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76 KiB
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1739 lines
76 KiB
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 1, Number 2
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September-October, 1994
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EDITOR'S NOTES:
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FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
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electronically through e-mail and the internet -- starting with
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this issue, on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short
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stories, play scripts or excerpts of plays, excerpts of novels or
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serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine
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are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a
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group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the
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magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes
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material from the public.
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To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
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mail a brief request to
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ngwazi@clark.net
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To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same
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address. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail or
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by anonymous ftp from
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ftp.etext.org
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where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines, or by gopher at
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gopher.cic.net under "electronic serials."
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
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published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
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to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
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personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to
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copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give
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readings or to stage performances or filmings or video recording,
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or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.
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William Ramsay, Editor
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ngwazi@clark.net
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=================================================================
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Notes
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Contributors
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"Deux Bagatelles Africaines"
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Hamid Temembe
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"Waking Up Is Hard to Do," a short-short story
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Mike Barker
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"Paulie," a short story
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Judith Greenwood
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"Braver Kerl," an excerpt (chapter 2) from the novel "In
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Search of Mozart"
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William Ramsay
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"Speak, Muse," a ten-minute play
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Otho Eskin
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=================================================================
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CONTRIBUTORS
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OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
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affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington.
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His play "Duet" will be produced this fall at the Elizabethan
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Theater at the Folger Library. "Speak, Muse" was produced at a
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recent Source Theater Festival.
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MIKE BARKER is a writer and a computer and network professional.
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He has recently worked in Japan, where he has been an interested
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observer of the clash of new technology with societal constraints.
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JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international
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interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer and
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herpetophobe. She was the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group
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of Washington, DC.
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WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy
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problems. He recently published a short story, "Heritage," in
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"Nebo." His ten-minute play, "Susie B.," was produced at the
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Source Theater Festival in 1992.
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DR. HAMID TEMEMBE attended lycee in Abidjan and received his
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medical training in Montpellier and Paris. Before his recent
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untimely death, he was the director of a psychiatric clinic in West
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Africa.
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=================================================================
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DEUX BAGATELLES AFRICAINES
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by Hamid Temembe
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Stars
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Etoiles d'Afrique,
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Donnez-moi la sagesse de ma race.
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Remplissez-moi de la fortitude des lions,
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La memoire des elephants,
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Et la malignite des sorciers -- mes ancetres.
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[Stars of Africa/ Give me the wisdom of my race/ Fill me with the
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hardiness of the lions/ The memory of the elephants/ And the
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cunning of the witchdoctors -- my forefathers] *
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Ancient Gods
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Dieux anciens, anciens dieux encore vivants dans nos coeurs,
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Donnez-nous la puissance qui nous manque,
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Enlevez-nous nos douleurs ravissantes et insupportables.
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Enlevez-moi, emmenez-moi aux seins des anges,
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Des anges blonds et pales,
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Des etres lointains du coeur obscur de l'Afrique,
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De la foret surabondante qui m'etouffe dans un tombeau de vert vif!
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[Ancient gods, former gods still living in our hearts/ Give us the
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power that we lack/ Lift from us our thrilling, unbearable sorrows/
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Lift me, carry me to the breasts of the angels/ Blonde, pale
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angels/ Beings distant from the hidden heart of Africa /From the
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burgeoning jungle that strangles me in a tomb of living greenery]*
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* Translations by the editor
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==============================================================
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WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
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by Mike Barker
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Some mornings you really should turn over, pull the covers
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up, and go back to sleep.
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That's what I should have done at the beginning.
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Instead, when I heard the screech, screech, screech from the
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closet door, I got up and opened it. Then I went back and
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flopped on the bed.
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Too many years with dogs. They might never have been trained
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well, but I certainly was.
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So I missed the invasion.
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It could have happened to anyone.
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I slept through the whole thing. Since I opened the door,
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they let me sleep.
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As they were leaving, I woke up again. Probably the hinges
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on the closet needed oiling. So I turned over and managed to get
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one eyelid up in time to see a purple face grinning at me from
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the darkness while a tastefully green-tinted arm pulled the
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closet door shut again.
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Obviously it saw me, for it paused long enough to tell me,
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gently, "If you have any more problems, we'll be in your closet."
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I thought about it.
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Then I listened to the silence outside. Monday morning, the
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middle of the city, I'd overslept, and it was completely silent
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outside.
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So I turned over, pulled the covers up, and went back to
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sleep.
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It seemed like the right thing to do.
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When I wake up, I'm going to nail that door shut.
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=============================================================
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MY COUSIN PAULIE
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by Judith Greenwood
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Some people are born lucky. That's what everyone
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always said about my cousin Paulie and his wife Marie.
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When I was a kid, everything I wanted to know was
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something Paulie already knew. So he taught me. He
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showed me how to track Indians through the cool silent
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woods where we lived in Maine. I guess Paulie must have
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broken the twigs and bent the ferns, because that was
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real, but now I realize the Indians were imaginary. I
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believed in them totally at the time. He taught me to
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swim in their pond, and how to dive cleanly off the rock
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in the middle, not bellyflopping like a dumb kid. We
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stole my uncle's tractor one time and Paulie taught me to
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shift gears. Paulie knew everything, I thought, and it
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seemed like a miracle that he wanted to teach me what he
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knew. The other boys his age, seven years older than me,
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didn't even notice little girls, except when they wanted
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someone to pick on.
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My clearest memory of Paulie is of the last Fourth of
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July night that we lived in Maine. He taught me how to
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light firecrackers that year. I was twelve, and I was
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secretly terrified by things that burned and exploded --
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the grown-ups always told us stories about children whose
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hands or eyes were blown away in accidents with
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firecrackers. But Paulie patiently showed me the safe way
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to light each kind we had. At the end we had only
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sparklers left, and he pushed a ring of them into the
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dirt, then stood inside. He had me light them while he
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lit others that he held between his fingers, in fan
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shapes, over his head. He looked like a fearsome god to
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me, tall and cruel, surrounded by a ring of hissing fire
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and holding fire in his hands. The vision still haunts
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me. Paulie owned my soul back then.
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Paulie seemed enormous to me when I was a child! He's
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still tall, loose-limbed and rangy like a high school
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track star. His face never aged like other peoples', even
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grown he had a face that didn't show much, that seemed
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innocent, and he had a grin that disarmed everyone -- his
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teachers, his bosses, and then his clients when he opened
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his own brokerage firm. No one ever called him Paul; it
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was always Paulie.
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We moved away from Maine, suddenly, that fall when I
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was almost thirteen. I came home one day during the
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second week of school, and my mother was packing. We were
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moving to Baltimore. My father had a new job with a steel
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company there. It all came up so fast that we didn't even
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have time to see our families or collect my school
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records. The grades and my medical reports came in big
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brown envelopes to our house in Reisterstown, and my
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mother took me and my grades to the big new junior high
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school there, and I began the new life I had to learn on
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my own, without Paulie to tell me what it meant or to show
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me how to be cool.
