Florida Channel that showed through the palms and over the low wall along the Malecon. She took out a pocket mirror and examined her chin, pulling it up with one hand. "I believe I've lost a little weight. Hmmm." She turned to look at me, her hazel eyes bright in a ring of green eye shadow. "You know, Chucho, all that's very Cuban," she said. I asked her what was very Cuban. "All that fuss about everything. _You_ are so serious, _He_, that bearded Bolshevik bum, is absolutely in earnest about all his crazy schemes, even your father..." "Even my father what?" "I don't know!" She poured herself a large glass of red wine from the decanter. She drank, slurping a bit. "Nobody has a sense of humor." "I don't see that anything's funny," I said. "You see, you see! Always so serious." Her eyes bugged out, glistening. "Everybody's too busy trying to be a big shot." She waved her hands. "_Big_ shot, _big_ people, the _large_ picture." I closed my eyes. When my mother gets this way, forget it. She turned to gaze out at the sea. The reflections from the pool below lit up her forehead as if a great light were shining out from inside her skull. Her eyes squinted. "People are really little things, aren't they? I mean, we're all just here for a little while, just _little_ people..." "Crawling between heaven and earth," I said, remembering Professor Sawyer's Shakespeare course. She made a face. "I don't know what you mean by crawling." Her face grew more bizarre, a wild smirk, as if I were selling porno movies. "Crawling, that's what's so wrong about everything. Some people have to crawl, they have no legs, the common man is often not only common, he's little, weak, deformed -- but who cares about that? Not Castro!" Her wine glass was empty. The gray-haired man in the orange polo shirt at the next table was staring. I poured her some more Chilean white. It was like high school. All I could think about was my embarrassment -- about why I couldn't have a regular mother like other guys. So I now confess that I didn't make the effort to connect with what she was trying to get at -- she was talking now about a "different kind of plan" -- whatever that meant. Instead of thinking, I had another quick glass of wine instead. And when I finished it, I told my mother I was busy and left to get back to work, putting _mamacita_ and her wild thoughts out of my mind. I dismissed all her blathering as just hot air. Oh well, you can't foresee everything, can you? I felt then that I had no time to even _think_ about anything but my new job. God knows I did have my work cut out for me. As I said, as a "reseller" of cellular service in Miami, I had been accustomed to buying up blocks of telephone numbers and selling service contracts to the cellular customers in my shop. So I knew something about the way the cellular business worked -- unfortunately I also knew that parts of the problem might be exceedingly difficult to work out from a hotel room in Havana. The cellular phone is just a fancy version of the old mobile phone, phone messages carried by radio. So that part of it, the radio transmitters and receivers, shouldn't turn out to be a problem. But the new part of the concept was the cells themselves -- geographical areas each with a separate central radio that transmitted and received conversations from mobile phones, each on its own individual radio frequency. When you were in your car, moving around the city, you would pass through various cells -- the trick is for the Mobile Telephone Switching Office, which sits like a spider in the midst of the web of cells, to keep track of what cell you're in, and switch you to the right frequency available at that time in that cell. All that meant computers -- which in general I knew about. But it also meant special cellular hardware and software that were all Greek to me. Fidel had promised me the help of Professor Apodaca in the engineering department of the University. Apodaca was supposed to be a whiz at telecommunications and computers -- but as I suspected, he turned out to know very little about the specifics of electronic communications switching. He was a very slight, intense young man with bright eyes behind the spectacles. "Ah, ah," he might say as I brought up some new difficulty. "That is a problem. But...," he would wave wildly at me, "intriguing, very intriguing, it reminds me of the time..." And he would go off onto one of his reminiscences about some software glitch that kept him -- and his wife, too, I suspect -- awake for three nights in a row. Then he would suggest going to the Czechs or even the French for help. I smiled, trying to make my lips assume the position that I was learning to think of as the "Fidel knows best" grin. My smile did all the work: I didn't have to tell Apodaca that for some reason official outside help was not going to be allowed. He saw, his face turned grave. I changed the subject to our liaison with the Ministry of Communications. He and the Deputy Assistant Minister for State Radio Networks been classmates at the University in Havana together -- thank God. Another good thing that happened was that Eddy showed up again on the day after we started work. He was on "work break" from his school, and like all good socialist students was expected to help out with the sugar harvest. A word to Pineda, however, and I got him attached to my staff on the Hilton roof. "I'll be expecting a lot from you, this is important," I said to him. "Don't worry, Doctor, I'll show you what I can do." And he did, he worked like a dog, doing everything from going out for _empanadas_ to helping to program systems codes. Sometimes I caught him gazing at me with a look that reminded me of Cleopatra eyeing Anthony, but I shoved the thought aside -- I didn't need to stir up trouble if he didn't. By the end of the first four or five days, I was optimistic. By the beginning of the following week, my mood had shifted toward desperation: I had talked with Philip George, my contact at McGraw, who had in a kindly voice