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It was hard. My parents didn't seem to understand how
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scary it was to start a new school and learn a new city
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all at once. My mother caught me crying in my room one
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afternoon. She tried to comfort me, but I blamed them for
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the pain and loneliness I felt, and I wouldn't be
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comforted. "You're being selfish," she said. "You can't
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imagine the sacrifices your dad has made to take this job.
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He has enough to worry about without you whining about
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things that he can't change. In a year you'd have been
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going to town for high school. This is almost the same
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thing, only a year early."
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The only sign that they understood any of it was the
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nervous attention my mother paid to the few new friends I
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gradually brought home from school with me toward the last
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of the year. She hovered a little too much, but it
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reassured me that she did know that the town and the
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school were way too big for a New England village girl to
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handle entirely alone. But as I faced the challenges of
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finding something, anything, I dreamed of home less and
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less.
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Eventually I understood that my whole life depended on
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that move. Where I came from, no one had ever known a
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person who made his living from art. The museums and art
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classes that life in Maryland offered opened roads I'd
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never known existed. I came to forgive them for the sake
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of my new life, and when they died I prayed that they knew
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how grateful I was that they had fearlessly moved on from
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the country life they had always known and had later
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willingly supported me through an education that must have
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seemed strange and frivolous to them. As was typical of
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our family, this was never spoken, and like love, concern,
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caring and all other sentiment, it had to be taken as a
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given. A mother loves her child. A child loves and
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honors her parents. Each is grateful for what is given,
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but there are no words.
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In all that time, we never went back to Maine and no
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one from Maine ever visited us. I had been so sure that
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we'd go back to visit in the summer, that when we went to
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Bethany Beach instead that first year, I asked my mother
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why, why we weren't going back, at least to say the good
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byes we'd never said. She was grim-faced. "Don't talk
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about it. Don't say those things to your father. We live
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here now. The beach is where people here go in the
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summer." I decided that there had been some terrible
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falling out between my father and his family -- some
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breach between them that none of them cared to mend. This
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also was never spoken, but I could tell that I made my
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mother nervous for a long time.
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I didn't meet Marie until Paulie brought her here
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several years after they were married. They just showed
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up one day. It had been almost thirty years since I had
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seen Paulie, but I knew him at once. I was speechless
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with surprise and didn't move, but Paulie came in my door
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and wrapped me entirely in his long arms. My face was
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pressed against his chest and his smell was familiar, a
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scent of grass and good dirt overlying something animal
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and disturbingly uncivilized; just the same in spite of
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all those years. It took me minutes to overcome the shock
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of finding it so, but he held me tight until I stopped
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trembling and my sobs changed to something more
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sentimental than hysterical. "She always did cry at
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everything," he said to Marie. "Are you still a sissy?"
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he asked me. I felt a wordless anger, and that was the
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same, too.
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It was Marie I had to learn about. Paulie seemed no
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different. He had told her about me and how we had grown
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together from the day my mother brought me home from the
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hospital until I went away thirteen years later. He said
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that when they showed him the little package, tightly
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wrapped in a pink flannel receiving blanket, they told him
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they had brought him something, a cousin, and that at
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first he wished they had got him a dog instead.
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Paulie and Marie had met on the West coast. At that
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time Paulie was working for a brokerage in Washington.
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They'd been nearby for a year, but Paulie had only
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recently learned that I lived there too, and had begun
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looking for me immediately. They lived in Virginia; I
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live in a distant suburb in Maryland.
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The peculiarity of Washington is that you can live "in
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Washington" and actually live twenty-five miles and three
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telephone books away. When I finally achieved a steady
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and decent income as a free-lance illustrator, I gave up
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my salaried work, took the modest inheritance from my
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parents, and bought a house near a small town that was
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several miles off one of the huge interstate highways that
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plow out through the countryside and create the urban
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sprawl that allows millions to say they are from
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Washington. I was not easy to find.
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But Paulie found me, and without so much as a phone
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call, he reentered my world.
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Marie was frail, but ignored it with an endearing
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toughness; bright, but deferent to Paulie's quick
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brilliance. She'd had a glamorous but hard youth as the
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child of a foreign service family. She'd been everywhere,
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but never had a real home or friends she could keep.
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Without knowing all the details, I knew she'd suffered a
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lot before she met Paulie. She had two little girls whom
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Paulie had adopted, and people used to say how lucky she'd
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been to find a man who didn't mind the children.
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The second time they came they brought the girls.
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They seemed a real family. Paulie had taken a wife who
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was crazy about him. Marie had a man who gave her the
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love and security she'd never had before. The two girls
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had a father who couldn't love them more if they were his
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own blood. They began to make me a part of their lives
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from then on. How many people have that kind of luck?
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I live in an odd house that once was part of a great
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estate. The manor house burned down in the Forties,
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leaving only the grounds and this outbuilding. When I
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found it, it looked shabby and unpromising. The five
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acres around my house conveyed with this unlikely
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structure. The rest of the once grand gardens were
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bulldozed and divided into two acre plots by rail fences
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and built over with huge colonial style houses. I thought
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that the five acres were left so that the new houses could
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be properly buffered from this raffish building and its
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pool, difficult to bulldoze into submission because of the
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great rock ribs that surfaced only here and there, but lay
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|
|
under everything and probably extended right through to
|
||
|
|
China. The idea of living in a house no one else wanted
|
||
|
|
appealed to me. I preferred the reference to former glory
|
||
|
|
still perceptible in the stone trimmed pool, the gone to
|
||
|
|
seed and awkwardly aging shrubberies and weathered cedar
|
||
|
|
siding of the former garages and pool cabana. It was
|
||
|
|
isolated from everything and everyone. It was
|
||
|
|
astoundingly right for me.
|
||
|
|
The building was squat and round, like a short, fat
|
||
|
|
silo, or the lighthouses peculiar to the Chesapeake Bay.
|
||
|
|
You could dive from it into the pool below, if you were
|
||
|
|
braver than I. Beyond the pool, the rocks and ledges that
|
||
|
|
had saved the place rose to a small cliff, hiding
|
||
|
|
everything except the road end of the driveway of the last
|
||
|
|
of the new houses. No one wanted it before me. I was
|
||
|
|
satisfied.
|
||
|
|
Paulie and Marie bought the house whose driveway I
|
||
|
|
could see. I was shocked and edgy when they told me. It
|
||
|
|
was only the third resale in the project; I hadn't even
|
||
|
|
known it was for sale. Marie explained, "We thought it
|
||
|
|
would be nice for the girls to be near family."
|
||
|
|
"And you have the best pool for miles," Paulie joked.
|
||
|
|
"Really, Connie, it just made so much sense. We were
|
||
|
|
ready to move up, the house came on the market, and it was
|
||
|
|
next to you! Now that we've found you, we wanted to be
|
||
|
|
near. We love you," Marie said softly, "you belong to
|
||
|
|
us."
|
||
|
|
I found it hard to work at first, after they moved in.
|
||
|
|
I was used to being alone. Suddenly I had drop-in
|
||
|
|
visitors. I was invited to dinner and to parties. I met
|
||
|
|
their friends and the clientele Paulie was building. I
|
||
|
|
had to learn how to accept them into my house and my pool.
|
||
|
|
I had to get used to seeing people in my landscape when I
|
||
|
|
painted. Debby Warner, a neighbor who had not, as others
|
||
|
|
had, given up on the reclusive artist who lived alone in
|
||
|
|
what locals called "the carriage house", called on me,
|
||
|
|
clearly curious about the new people.
|
||
|
|
"I didn't even know you had any relatives here. You
|
||
|
|
never mentioned them," she pried.
|
||
|
|
"I didn't know they were here," I said, "we lost touch
|
||
|
|
years ago."
|
||
|
|
"And they just happened to buy the house next door to
|
||
|
|
you? How strange!"
|
||
|
|
"Not really," I answered, "Paulie and I were close as
|
||
|
|
kids. When they found I was here, they looked for a house
|
||
|
|
near me. Paulie and Marie are very family oriented. It
|
||
|
|
isn't any odder than all the Kennedys having their summer
|
||
|
|
places together."
|
||
|
|
"So you knew they were coming? You seem so determined
|
||
|
|
to keep to yourself, I'm surprised it suited you.
|
||
|
|
Frankly, Connie, I'm the only neighbor who ever gets in
|
||
|
|
here, and that's only because you're too polite to refuse
|
||
|
|
me the door, and I'm too fascinated by you and your work
|
||
|
|
to give up," she babbled on. "Now, suddenly, you're
|
||
|
|
having a social life. I mean, they're like that; they
|
||
|
|
invite everybody. But you aren't like them -- or never
|
||
|
|
have been. And you still don't visit around with any of
|
||
|
|
the rest of us."
|
||
|
|
"Well, I didn't know they were coming," I admitted. I
|
||
|
|
was interested that someone as ordinary as Debby seemed to
|
||
|
|
confirm my uneasy sense of invasion.
|
||
|
|
"I think that's strange, Connie. The Kennedys have
|
||
|
|
always been together; they built that place on purpose.
|
||
|
|
You, on the other hand, have been living like a hermit all
|
||
|
|
this time, and they just show up and move in next door?
|
||
|
|
It's your right, after all, if you choose to be alone. It
|
||
|
|
seems very ... aggressive to me. Worse than me!"
|
||
|
|
I felt a ball of cobwebs form in my throat. I wanted
|
||
|
|
her out, out of my house and out of my face. I was no
|
||
|
|
longer interested in how her feelings jibed with mine. I
|
||
|
|
certainly didn't want to share my feelings or doubts with
|
||
|
|
her. I was suddenly afraid of her curiosity. I would
|
||
|
|
find it hard to retrace the tiny beginnings I had made at
|
||
|
|
acceptance if she wrecked them. "It is different, Debby.
|
||
|
|
They are my family, and the connection goes back over
|
||
|
|
forty years." She swallowed, measured the rejection, and
|
||
|
|
when I looked at my watch and exclaimed that I had a
|
||
|
|
deadline to meet by the end of the day, she apologized for
|
||
|
|
taking my time and left.
|
||
|
|
I had no deadline, so I spent the afternoon working
|
||
|
|
hard at cleaning my studio, the bathroom, the kitchen. I
|
||
|
|
let my mind wander and mend as I worked. By the end of
|
||
|
|
the day I had settled that what I told Debby was right,
|
||
|
|
and I wasn't irritated with Paulie and his family any
|
||
|
|
more. Over the next weeks I thoughtfully accepted the
|
||
|
|
connection and learned to fit the relationships into my
|
||
|
|
once private existence. I even developed a distant
|
||
|
|
interest in all of them.
|
||
|
|
Marie's girls were beautiful teenagers, but loud and
|
||
|
|
busy, too. Sandra was the older. She looked like Marie
|
||
|
|
-- tiny, wren-like, matter-of-fact and confident. She was
|
||
|
|
always ready to go, always had something to say; she moved
|
||
|
|
through life at full tilt.
|
||
|
|
Molly was fifteen. She was tall, with pale blonde
|
||
|
|
hair and gray eyes that were set perfectly straight under
|
||
|
|
blond brows as straight as the eyes. She looked sturdy.
|
||
|
|
She surprised me by becoming giggly in bursts like gun
|
||
|
|
shots out of a quiet, thoughtful character. Where Sandra
|
||
|
|
would brag about her popularity and her accomplishments,
|
||
|
|
Molly said little. When I went for a walk, Sandra would
|
||
|
|
jump up and ask to go. If I asked Molly, she would send
|
||
|
|
me a stunning smile and she would go eagerly, but she
|
||
|
|
never asked. I liked Molly best. She wasn't like anyone.
|
||
|
|
Not like Paulie and not like Marie.
|
||
|
|
Sandra would stand under my window and yell, "Connie!
|
||
|
|
Are you taking company?" If I wasn't busy I would gesture
|
||
|
|
her in. Molly never did that. I had to call out to her
|
||
|
|
and invite her. and then she would come in for tea, hardly
|
||
|
|
talking, but what conversation we had was punctuated with
|
||
|
|
those charming bursts of glee.
|
||
|
|
Sometimes I would see one of the girls walking alone,
|
||
|
|
head down, feet scuffing at my overgrown paths. I noticed
|
||
|
|
that Molly would run to the pool and throw herself in,
|
||
|
|
swimming as if her life depended on it until she could
|
||
|
|
swim no more. At first it seemed like very strenuous
|
||
|
|
exercise, but I soon saw that it was more than that.
|
||
|
|
Afterwards, she would lie exhausted for a long time on the
|
||
|
|
warm stone coping. I painted her there like that.
|
||
|
|
There was something abstract about her prone brown
|
||
|
|
body on the gray stones, my shaggy garden and bright pool
|
||
|
|
large and indistinct around her. No matter how I played
|
||
|
|
with the composition, she was never just a shape in the
|
||
|
|
design. She was always the focus.
|
||
|
|
Paulie kept irregular hours, sometimes up before dawn
|
||
|
|
to catch the European market news, often home in the
|
||
|
|
afternoons. He invited himself to lunch a few times. We
|
||
|
|
drank wine and he tried to make me laugh at the silly
|
||
|
|
little kid who followed her big, hero-cousin around like a
|
||
|
|
faithful pet. I didn't want to laugh at my childish self,
|
||
|
|
but in his fashion, Paulie would become more outrageous
|
||
|
|
and exaggerated until I laughed at his caricature of
|
||
|
|
little me. I felt a twinge of insecurity at the way the
|
||
|
|
past might seem to be reasserting itself, but he never
|
||
|
|
made the connection, and somehow we too never talked about
|
||
|
|
the sudden and complete rupture between our families.