told me that all the key circuits and software logic diagrams were strictly proprietary, not only within his company, but in the whole industry. By the middle of that week, I found out that transmitter crystals in the 800 megahertz band would have to be special-ordered from Canada. The prospect for meeting the conference deadline looked infinitesimal -- and my chances for outliving the conference as a free, or even breathing human being looked even worse. I had too many drinks that night -- Polish vodka. I got so out of it that as I was dropping off to sleep, I was convincing myself that I'd get my friends in the C.I.A., Marcus, Dominguez, to sneak me out of the country. "And that would be that," I muttered to myself, my eyes dizzy. But waking up at about five to go to the bathroom, my head pounding merrily, reality sneaked back into my alcohol-deadened brain. Escape. Maybe. But what after that? Back to "the Men" in Miami? They had long arms, those guys. And they also had good contacts with the C.I.A. -- which probably had some field officers who were a little more formidable than Mr. Marcus. So that even if I'd be able to get away from my ever-present G-2 shadow long enough to reach Dominguez, who knew if I'd even make it out of the country without some "accident" befalling me? I woke up again to a muffled series of peremptory knocks on the door. It was light outside. I shuffled over to the door, hardly able to open my eyes. When I unlocked the door, it gave a loud crunch and squeak, and Paco's big arm pushed me aside as he slipped into the room. "_Hola_, Chucho! I think I'm in the clear." He took a deep breath, released it, and then gave me a big smile. I told him I was glad that the police hadn't picked him up. "But they did. It was rough going for a time, but I'm an American now, I was in Cuba perfectly legally, and all the evidence was gone. I maintained that Duran was a liar and a crook -- which he is -- and that he had been trying to shake me down over currency regulations." I questioned him about his interrogation. As I did, I gradually came to the realization that I too would have been all right with G-2 except for my false name. They had obviously bought Paco's story that we were innocent tourists that were being blackmailed by a local con man. So that explained why Pineda and company had been relatively easy on me, why they hadn't questioned me about the bomb plot. All they were interested was what Duran must have disclosed about my identity: that I was a _gusano_, a persona non grata in Cuba masquerading as an FMLN cadre. Paco frowned. "Lend me a few dollars, will you? Elena isn't in." His forehead was dotted with perspiration. "How is Elena? All right?" I told him that I didn't know, that she had talked about being busy with some new kind of plan to help get "dear Fedy" out. He raised his eyebrows and made a face. "Good old Elena. Always a new project of some kind." He shook his head, lowered it, and flipped the long strands of his hair back up into place. He gave me a sloppy abrazo. His arms felt sweaty, and as he pulled away, I could still smell the perspiration. "Need to rethink things," he said. "Check out Elena's new project." He started to slam the door on the way out, but then he gave a little sigh and stopped, carefully easing the door into its frame. "Got to be cautious now," he said. "Well-behaved." I found out soon enough what my mother's new project was all about. I knocked on the door of Paco's room a few days later. There were scuffling sounds inside, and then the door opened, but no one was there. At least I thought at first that no one was there. A thin, high-tenor voice said, "Yes, yes, yes?" I looked down into big brown eyes set into a large egg-shaped head perching on top of a very small body with short bowed legs. I stammered, asking for Paco. "Oh," the dwarf squealed, showing me in. "Paquito's in the powder room, back in just a jiffy." "Paquito" came out almost immediately, zipping up his fly dramatically with a long sweep of his arms, as if he were conducting important business. And I guess, given Paco's dedication to his career, he was right to take care of his most obvious economic asset. "This man wants to see you, Paco." He's O.K., Jerry. 'Felipe,'" he said, "this is comrade Santander, Jerry Santander." As normal with Latins, he pronounced it as if it were spelled "Cherry." "Pleasure," said the dwarf. "Pierre's told me about you." "You know Pierre?" I said. "Who doesn't?" said Jerry. Paco took my arm as if he were telling me something very personal and upsetting. "Jerry's helping Elena organize the project." "What kind of project?" I asked, but they both ignored me. Paco started to talk to Jerry about rendezvous points and signs, where to get the printing done, and so on. "Don't worry, Paquitito," said Jerry," we'll have a good turn-out." Paco clapped him on the back, staggering the little man. Jerry caught himself on a chair and came up smiling. "Hey, I'm _little_ people, remember, _little_." His eyes came about up to Paco's belly button, and he poked him hard just below it. Paco grunted and pulled away. "Easy, Jerry boy, easy!" he said. Jerry laughed and pointed at his own crotch. "But not so little here!" He waved good-bye and went out, humming something that sounded very much like "Whistle while you work." Paco put his arm around me. The hand was clean and dry for a change. "I didn't think I should talk while he was here, Chucho. It's about getting your Papa out." I asked him what he meant. "It's a demonstration to embarrass the Cuban government. It's Elena's idea, I'm just helping out." I told him it sounded fishy. I didn't know how a demonstration could get my father out of prison. And that was only in the first place -- in the second place, any kind of demonstration would be an impossibility -- Castro's Cuba was a pretty efficient police state, despite all the comradely democratic bullshit. Paco was wearing a new gold ring in the shape of a heart. He rubbed it thoughtfully and then smiled