|
||
|
|
The third time he came, he saw one of the paintings of
|
||
|
|
Molly. He looked at it very seriously. I waited for him
|
||
|
|
to say something about her limp exhaustion; the picture
|
||
|
|
reeked of it. Every time I painted her I wondered why she
|
||
|
|
punished herself that way, and why no one else seemed to
|
||
|
|
notice.
|
||
|
|
"That's interesting, what you've done with her," was
|
||
|
|
what he finally said. "She's a beautiful young woman,
|
||
|
|
isn't she?" Then he went on to something else.
|
||
|
|
A few days later, Sandra came to watch me work. Break
|
||
|
|
time came, and we had Cokes and sat in my canvas sling
|
||
|
|
chairs. "By the way," she said, "Mom wanted me to tell
|
||
|
|
you to come to dinner on Saturday. She's gonna drag out
|
||
|
|
another man for you, but don't tell her I told you."
|
||
|
|
I shrugged and grinned. Marie piped in a seemingly
|
||
|
|
endless supply of hot and cold running young men who made
|
||
|
|
me feel old. Molly appeared in the garden below. "Oh!
|
||
|
|
Dad's home." Sandra jumped up. "I better go see if he
|
||
|
|
wants anything. Don't forget Saturday!"
|
||
|
|
Molly started to swim her laps. For a second I
|
||
|
|
wondered why Sandra connected her appearance with Paulie
|
||
|
|
being home, but then I realized that he must have been
|
||
|
|
doing a car pool or something. I pulled out a canvas I'd
|
||
|
|
prepared that was ready for another Molly, swimming this
|
||
|
|
time, I'd decided.
|
||
|
|
Sandra came back the next day to talk about my clothes
|
||
|
|
for Saturday. "It's important, Connie. I found out who
|
||
|
|
it is, and he's a good one. I promise! He's just come
|
||
|
|
back from overseas, so you haven't met him yet."
|
||
|
|
"They're all okay," I said, "they just haven't been
|
||
|
|
for me."
|
||
|
|
She tipped her head and studied me. "This one's
|
||
|
|
different." She pulled things from my closet, strewing
|
||
|
|
them over my bed until it looked like her room. "You need
|
||
|
|
to find a good man," she earnestly told me, "art is all
|
||
|
|
very well, but a woman needs a good man."
|
||
|
|
"You're prejudiced," I laughed, "because your mother
|
||
|
|
has been so happy with Paulie. Marriage isn't like that
|
||
|
|
for everyone."
|
||
|
|
"You haven't even tried it," she snorted. "I think
|
||
|
|
you're afraid about love. But you're right, there aren't
|
||
|
|
any like Dad. But he's taken now." She had by then put
|
||
|
|
together an outfit she seemed to like, a getup that
|
||
|
|
drooped and swayed like an exotic dancer's costume.
|
||
|
|
"Don't you think there should be a little more to
|
||
|
|
this?" I asked her. "Like maybe pants or even a dress
|
||
|
|
under it? I've never worn an outfit consisting entirely
|
||
|
|
of accessories before."
|
||
|
|
"Try it!" she insisted. "It might change your life."
|
||
|
|
She grinned at me. "You can't hide your light under a
|
||
|
|
bushel. Men are more visual than women."
|
||
|
|
"Is that so!"
|
||
|
|
"Trust me, Con, this I know."
|
||
|
|
"And how is that? Is there a man in your life that I
|
||
|
|
don't know about? I thought you couldn't date yet."
|
||
|
|
She sobered. "Mom and Dad don't think it's a good
|
||
|
|
idea for young girls to go out except in groups until
|
||
|
|
college. Well, do what you want." She threw the clothes
|
||
|
|
down on my bed and walked out! I couldn't imagine what I
|
||
|
|
had said to offend her, but all I know about teenagers is
|
||
|
|
that no one seems to understand them.
|
||
|
|
We had dramatic storms that summer, and when they blew
|
||
|
|
I could hear something flapping on the roof. There was a
|
||
|
|
panel in the ceiling that led to a trapdoor in the roof.
|
||
|
|
When I went up I found that a weathervane had come loose
|
||
|
|
on one side so that in a high wind it would jerk back and
|
||
|
|
forth instead of turning smoothly. I went back down for
|
||
|
|
tools and then up again to fix it. The roof barely
|
||
|
|
sloped. It was easy to stand on.
|
||
|
|
When I'd finished, I sat and looked out over the
|
||
|
|
neighborhood. As wide and beautiful as my view was, it
|
||
|
|
was oriented in one direction. The view from my roof was
|
||
|
|
spectacular. I could see everything from here. I could
|
||
|
|
even see over the cliff to Marie and Paulie's house.
|
||
|
|
Paulie's car pulled into the driveway. Marie's car was
|
||
|
|
gone. I waved at him, but he didn't see me and he went
|
||
|
|
into their house.
|
||
|
|
I lay down in the strong sun. It felt good, but the
|
||
|
|
shingles soon poked into my back, so I gave it up and went
|
||
|
|
inside, closing the trap behind me. I worked distractedly
|
||
|
|
at something I suspected wasn't any good. Then Molly came
|
||
|
|
into the garden. Bored with my work, I wandered toward
|
||
|
|
the window and concentrated on seeing her as a painting
|
||
|
|
again.
|
||
|
|
The dry garden looked hard and browny-green. The pool
|
||
|
|
was as still and dark as smoked mirror. Molly was the
|
||
|
|
only soft thing out there. She looked as soft and
|
||
|
|
meltable as a beige sun cream I use, and just as
|
||
|
|
impermanent. I felt a sharp gut-wrench of guilt at my
|
||
|
|
ability to depersonalize her so, to force her into my flat
|
||
|
|
design.
|
||
|
|
It made me think. What was it about Molly? I stared
|
||
|
|
at her while she walked, no, she marched around the garden
|
||
|
|
for long minutes. And then, as unexpected as those bursts
|
||
|
|
of hilarity, she exploded into the pool. She swam, hard
|
||
|
|
and fast. When she pulled herself out, she was even
|
||
|
|
weaker than usual, she was barely able to crawl. For a
|
||
|
|
minute I thought I should go out and rescue her, she
|
||
|
|
seemed so worn, but then I saw Sandra coming to get her.
|
||
|
|
It was dinner time. I started to go to cook mine, but I
|
||
|
|
turned back and watched them -- Sandra supporting Molly
|
||
|
|
and looking into her face with worry and fear.
|
||
|
|
So they knew. They see it too. They know something
|
||
|
|
is wrong with Molly, I thought. I was relieved.