bashfully at me. "You may be right. But you know your mother, Chucho." He made a face. "And we are out of other ideas, aren't we?" I did know my mother -- I knew enough to know that I didn't know _anything_ about what she was likely to think up next. I met Mama for lunch the next day on the terrace overlooking the pool. Paco was with us, his eyes following the bikinis of a cluster of razor-thin graduate-level nymphets that were talking and laughing as they jumped in and out of the pool or sat stroking themselves sensually with suntan lotion. I pulled my own eyes away -- nice, but on the anorexic side, I thought. I turned to my mother. "This is crazy, Mama." "Somebody has to do something." I still didn't dare tell her about my hopes with Fidel and the phones -- so I shrugged my shoulders and took a look for myself at a well-rounded redhead with suntanned hips that flowed like wine into her long legs. Then a phone rang somewhere across the pool, and I found myself worrying again -- about the cellular project. The plans for the central transmitting stations had been drawn up, technicians had been assigned for installing phones in the demonstration fleet of MININT vehicles and diplomatic vehicles. But on the computer problems, I was still nowhere. "What are you dreaming about, Chuchito?" said my mother. I told her: nothing. "'Nothing,'" she said. "That's exactly what's been done in this famous socialist state for the handicapped, exactly nothing. You wouldn't believe it. If you knew the discrimination a fine person like Jerry Santander has gone through, fired from job after job, turned down by the civil service even though he got high grades on the exam. 'Height limits' indeed! It's more a limitation on the intelligence and imagination of the pointy-headed _barbudos_ that are running this country." "Easy, Elena," said Paco, looking at the group of Eastern Europeans at the next table. Her voice had grown loud. "Except for Fidel, they use Norelcos now, they're not _barbudos_ any longer," I said. She smiled at me as if I were two years old, but I wasn't in the mood for being put down. "Even if you could do something," I said, "why pick such a piddling little issue, why not the mixed economy question or the political prisoner problem in general? And anyway, how does all this have anything to do with Father's predicament?" She shook her head. "Men always love complicated issues. Keep it simple, son, keep the issue simple. Simple, _little_!" she said, smiling. "Besides, don't you see?" Her face took on a middle-aged Joan of Arc look. "The political prisoners are little people too. If they start out big, like your father, Castro's prisons end up making them little. And we intend to get some publicity with this demonstration that will make Castro get off his rear end and do something about letting people like Federico go free!" She raised her glass of beer and sipped sparingly. "As to the practical problems, well, we'll see, won't we?" And she stared at me with her large brown eyes that reminded me of Jerry Santander. I could see that she was going to make a nuisance of herself in the good old American way -- but whether her gringo-type plan would work in Cuba was another story entirely. Just them a husky but legless man in a wheelchair came scooting into the restaurant. He careened against a bus tray and sent dishes flying. The chair stopped momentarily and he winced slightly at the crash, but then he revved up again and made it over to our table, where my mother gave him a passionate but somewhat stiff-looking _abrazo_. I whispered to Paco, asking if he was one of the "little People" too. Paco smiled and said that Cecilio had lost his legs in the civil war in Angola and always joked that he was a lot smaller now than he should have been -- by about three feet. The sun had moved around to shimmer blindingly off the pool. I realized I didn't know anymore what my mother meant by "little" -- and I didn't much care to know, since I was sure she would never get her crazy scheme off the ground. Which -- given the way things turned out -- may or may not tell you something about who was crazy and who wasn't. Paco leaned over and whispered to me. "A certain friend of ours has knocked over another bank -- this time in Sancti Spiritus." Pierre. I pictured him entering the bank, Uzi held under one armpit, his cat Kropotkin cradled under the other. "Practical politics," I said. Yes, I thought, maybe the anarchists were right after all: money=power=politics. And Pierre I was sure would say that an anarchist couldn't destroy a central government any more effectively than by taking its money away. But where would the money end up? I guessed in a Swiss bank account of Pierre's. I was sorely tempted to confide in Paco about my cellular problems. Mr. Gomez and the other "Men" must have had ways of shaking loose some proprietary software and a component board or two. But Paco wasn't exactly my idea of a discreet confidant. Neither was Marcus, but it seemed to me that he was the lesser of the two evils. I decided I'd try out the emergency contact procedure: I'd go directly to the C.I.A. -- and maybe through them the Association -- to get some help for my phones. That night I left a note in the "mailbox," a tin "Coola-Cola" bottle under the third palm from the right along the walkway starting from the edge of the park on the Avenida side. There was an answering note under my door when I returned -- and the following evening I took a seat in the open-air garden restaurant, taking a table close to the corner of the wall separating the garden from a garage and service area. I was expecting Valeska to meet me there, as usual, in about half an hour. Since she was always late, I thought I should be able to get my message delivered well before she arrived. Unfortunately the instructions in the note hadn't taken into account that there appeared to be two corners close to the garage, so I sat at a table halfway in between. As soon as the waiter had brought me a drink, I began