|
||
|
|
The next time Sandra came I made sure one of my Molly
|
||
|
|
paintings was out. She walked toward it and looked for a
|
||
|
|
long time. She asked me quietly, "What happens to girls
|
||
|
|
like Molly?"
|
||
|
|
"Like what?" I asked her. "What about her?"
|
||
|
|
"Girls who have a hard time growing up, becoming
|
||
|
|
women."
|
||
|
|
"Do you think that's what's wrong with Molly?"
|
||
|
|
"What else?" she cried. "We try to help, but she can't
|
||
|
|
get past it."
|
||
|
|
"Why do you think that's her problem, Sandra?" I
|
||
|
|
urged.
|
||
|
|
She jerked her head up at me. "What do you think it
|
||
|
|
is?"
|
||
|
|
I shook my head. "I don't know, Sandra."
|
||
|
|
"Oh...I thought...with the painting," she stumbled a
|
||
|
|
bit with her words. "I thought maybe you knew..."
|
||
|
|
"No, I don't." And I didn't.
|
||
|
|
It was almost the end of that long summer when it
|
||
|
|
finished. I'd been out shopping in the city for food and
|
||
|
|
art supplies. When I drove up the rough track that wound
|
||
|
|
toward my house, I noticed Paulie was just leaving their
|
||
|
|
well-groomed drive. I pulled around to the back and
|
||
|
|
wrestled my heavy bags up the stairs. I put away the
|
||
|
|
groceries and threw the bag of supplies into a corner
|
||
|
|
until I felt more like organizing them. I went to shower
|
||
|
|
away the dirt and sweat of the humid day.
|
||
|
|
When I was done, I dressed in crisp, clean cottons and
|
||
|
|
went down my lovely stairs into my gorgeous room and
|
||
|
|
looked out at my wonderful view. It was one of those
|
||
|
|
rare, smugly triumphant moments. The world was right with
|
||
|
|
me.
|
||
|
|
Then I noticed a scrap of something quite large just
|
||
|
|
showing from behind a huge boulder under the cliff. I
|
||
|
|
couldn't imagine what had blown into my idyllic scene to
|
||
|
|
mar it. Damning my careless neighbor, whose trash it
|
||
|
|
would be, I went out, although I knew I'd lose the cool
|
||
|
|
freshness of my shower. I walked toward it, and when I
|
||
|
|
reached the top of the submerged boulder, I saw that it
|
||
|
|
was Molly. I ran, frightened by her stillness. As I
|
||
|
|
neared, my panic grew to rage that her casual invasion of
|
||
|
|
my property had scared me to such a state. I reached her
|
||
|
|
and touched her arm.
|
||
|
|
She was a fool to think that falling from a thirty
|
||
|
|
foot cliff would kill her, but she was right. I was too
|
||
|
|
late. Maybe it had always been too late for me. She wore
|
||
|
|
the stained and stretched out white tank suit she swam in.
|
||
|
|
She didn't look soft any more; she looked broken.
|
||
|
|
I've told you what I think I knew. I think I have
|
||
|
|
been truthful, and now you must tell me. Should I have
|
||
|
|
known more? If I hadn't spent those hours painting her,
|
||
|
|
again and again, would I have touched her instead? Asked
|
||
|
|
her the right questions? Given her someone to tell? Is
|
||
|
|
that what another woman would have done? Would have
|
||
|
|
another woman have seen the scars in Marie's eyes? Or
|
||
|
|
would anyone, seeing only the fringes of tragedy cross her
|
||
|
|
window, have failed to find the fabric of which it was
|
||
|
|
wrought?
|
||
|
|
You see, I'd forgotten about Paulie. I only
|
||
|
|
remembered in great painful gasps and terrors as Sandra
|
||
|
|
babbled out the story over the next few days to the police
|
||
|
|
and the child protection counselors. What was wrong with
|
||
|
|
Molly was that she couldn't find the ways we lucky ones
|
||
|
|
found to cope. Molly wasn't like any of us.
|
||
|
|
My cousin Paulie, the brilliant, funny, childish
|
||
|
|
friend to all, had systematically introduced his lovely
|
||
|
|
adopted daughters to -- what? He called it love.
|
||
|
|
He called it the same thing when he was eighteen and I
|
||
|
|
was eleven. We had moved to Baltimore right after my
|
||
|
|
first "grown-up" exam by my pediatrician in Maine.
|
||
|
|
And now I remember. I must remember it all for them
|
||
|
|
at his trial. They won't let me do what he deserves from
|
||
|
|
me, but will allow me only to tell what is was like to be
|
||
|
|
eleven and to have a lifetime of love turn to terror and
|
||
|
|
pain, all the worse because it was mixed up with the habit
|
||
|
|
of loving and hero worship. I will tell how I was taught
|
||
|
|
to hide this thing because he was my cousin, and cousins
|
||
|
|
are not allowed to be in love, and then how I knew even I
|
||
|
|
must never remember, because I was so bad that my father
|
||
|
|
had to turn his back on his brother. But I remember, and
|
||
|
|
now I remember things I never saw and will never forget.
|
||
|
|
She creeps out onto the cliff. I know just what it's
|
||
|
|
like for her out there. She walks (or does she crawl?)
|
||
|
|
across the stone, rough and silver like the shingles of my
|
||
|
|
roof. She would seem small from my window. And then she
|
||
|
|
bursts off it, arching through the air, soft, soft and
|
||
|
|
melting with despair, until she breaks on the ground.
|
||
|
|
Any one of my paintings would do as a record of her
|
||
|
|
death.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
===========================================================
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
BRAVER KERL
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
by William Ramsay
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 2 of the novel "In Search of
|
||
|
|
Mozart"]
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Leopold stared at the runnels of frozen rain on the uneven
|
||
|
|
panes of the window overlooking the Rue Benoit. Wolferl was
|
||
|
|
still crying. Soon it would be New Year's, 1764, his son would
|
||
|
|
be turning eight on January 27. He had been watching Wolferl for
|
||
|
|
the past few weeks and he was worried. Wolferl had been acting
|
||
|
|
listless, it was even beginning to affect his playing. The
|
||
|
|
glamour of their Grand Tour of Europe and the novelty of the
|
||
|
|
"visits" to the palaces of kings and nobles were beginning to
|
||
|
|
wear off. He was trying everything he could think of to distract
|
||
|
|
the children. Excursions, puppet shows, lessons. Wolferl liked
|
||
|
|
languages and he had started giving the children hard candies as
|
||
|
|
prizes for keeping journals in French or English. But Wolferl
|
||
|
|
had just had a vicious quarrel with Nannerl -- his son had thrown
|
||
|
|
himself on the floor, tearing his hair, while Nannerl shouted at
|
||
|
|
him that he was stupid.
|
||
|
|
Wolferl, sobbing, cried out, "I can so speak French!"
|
||
|
|
"Nannerl, go run and help your mother," Leopold had said,
|
||
|
|
and he had pushed her gently toward the door.
|
||
|
|
Now he looked at his son's slight figure, the whites of the
|
||
|
|
eyes pink, the little button nose runny. Leopold was
|
||
|
|
embarrassed. He had told Wolferl last Christmas in Vienna that
|
||
|
|
soon they could go home "for a long time." Now, less than a year
|
||
|
|
later, he had committed them to being away for Lord knows how
|
||
|
|
long. But it wasn't his fault, it had to be done. They just had
|
||
|
|
to seize the day, the children must make the most of their
|
||
|
|
"prodigy" years. He leaned down to give Wolferl a hug -- but
|
||
|
|
Wolferl yelled, "You're crushing Paul!" and grabbed at the thin
|
||
|
|
air, making stroking motions. Him and his "Paul"!
|
||
|
|
Something must be done before Wolferl did something really
|
||
|
|
stupid -- he didn't look forward to a grumpy "Paul" being
|
||
|
|
presented to King Louis at Versailles!
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
The coach was drafty, but Wolfgang felt warm under the blue
|
||
|
|
blanket on the road from Paris. Paul sat on the wooden ledge
|
||
|
|
under the little isinglass window in back. They drove right into
|
||
|
|
the courtyard of the palace, where they found a crowd of people.
|
||
|
|
Everybody shoved and pushed, and somebody stepped on his toe --
|
||
|
|
right on his new blue satin slipper. A very tall man in a great
|
||
|
|
white wig, a servant, shouted to his father to step back.
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang felt his father's hand pushing him forward, his head hit
|
||
|
|
the tall man's leg. The servant raised a long black rod and
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang thought he was going to hit Papa. But then his father
|
||
|
|
said, in French, "Kapellmeister Mozart and his family!" Someone
|
||
|
|
behind the big servant repeated, "Maitre de Chapelle Mozart."
|
||
|
|
Then the noise died down, and other servants pushed people aside,
|
||
|
|
making a path for them, and the tall servant led them, his father
|
||
|
|
first, with Wolfgang pulling Paul by the hand, into a vast
|
||
|
|
mirrored hall with the longest, most shining table he had ever
|
||
|
|
seen. It was New Year's Day, when all the nobles and other
|
||
|
|
important people from all over gathered to stand behind the
|
||
|
|
chairs of the royal family while they ate dinner. What a table!
|
||
|
|
There were fresh flowers in vases of crystal and gold, and
|
||
|
|
candelabra holding eight candles, lots of them, even though it
|
||
|
|
was broad daylight. And on the tablecloth there were layers of
|
||
|
|
colored sand, pink and green and purple, with designs of harps or
|
||
|
|
bouquets of flowers drawn into them. He had thought that the
|
||
|
|
palaces in Vienna were beautiful, but this one was something
|
||
|
|
marvelous. Even Paul was impressed. But it was so strange that
|
||
|
|
people didn't bow down to the King as he went by, and nobody
|
||
|
|
kissed his hand or anything, like in Vienna. Paul was going to
|
||
|
|
bow, but he warned him not to, just in time.
|
||
|
|
It was very crowded and he felt awfully small. But then
|
||
|
|
another tall servant pushed him into a spot right in back of the
|
||
|
|
Queen. Wolfgang was afraid, everybody seemed to be looking at
|
||
|
|
him, and he lost sight of Paul. Then the Queen spoke to him --
|
||
|
|
in German. She asked him all about what he had been doing, and
|
||
|
|
how he liked Paris. And he told her he liked Paris, but that he
|
||
|
|
liked Versailles even better -- which he knew would please her,
|
||
|
|
and which besides was true. When he heard the German words, Paul
|
||
|
|
sidled up to them. Wolfgang could speak French, he could say
|
||
|
|
"Merci" and "S'il vous plait," and just anything he wanted to,
|
||
|
|
but Paul hated the French and wouldn't learn the language. Down
|
||
|
|
the table sat a fat-faced but pretty lady they called Madame de
|
||
|
|
Ponder [Pompadour], who looked like the Empress in Vienna.
|
||
|
|
Madame de Ponder was very important, even though he couldn't
|
||
|
|
figure out why exactly -- but she had a frown on her face and
|
||
|
|
wouldn't talk to him. She looked like someone who might bawl him
|
||
|
|
out. He backed up into somebody and fell down on his hands and
|
||
|
|
knees. The skin on the palm of his hand got scraped and he
|
||
|
|
thought he would cry. But then Madame the Dolphin -- or whatever
|
||
|
|
her name was, her husband was the King's son -- reached down and
|
||
|
|
lifted him up and gave him the biggest bonbon he'd ever seen. He
|
||
|
|
asked for another one, for Paul. They may not have kissed the
|
||
|
|
King's hand, but there were lots of other kisses. Every one of
|
||
|
|
the Royal Princesses kissed him! And the Queen, too, she put out
|
||
|
|
her hand for him to kiss, and he gave her a lot of kisses,
|
||
|
|
because she had been so nice to him -- and because she was the
|
||
|
|
Queen. She even kissed Paul, although Paul didn't usually like
|
||
|
|
kissing, but after all, it was the Queen. Wolfgang wished he
|
||
|
|
were the Queen's son. He loved Mama, but still!
|
||
|
|
"I'd like to be a prince and sit down at the table, not just
|
||
|
|
stand behind it!" he told his father afterward. His father's
|
||
|
|
face looked pained, and he thought for a minute that his father
|
||
|
|
was going to get angry at him.
|
||
|
|
But then Papa laughed. "You have something better than rank
|
||
|
|
and titles."
|
||
|
|
He looked at his father's stern face.
|
||
|
|
"You have genius," his father said.
|
||
|
|
He meant his music. Wolfgang saw Paul making one of his
|
||
|
|
faces. Why did everybody make such a fuss about his music?
|
||
|
|
And nobody could tell him that "genius" was as good as being
|
||
|
|
a prince. Princes didn't have to practice so many hours a day.
|
||
|
|
Besides, if he were a prince, he could command them to find
|
||
|
|
more friends for him to play with! Even Paul would like that!
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
The engraving finally arrived one misty day in November.
|
||
|
|
Leopold had to smile as he showed his wife von Mechel's work.
|
||
|
|
Their son was shown sitting on the bench in front of the keyboard
|
||
|
|
with the stiff tails of his fancy coat sticking up and out like
|
||
|
|
some kind of jaunty rooster. With luck, they would sell
|
||
|
|
thousands of these. What wonderful advertising!
|
||
|
|
"I like the pose," he said. "Look! Wolfgang at the
|
||
|
|
keyboard, me standing behind his chair playing the violin, and
|
||
|
|
Nannerl leaning on the harpsichord with one arm, with the other
|
||
|
|
holding music, as if she were singing."