humming the anthem "America," you know, "My Country 'Tis of Thee" -- as per instructions. I started out humming it under my breath. But as the minutes slipped by, I turned up the volume. My waiter came back and I stopped abruptly. He stared. I waved him away, and as I began humming again, I noticed somebody moving behind the decorative frieze of perforations in the wall. A half-shadowed figure moved back and forth like a confused moth near a candle. I hummed louder. Another waiter had joined the first one and they were both standing about fifteen feet away, eyeing me and whispering together. I figured it was now or never, and I began to sing out loud: I love thy rocks and rills, thy woods and..." One waiter looked at his feet, the other chuckled, took the first one by the arm, and they walked away whispering together and looking back at me. From behind the wall came a stage whisper, "What is that you're singing?" "America," I said. "That isn't America, it goes 'Oh beautiful for spacious skies, la-di-la- di-la." I couldn't see through the wall in the poor light, but I recognized the husky nasal voice of Mr. Marcus. "That's 'America the Beautiful,' for God's sake." I walked over to the wall and inserted my thin sheaf of notes on my requirements for the phone system through a perforation in the shape of a pineapple. "Here, for God's sake, hurry," I said. The notes scrunched and quivered in the perforation and then disappeared. I looked around -- one of the waiters was talking, head bowed, to the maitre d'. I pretended to be gazing at the moon -- which was difficult because a bank of wispy dark clouds had almost blotted it out. I saw the dapper maitre d' coming toward me. "Have you got it?" I said to Marcus. "Yes, but what's this all about?" "It's about getting my father out of jail, that's what." A whiny groan came through the wall. "And Pillo?" "Him too," I said, crossing my fingers. "But what is it exactly that you need?" "It's in the damned notes, don't you understand them?" "Wait a minute, don't be in such a rush, let me light a match." The maitre d' raised himself up to his full five feet and then leaned toward me, an impossibly wide smile on his lips. "Is the comrade ready to order?" "No, not yet." He frowned. I said, "I mean, yes, yes." "What would you like as an appetizer?" he said, peering over my shoulder at the wall. "The chicken what-you-call-it." "I'm sorry, but..." "Chicken, you know, the one at the top of the menu." "Ah, you mean the duck, comrade." "Yes, that's it, that's it." He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, comrade." He pursed his lips. "I hope there is no difficulty, _senor_," he said, slipping up on his 'comrades.'" "No, not at all. I'm just waiting for a friend." A long whisper came through the wall. The maitre d' looked at me sideways. "Some kids fooling around," I said. "Beggars. An insult to the Revolution. I'll chase them away." "No, no, it's all right, I like it." "I beg your pardon." "Live and let live." The eyebrows went even higher. "This is a dignified restaurant," he said. I shrugged. He shrugged too and turned to go. Another loud whisper came through the wall. The maitre d' turned again. "Kids," I said. "Kids," he said and walked off. "Is he gone?" said Marcus' voice. "Take the notes and go." I saw a voluptuous figure approaching -- Valeska. "Wait, wait," said Marcus' voice, "wait. You have to take more time on a mission when necessary." "Necessary my ass, everybody's looking, and my girl's coming." "Tell her to go away -- bad security procedure on your part. Damn, I can't get these matches to light, I should have brought a flashlight." Valeska waved and smiled. "Just get the information sent to me," I said, lowering my voice, "it's about a computer switching system, that's what I need, they'll know in Miami. Any engineer will know." I got up to kiss Valeska on the cheek and pull out a chair for her. Marcus' voice came through, flat and penetrating. "Not my field, I majored in psychology." It figures, I thought. "Who was that?" said Valeska, turning around. "Nothing." I got up and went over to the wall. "Get lost, Marcus, get lost," I whispered. As I returned to the table, I heard more whispering. I began to hum, "America the Beautiful" this time, trying to drown out the whispering. "What are you humming, Flip?" said Valeska. "You don't have to get mad," said Marcus in a loud voice. "Who said that?" said Valeska, starting to get up. I grasped her wrist, gently easing her back down in her seat. There was a scuffling behind the wall and all I could hear was the drone of conversation three tables down and the thump-thump from the salsa music in the discotheque on the mezzanine. "Flip?" she said, puzzled. "Who was that?" "A friendly wall," I said. "Sweetheart!" I said gruffly and leaned over and kissed her in the crook of her neck. She shivered and giggled. "Oh, Felipe." She opened her eyes wide at me. "Sometimes you are a complete nutcase. Talking to walls!" I smiled. "I think you must work for the C.I.A." "No." "No?" "No, even stupid old Felipe is too smart for that." She giggled. "Say, honey," she said. "There is this new kind of pants outfit..." The next morning at breakfast my mother told me she had decided to "implement the project" on a Saturday night. I told her she was crazy, that the whole idea was mad. "This is a mad little island, Chucho, mad as the devil -- always a little crazy, and now completely mad under the wing of the great bearded devil himself." "You'll get yourself killed." She shook her head. "You don't understand Cuban men. No matter how vicious they may be, they still feel they have to play by certain rules." "What rules?" "Come and see Saturday night at Lenin Park." Lenin Park is about fifteen miles south of Havana and is Cuba's answer to Disney World. Sort of. There _is_ some hint of Disney in the Mickey Mouses and Plutos who greet the children along the walks running between the ferris wheel, the merry-go-rounds, the water flume ride. And there is a hint of the Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen in the cafes and restaurants, particularly in Las Ruinas, a first-class restaurant with impressive Spanish colonial furniture and rock walls graces with a jungle of ferns. But the sign over the main Park pavilion says "Salute Workers Who Have Overfulfilled Their Quotas," not "Welcome to Fantasyland," and the exhibits inside on space science look ragtag and scanty. The rides are few and overcrowded and the equipment, though fairly new, has been maintained in accordance with lackadaisical socialist standards. All in all, the Park reminds you more of a county fair than of an international tourist attraction. I flouted the foreign exchange regulations and took a cheap peso cab to the park, gave the driver $5 to wait for me, and paid my 50 centavos to enter. Then I walked aimlessly around, waiting for nine o'clock and thinking more than ever that this idea of my mother's was going to turn out to be a total fiasco. At nine, I stationed myself in the back of the Cafe Pinchon fronting the central plaza, ready to lend a hand -- or get the hell out of there -- depending on what happened. The electricity was working that night and the three cafes around the plaza looked jolly and welcoming. The roller coaster, closed for some reason, was dark, glaring faintly in the plaza lights and in the glow from the last quarter moon, which was just rising in the east. The plaza was large, surrounded by streets or pathways for pedestrians and for little electric trams that carried visitors around the Park. The crowds looked like any other Cubans on a weekend night, groups of boys, some holding hands, others roughhousing, pairs of bashful-looking girls, not so bashful women, apparently tarts, in short skirts, with as much paint and costume jewelry as they could get away with in the atmosphere of official puritanism. By about nine thirty, nothing much had happened and I wished I had gotten a table. At least, I thought, my guy with the dark glasses from G-2 seemed to be taking the night off. Then I saw Jerry Santander. He had taken up position in front of me, and he was accompanied by a young girl in a pale blue school uniform and a blue "Pioneer" scarf. She looked to be about ten years old, but she was half a head taller than Jerry. She was darkish blond with fair skin, and I wildly imagined them as mother and child, the swan with her awkward, dark little cygnet with his big head and dumpy little body. An old man in a white shirt stared at them. Then on the other side of the plaza, I saw another dwarf, this time with a very young girl in a pink dress. Suddenly Cecilio, the Angolan vet in the wheelchair, appeared from a side street and bumped over a curb, heading right between a battered tram filled with teenagers that was cruising slowly down the roadway. The tram stopped abruptly, and all the teenagers stood up in the back, pointing and snickering at the exertions of Cecilio's personal Pioneer, a thin dark-haired girl who scrambled along behind him, finally catching up and helping the wheelchair up the curb and into the plaza. By the time my mother arrived with the signs, there was quite a crowd. Surrounding the blackish-green statue of Che Guevara in the center of the plaza was an inner circle of young children, most wearing blue or red Pioneer scarves, mixed in with a number of "little people" -- dwarfs, midgets, paraplegics, cases of Down's syndrome. They in turn were surrounded by an outer ring of onlookers: young men yelled, girls giggled behind their hands and whispered, and an old man on a bicycle muttered loudly, while a few older women, some in traditional black, looked on solemnly, as if they were attending a high mass. A single policeman stood in front of a soft-drink vendor and a taco seller and his paraphernalia on a three-wheeled bicycle. The policeman's chestnut-brown face, as he stared at the growing demonstration, looked zombie- like, as if he had been recently sandbagged. In the center of the inner ring, a young man with red hair, who later turned out to be a Canadian free-lance TV producer, was tightening a tripod and adjusting several photoflood lamps. The lights went on, the old man on the bicycle shielded his eyes, and my mother and Uncle Paco made their way through the crowd, carrying a rolled-up banner. Behind them, several Pioneers toted signs. My mother turned and motioned, and the children handed out the signs to the "little people" around them. In the glare from the floods, I could see some of the signs: "SMALL IS REVOLUTIONARILY BEAUTIFUL" "WE STAND SMALL BUT WE STAND TALL FOR TRUE DEMOCRACY" "DON'T LET THE HIGHER-UPS FORGET THE LOWER-DOWNS" Then my mother strode into the center of the inner circle and motioned, and all the "couples" of children and little people massed around her. Paco unfurled the banner -- "March of the Little People for Revolutionary Democracy." Someone handed Mama a bullhorn, and she began to speak. Her first words sounded halting and hoarse, as if she had begun to doubt herself, but then she began to warm up. She said she was born in Cuba but was now an American. That got a cheer from the crowd. In the harsh shadows, Che on his pedestal looked as if he were trying to ignore the whole thing. Next to me another policeman appeared. My mother said that people all over the world, in countries with all kinds of political systems, must learn to respect those handicapped -- either by nature or accident. Her voice strengthened as she told them that true democracy meant that all citizens, the smallest as well as the largest, were to be given access to a productive place in society. Then she said something about political prisoners and the right of all men to be heard -- all men, bigshots or just plain little people. At this, the policeman next to me hurried away. Finally she introduced Jerry Santander. Heads strained, figures rose on tiptoe as the crowd strained to catch sight of him, low, invisible, next to my mother. I imagined that Che was eavesdropping too. Jerry