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang, at the harpsichord practicing, had been listening.
|
||
|
|
"But why is Nannerl pretending she's singing, Papa? She doesn't
|
||
|
|
sing!"
|
||
|
|
"I do so sing, I sing all the time, you've heard me sing,
|
||
|
|
you little idiot!" said Nannerl. Her hands were on her hips and
|
||
|
|
the ribbons in her hair jiggled.
|
||
|
|
"You can't sing a note! It's all a lie." And Wolfgang
|
||
|
|
jumped up from the keyboard. "I can sing, I can do anything in
|
||
|
|
music!"
|
||
|
|
"Sit down! You sit down now or you won't be able to sit
|
||
|
|
down tonight," said Leopold.
|
||
|
|
Wolferl lifted his little chin high, as if he were about to
|
||
|
|
crow. "And better than anyone!"
|
||
|
|
Leopold raised one finger and shook it. "I've warned you
|
||
|
|
about constantly saying things like that!"
|
||
|
|
His son sat down.
|
||
|
|
"That's better. You'll learn, Wolferl, that what we're
|
||
|
|
doing is posing." He added, under his breath, "We do a lot of
|
||
|
|
posing."
|
||
|
|
"Can I do the posing as a singer next time?" asked Wolferl.
|
||
|
|
Nannerl yelled in protest.
|
||
|
|
"Quiet," roared Leopold. "There will be plenty of posing
|
||
|
|
for everyone on this tour, that I promise you."
|
||
|
|
Wolferl stood looking thoughtful for a minute. Then he
|
||
|
|
whispered something to his imaginary friend. "Paul and I like
|
||
|
|
posing," he said earnestly.
|
||
|
|
Leopold chuckled, and his wife laughed until tears glittered
|
||
|
|
on her cheeks. That night in bed, Leopold smiled to himself and
|
||
|
|
then turned to his wife. "That was amusing about the 'posing'
|
||
|
|
today."
|
||
|
|
"Yes," she said, "our son seems ready to take center stage."
|
||
|
|
"Yes, he certainly does."
|
||
|
|
"And he isn't the only one," she said, pushing back a ribbon
|
||
|
|
on her nightcap that had come untied.
|
||
|
|
"You mean me, I suppose?" She nodded. "Well, I guess
|
||
|
|
you're right. I like the 'posing' too."
|
||
|
|
"But will Nannerl get her share of it all, Mozart?"
|
||
|
|
"Her share? Of course she should by rights, she's a
|
||
|
|
talented musician. But I know what you mean, it isn't the same."
|
||
|
|
No, she's just a girl," his wife said bitterly.
|
||
|
|
Leopold moved over and put his arm around her. "She plays
|
||
|
|
superlatively, better than most women -- or men. It's just that
|
||
|
|
she isn't as quick at improvising and she hasn't got his trick of
|
||
|
|
playing pieces from memory after just one hearing. Lord," he
|
||
|
|
said, shaking his head, "he really is remarkable."
|
||
|
|
"What happens to her -- and to him -- when they grow up,
|
||
|
|
Mozart?" Her voice was solemn as a sermon.
|
||
|
|
He thought for a minute, pushing the feather bed down away
|
||
|
|
from his chin. He sighed. "She'll marry, he'll be a great
|
||
|
|
musician -- another Handel. What do you mean, 'What will happen
|
||
|
|
to them'! Sometimes I just don't understand you, Marianne!"
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
It was another rainy Parisian day. "Ah, my ace takes your
|
||
|
|
queen at last," said the Countess van Eyck to Marianne Mozart.
|
||
|
|
The Countess' lovely cheeks were flushed with pink blotches.
|
||
|
|
The queen of hearts' one visible eye stared up reproachfully
|
||
|
|
at Frau Mozart.
|
||
|
|
"You lost again, Mama!" said Wolferl.
|
||
|
|
She swatted at him with her fan. He ducked.
|
||
|
|
"You missed!"
|
||
|
|
"I'll 'miss' you," she said, rising from her chair and
|
||
|
|
slapping out at him again. He didn't move quickly enough and her
|
||
|
|
fan caught his face with a loud crack. He stood there a minute,
|
||
|
|
his cheek turning red. Tears started to form, but he bit his
|
||
|
|
lip. "I'm sorry, Wolferl," she said, catching her breath, "I
|
||
|
|
didn't mean that."
|
||
|
|
"It's all right, Mama."
|
||
|
|
She chucked him under the chin. "Remember, son, bear up --
|
||
|
|
call on the strength of a lion."
|
||
|
|
"I'll remember," he said. "Come on," he said to Paul and
|
||
|
|
walked away slowly out of the room, shuffling his feet as if he
|
||
|
|
were cleaning the carpet.
|
||
|
|
"Marianne," said the Countess, "what's the matter?" "Didn't
|
||
|
|
the concert go well last night?" The Countess coughed.
|
||
|
|
"Oh yes, it went well, they always do." The pale winter
|
||
|
|
light vaguely illumined the card room at the palace from the one
|
||
|
|
tall but narrow window, surrounded by heavy puce silk hangings.
|
||
|
|
"He's such a serious little boy when he starts to play
|
||
|
|
music, not at all like when he's around here," said the Countess.
|
||
|
|
"Yes, sometimes his father has to pick him up and carry him
|
||
|
|
away from the keyboard, he can't bear to stop playing." Marianne
|
||
|
|
picked up a piece of marzipan and ate it. She licked her chubby
|
||
|
|
fingers.
|
||
|
|
"He works hard for a little boy."
|
||
|
|
"Yes, Lotte, but he does love it, you know. And we have to
|
||
|
|
make the most of this opportunity -- Archbishop Sigismund was
|
||
|
|
very kind to give Leopold a leave of absence so that we could do
|
||
|
|
this tour."
|
||
|
|
"Of course." The Countess shook her head slightly. "But I
|
||
|
|
suppose you do worry about Wolferl? The little imaginary friend
|
||
|
|
and all? He's a little old for that kind of thing."
|
||
|
|
"To tell the truth, I worry about Nannerl, and I let Leopold
|
||
|
|
do most of the worrying about Wolferl." She shuffled the cards,
|
||
|
|
let the Countess cut, and started to deal.
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl's so alone here," said the Countess. "No one his
|
||
|
|
own age. I think I'll invite my nephew Rupert over."
|
||
|
|
Marianne smiled. "No wonder Wolferl loves you, Lotte."
|
||
|
|
"I feel the same way about him."
|
||
|
|
Marianne took the Countess' jack with her king. "I only
|
||
|
|
wish that love -- anyone's love -- were enough."
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl, why don't you go and see what Rupert is doing?"
|
||
|
|
The Countess was sitting at her needlework stand. The December
|
||
|
|
sunlight poured in, shining off the brass lion ends of the
|
||
|
|
andirons. Wolfgang sat gazing into the fire. He didn't answer.
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl?"
|
||
|
|
He didn't feel like talking. He felt alone, Paul had stayed
|
||
|
|
in his closet today.