began to speak -- he said that he believed in the Revolution. But, he asked in a high, acid voice, did the Revolution believe in him? He said that the handicapped needed work like anyone else. Shouts came from the crowd, "What's going on? "Who is it?" I supposed that many people thought that the demonstration was part of one of the street shows at the Park -- if so, I suddenly realized that my mother might not have been so crazy after all in choosing Lenin Park. Uncle Paco reached down and lifted Jerry up to stand on the rail of Cecilio's wheelchair. Someone cheered, some others laughed. I could hear a siren in the distance. As I looked to see where it was, I caught a glimpse of my friend with the wispy beard and the sunglasses. Oh shit! I thought. Jerry was now talking, saying that when you were smaller, sometimes you had to yell louder to get yourself heard. As Jerry spoke on, I saw the Canadian producer panning the crowd, then changing cassettes, handing the old one to a young man who worked his way out of the crowd, coming past me and heading toward the exit to the Park. Jerry said they were ready to march for justice, for fair play for the little people. "If you're not a big shot, you're a little person just like us." A scream of a siren, and a pickup truck with a red light on top pulled up and several policeman piled out. Jerry shouted: "Join us," we're ready to march for justice." The entrance of the police hit the by now overcrowded plaza like a blow, sending a wave out through the crowd that splashed people toward the edges of the square, leaving a gap between the police and the inner ring. On the edge of the inner ring, the children had formed into a circle, hands clasped, enclosing the little people, my mother, Paco, and the producer and his crew. The officer leading the police walked warily up to the circle. He yelled out, asking if they were employees of the Park. No one answered him and then he shouted for them to disperse. I could hear my mother replying "No." The officer looked down. He was standing right in front of the girl in the pink dress. She looked terrified but her hands still clasped tightly those of the children to either side of her. He bent down and yelled "Go home!" The girl shuddered as if he had hit her. He yelled again, but this time she looked up straight into his eyes. A high piercing shout came from the onlookers -- "They're just children." The officer looked around him. Another voice: "Leave the children alone." A third: "Hey, that one's my daughter!" One of the police came up behind the officer and they turned and began to talk. My mother seized the bullhorn and said that now was the time to show solidarity. The officer turned and shouted that this was an illegal demonstration. My mother said into the bullhorn: "We're going to all ride the merry-go-round -- round and round until we get our rights." First the little people and the children, and then the onlookers cheered. The little circle began to move outward, making a line across the plaza as it moved. The police retreated back to the truck. The officer had picked up the radio microphone and was talking into it. My mother shouted to remember that this was not a parade and to keep to the walkways on the side, out of the main roadway. I realized that unauthorized parades would be highly counterrevolutionary -- my mother may be crazy sometimes, but she's not stupid. Not that unauthorized "demonstrations" would be exactly legal, either. But she had sure picked a place where the authorities weren't quite certain themselves exactly what was going on and what the rules were. The "couples" of children and little people made off down the "Main Street" with its imitation of Disney's imitation of a Victorian town, headed for the giant merry-go-round. I followed at a distance. A police van appeared silently and drove up on one of the walkways, blocking it, but the demonstrators just milled around it. A policeman grabbed one midget, and struggled briefly with several little girls. One of them, about five years old, seized the policeman's hand and bit at it, and the policeman stopped in the middle of the street, waving his fingers and crying "Ay!" while the midget slipped away. Paco and another man carried the banner half-sideways through the crowd. The Canadian photographer kept filming. At the merry-go-round, the demonstrators milled around while Jerry and another dwarf were lifted up on two of the horses and began to talk again through bullhorns. I wondered where my mother had found the bullhorns in Cuba - - she is quite a woman, I must say. While they talked, she stood by, looking like a queen, smiling and urging bystanders to applaud. By this time the crowd was really large. The operator of the merry-go-round stood gesticulating and talking to a policeman. Just as the third speaker, a spastic, began to twitch and stutter his way through an appeal for better medical care, there was a rumble of movement through the crowd and seven or eight large women appeared. They were dressed in khaki slacks, and wore "Comite de la Defensa de la Revolucion" armbands. At the edge of the park, one woman grabbed one of the Pioneers while another took hold of the back of a wheelchair and pushed it with the old man in it toward the street. A corridor opened up and the woman pushed the wheelchair toward a policeman waiting beside a long police van. The youthful Pioneer struggled with the first CDR woman, pulling at her hair, but the big woman lifted the child up, bent her knee slightly, placed the child over it, and began to spank her. Soon several of the "couples" had been broken up, little girls and little people were melting into the crowd, while several dwarves and cripples clustered around my mother. The banner had fallen, and my mother was trying to sweep the folds away that had fallen over her head. Paco had disappeared. I suddenly realized I ought to go to Mama's aid. But while I hesitated, looking around, trying to spot my shadow, wondering whether just being here would end up getting me sent to the _paredon_, my mother and the other last- ditch survivors had already been handcuffed and were being led away into the police van. The "night of the little people" was over. My night wasn't -- quite yet. I got back safely to Havana and the hotel by eleven. I hadn't seen anything more of my pal "Shades." As I was lying in bed, wondering what the outcome of mother's ingenious scheme would be, the phone rang. Me: Yes. Voice (low, hoarse, Spanish-speaking): You know who this is. Me: No I don't. Voice: Try to remember. Me: No, no. No. (But by this time I did -- Mr. Gomez.) Gomez: When we do someone a favor, we expect them to be grateful. (I was wondering who might be listening in.) Me: I can't talk now. Gomez: Don't talk, just listen. Me: Yes? Gomez: We hear that Mr. Peterson and Mr. Marcus are not so happy. Your project is experiencing a severe slippage in schedule. (My "two weeks" had expired ten days previously.) Me: Listen, I can explain... Gomez: Don't talk, just listen. Me: Sure, sure. Gomez: Show some respect. Me: Yes? Gomez: Fulfil your end. Me: I will. Gomez: We don't like lack of respect. Me: Of course. Gomez: It gives us heartburn. Me: Don't worry. Gomez: We won't. It's for you to worry. Me: Let me explain. Gomez: Have a good evening. And he hung up. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world. It was obviously going to be a three-aspirin, two-Valium, one-Dalmane night. ========================================================================== DECISIONS by Otho Eskin (Part 4 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a new version by Otho Eskin) CHARACTERS: MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of a "patrician" family in the deep south RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur. CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook. PLACE: The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to Cora's bedroom. TIME: Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's Night (June 23). . AT RISE: The kitchen, an hour later. RANSOM and JULIE enter. JULIE is distracted, upset. RANSOM goes to the ice box and gets himself a beer. He sees Julie's handkerchief where she left it on the table. RANSOM God damn! This yore 'kerchief? JULIE I don't know, Ransom. Maybe. Yes. What of it? RANSOM You left it where anyone could see it?! JULIE Don't be angry with me, Ransom... RANSOM The others they been here. They must' a seen yore 'kerchief. They know'd you been here. They know'd we been together. JULIE Maybe they didn't notice... RANSOM They noticed. JULIE They won't say anything. Will they? RANSOM They'll talk. Right now they talkin'. 'Bout you an' me. JULIE (angry, hurt) How dare they! RANSOM They love to gossip, particularly 'bout their betters, particularly 'bout what white folks do. JULIE You mean everyone knows what happened? RANSOM They sure gonna guess. JULIE The servants? The field hands? What are we going to do, Ransom? RANSOM We jus' gotta pretend what happened this evenin' didn' happen. JULIE How can you pretend it didn't happen? Have you no feelings? Just a little while ago you were holding me in your arms, you were kissing me. Now... RANSOM (Harshly) That was then! We done somethin' dumb' we in trouble. Done' make it worse by gettin' all sentimental. JULIE Do you expect me to stay in this house after what happened? With you in the house? With everybody looking at me? RANSOM Yore right. Even if no one knows 'bout us last night, it's only a matter of time 'fore it happens again. An' sooner or later we'll be found out. JULIE What we did you know that's a crime in this state. RANSOM I know that better'n you. JULIE Father thinks it's the worst thing that people can do. Worse than murder, he says. He calls it mongrelization of the race. Oh, my God! Father will be back any minute now. Any minute the phone's going to ring and he'll tell you to pick him up at the station. Or he'll take a taxi and walk in through that door wanting to know where his breakfast is. Father will find out, I know it. He always does. I couldn't live with the shame. What am I going to do? Please tell me, Ransom. I don't know what to do. RANSOM We gotta get away from here from yore daddy from the big house. JULIE Where could we go? RANSOM We can go north. We can go to Chicago. JULIE How would we live, Ransom? RANSOM I can make it playin' horn.. They'se plenty clubs would hire me. I can make good money, too. JULIE I don't know... RANSOM Some day I gone be rich. Some day I gone be somebody. I've always dreamed of goin' back to Chicago. Of someday maybe havin' my own club. White folks will come from up town to hear the music. They like nigger music up there. I'll make a pile. Sell them watered down hooch. They don' know no better. I'll stand by the front door an' tell 'em which tables they can have. Maybe turn some away if I don' like they looks. It'll be my place' I'll be king there. JULIE That sounds wonderful for you, Ransom. But what about me? RANSOM You can stand at the front all dressed up an' pretty like an' show them to their tables. JULIE It all sounds so... it sounds exciting... RANSOM They's a Greyhound leavin' for Memphis at three this afternoon. We can be in Chicago by tomorrow. JULIE I'm frightened, Ransom. You must give me courage. Tell me you love me. Hold me in your arms. RANSOM I can't do that. Not in this house. I can't do it, Miss Julie. JULIE Miss Julie!? Call me Julie! We're equals now. RANSOM Not in this house, we ain't. Not in yore daddy's house. They's three hundred years a' history says we ain't equals. You can't just walk away from three hundred years a' history like it never happened. When yore daddy's 'round I feel like a slave. It's a slave way a' thinkin' but I can't help it. I hear his voice an' I jump. I see his hat on the peg in the entry way an' I be scared. It's that way of thinkin' I done learned as a child. It's in my blood. I hate myself for feelin' that way. That's why I gotta leave this place. I won't have those feelin's in Chicago. In Chicago people will come to my club an' say "sir" an' show me respect. I won't get those feelin's I hate. Not in Chicago. In Chicago I'll be free of the past. JULIE If you don't love me ... what am I? RANSOM I'll tell you I love you a thousand times but later. Not now. Not here. Not in this house. We gotta keep clear heads. You unnerstand me? We gotta decide what to do. We gotta be reasonable. Will you come with me to Chicago? JULIE It sounds... wonderful but... RANSOM I can make it in Chicago. I toll' you, some day I'm gonna get my own club. JULIE Doesn't that take money? RANSOM That's why I need somebody to bankroll me. JULIE Who's going to do that? RANSOM You! You gotta do it. You my partner, ain't you? JULIE I don't have any money. RANSOM You got nothin'? You live in that fine house. You wear fine clothes. Drive 'round in a big car. an' you got nothin'? JULIE Nothing of my own. I don't own anything. Not even my thoughts belong to me. Every idea that I have I got from my father. Every emotion I feel I got from my mother. I've got nothing of my own to give you. RANSOM Pull yoreself together. I'll get you a drink. (RANSOM opens a drawer and removes a bottle of brandy and fills two glasses.) JULIE Where did you get that brandy? RANSOM From the wine cellar. JULIE You stole it!? RANSOM It's not like really stealin'. I'm almost the Judge's son-in-law. JULIE You're a thief! RANSOM You gonna tell yore daddy? JULIE Why was I so attracted to you? Because I'm weak and you're strong? Or was it love? Was it love? Do you even know what love is? RANSOM Sure I do. I've had plenty of women in my time. JULIE My, God, that's not what I'm talking about. RANSOM That's the way I am. No point in gettin' upset 'bout it. As far as I can see, you an' I the same. JULIE What have I become? My God, what's to become of me? RANSOM Why you feelin' sorry for yoreself? You got yore conquest. If you wanta feel sorry for someone feel sorry for Cora. Don' you think she got feelin's too? JULIE She's just a servant... RANSOM An' yore just a whore! JULIE Is that what I've become? A whore? RANSOM I feel almost sorry for you. Remember the nice story 'bout my first seein' you out there in the gazebo? 'Bout how I wanted to rise to yore level? How I wanted you as a friend? Do you know what I was really thinkin' all that time watchin' you? JULIE Please don't, Ransom. RANSOM I was thinkin' how much I wanted you. I didn' care 'bout the books. 'Bout bein' yore friend. JULIE That beautiful story you told me that was a lie? RANSOM I wanted to play all right but not the way you was thinkin'. JULIE I now see what you're really like. RANSOM That kind of sweet-talk always gets to women. JULIE I was supposed to be your way to a club up north to the comfortable life. Is that it? RANSOM I don' see why you complainin'. I'd do most of the work. JULIE That's all I was to you? Nothing more? A ticket to Chicago. I've never seen another person so low. RANSOM You in no position to talk! JULIE Stand up when I speak to you! Show proper respect! RANSOM I may be a nigger but you a nigger's whore. JULIE How dare you! RANSOM You think a nigger would a' dared look you in the eye if you hadn' asked for it? JULIE Please, Ransom, don't. RANSOM I'm almost sorry to see you fallen lower'n yore own cook. JULIE Stop it! RANSOM My people would never ack the way you did tonight. You think a black girl would throw herself at a man the way you did? You ever see a black girl actin' the way you did? Only animals an' whores do that. JULIE You're talking as if you were my better. RANSOM I am yore better. JULIE At least I'm no thief. RANSOM They'se worse things than bein' a thief. JULIE You're proud of what you've done, aren't you? RANSOM Not really. It was too easy. But I gotta say I get satisfactin' learnin' that everythin' I thought I wanted -- everythin' I been dreamin' of -- is no more'n a pile of shit. JULIE Doesn't what happened between us tonight mean anything to you? RANSOM Miss Julie, somethin' happened tonight. You got crazy there for a while. Now you want to make up for yore mistake by pretendin' to yoreself you love me. You don't. You got needs only I can satisfy. All that means is we both got the same hunger. Don' mistake that for love. I could never live bein' yore lap dog. An' you can't never love me. JULIE We could try to love one another. (RANSOM tries to pull JULIE to him but she breaks away.) JULIE Let go of me! I loathe you! But I can't leave you. RANSOM Then let's go away together. JULIE Give me something to drink. (RANSOM pours the brandy into a glass and SHE drinks it down. JULIE holds out the glass for more.) RANSOM You gonna get drunk. JULIE Who cares? RANSOM T'aint right to get drunk, especially for a woman. JULIE I need a drink. RANSOM Miss Julie, it's time to go. (JULIE does not move) RANSOM (Continued) Do as I say! JULIE Are you the master now? I the servant? My mother made me swear I'd never become any man's slave. RANSOM But you got engaged. JULIE I wanted to make that man my slave. RANSOM He'd never do that. No man would ever do that. JULIE Oh, yes he would. He wanted to be my slave. But I became bored with him. RANSOM Sounds to me like you 'bout hate all men. JULIE Why shouldn't I? Men.. Every man I've ever met, ever heard or read about.. all men are either spineless cowards or they're brutes. They're mostly stupid, playing stupid little games. They're children. Spoiled children who if they can't have what they want throw a tantrum. That's the lesson I learned from my mother. Except... Except... RANSOM Except what? JULIE I have this need, this longing. I can't control it. And I feel such shame. RANSOM Do you hate me? JULIE I despise you! I'd like to see you dead. RANSOM Shot like a mad dog? JULIE Like a mad dog. (RANSOM goes to the cupboard and takes out the revolver.) RANSOM This yore chance, Miss Julie. (RANSOM puts the revolver on the table.) ======================================================================== ======================================================================== 25