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl, come here." He got up slowly and walked over
|
||
|
|
toward her, than suddenly flopped down and started to turn a
|
||
|
|
somersault.
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl, please. Come here." He stood in front of her,
|
||
|
|
his chin on his chest. She lifted his chin up gently. Then she
|
||
|
|
took his head under her arm and hugged him close to her. He put
|
||
|
|
his arms around her. After a minute, she pulled away. She took
|
||
|
|
her handkerchief from her bodice and wiped off his cheeks. He
|
||
|
|
put his fist up to his nose. "Wolferl, go find Rupert," she
|
||
|
|
said. Her eyes were very large and very blue and liquid, like
|
||
|
|
the sea.
|
||
|
|
"I already asked him, he says he's busy and..." He was
|
||
|
|
ashamed to hear his voice breaking.
|
||
|
|
"Rupert! Rupert!" she called. After a pause, she said more
|
||
|
|
loudly, "Rupert!"
|
||
|
|
"Yes, Tante," said Rupert, his blonde hair neatly combed,
|
||
|
|
wiping his reddish snub nose, as he ran in from the next room.
|
||
|
|
"Take Wolferl along with you to play."
|
||
|
|
"But he doesn't know how we play games here in France."
|
||
|
|
"Well, he can learn."
|
||
|
|
"He doesn't know how."
|
||
|
|
"Rupert!"
|
||
|
|
"Anyway, there's nobody else around to make up a game right
|
||
|
|
now."
|
||
|
|
The Countess thought a minute. "Why don't you show Wolferl
|
||
|
|
that wooden figure you're carving with your big knife."
|
||
|
|
"It's not finished yet," he said pouting.
|
||
|
|
"It doesn't matter, I think you've been very clever with it.
|
||
|
|
And I particularly want Wolferl to see."
|
||
|
|
"All right, Tante," and, swinging his arm high and then
|
||
|
|
dropping it very low, he led the way out of the room. Wolferl
|
||
|
|
followed him. He looked back, but she was intent on her
|
||
|
|
needlework.
|
||
|
|
Once they got into the other room, Rupert said, "I've got a
|
||
|
|
hunting knife. With a big, wide blade. Have you got a knife?"
|
||
|
|
"No," said Wolfgang.
|
||
|
|
"Everybody has a knife," said Rupert.
|
||
|
|
"I don't. I don't need one!"
|
||
|
|
"You act like a sissy."
|
||
|
|
"I am not a sissy!"
|
||
|
|
"Always playing the harpsichord -- la-di-da-da," he said,
|
||
|
|
mimicking a keyboard player.
|
||
|
|
"Shut up!"
|
||
|
|
"Make me!" said Rupert.
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang hesitated. Rupert was bigger than he was. He
|
||
|
|
thought about going back to Countess Lotte. But he was afraid if
|
||
|
|
he did, he might break into tears. Then Rupert pushed him,
|
||
|
|
knocking him over. He grabbed at Rupert's leg, yanking hard.
|
||
|
|
Rupert staggered, then he felt Rupert's fists pummeling his head.
|
||
|
|
"Ow, ow, ow!" The pain throbbed in his skull and the room
|
||
|
|
jiggled around him.
|
||
|
|
"What's going on in there?" came the voice of Countess
|
||
|
|
Lotte. Rupert stopped. There was silence a moment. "Nothing,
|
||
|
|
Tante!" he yelled. "We're just playing."
|
||
|
|
"You louse!" said Wolfgang hoarsely. "You dummy!"
|
||
|
|
"You sissy," whispered Rupert, who turned and ran off into
|
||
|
|
the back hall.
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang pulled himself up. The parqueted floor was cold on
|
||
|
|
his hands. He remembered the feel of the plain oaken floors of
|
||
|
|
home. He heard the Countess' step as she entered from the other
|
||
|
|
room. Then he felt himself folded in her arms. He held back the
|
||
|
|
tears that were scalding behind his eyes. Then he felt her
|
||
|
|
handkerchief under his nose. He blew, hard.
|
||
|
|
As he lay awake that night in the big bed in the tiny room
|
||
|
|
under the third-floor stair landing, he could still imagine
|
||
|
|
Countess Lotte's face. Beautiful and sweet, that's what she was.
|
||
|
|
That's what a good fairy should be, someone who could make
|
||
|
|
anything come true. He hoped Paul was still in the closet.
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl! Are you still awake?" His mother's face loomed
|
||
|
|
over his.
|
||
|
|
"Yes, Mama."
|
||
|
|
"What are you doing, lying there staring at the ceiling?
|
||
|
|
Close your eyes and go to sleep. Now!"
|
||
|
|
He closed his eyes, but he still thought about the sweet
|
||
|
|
eyes and the bright red cheeks.
|
||
|
|
A few nights later, they had just returned from a concert at
|
||
|
|
Maitre Clouet's. The soiree had started late, and he was tired.
|
||
|
|
But as he started to climb the stairs, the Countess called
|
||
|
|
"Wolferl" and he ran into the library to see what she wanted.
|
||
|
|
There it lay on the marble tabletop, in front of the Count. A
|
||
|
|
bright shining hunting knife with a blade as wide as his wrist.
|
||
|
|
"Oh!" His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe.
|
||
|
|
"Yes, was that what you wanted?" said the Countess.
|
||
|
|
"Oh, yes. Oh thank you, thank you."
|
||
|
|
"Now be careful, don't cut your fingers, young musician,"
|
||
|
|
said the Count.
|
||
|
|
"Oh, he won't, darling. Anyway, even if he did get a little
|
||
|
|
cut, boys have to have knives, didn't you tell me that?"
|
||
|
|
"All right, as long as his father doesn't blame me." And
|
||
|
|
the Count picked up the knife himself to test its balance. Then
|
||
|
|
he offered the knife to him. Wolfgang stared at the intricate
|
||
|
|
incising on the blade. Then he picked it up, holding the
|
||
|
|
enameled handle in his hand for long minutes. It was heavy and
|
||
|
|
had a beautiful shiny black finish. It was the most magnificent
|
||
|
|
thing he had ever owned. He couldn't wait to show Paul.
|
||
|
|
He was going to stay in Paris for ever and ever. He'd never
|
||
|
|
leave. Maybe when the Count died, he could marry her. They
|
||
|
|
would be happy together for ever and ever.
|
||
|
|
Then January came and the weather turned bitterly cold.
|
||
|
|
Some days when he saw her in the library or the salon, the
|
||
|
|
Countess' cheeks would be glowing a fiery red. At night he could
|
||
|
|
hear a racking cough from her room just underneath his.
|
||
|
|
Sometimes he would go and stand outside her door, listening,
|
||
|
|
under the picture of the man in armor with the red plumes on his
|
||
|
|
helmet. He would wait and wait, thinking about everything,
|
||
|
|
imagining himself as a grown man and her husband. Count and
|
||
|
|
Countess Mozart.
|
||
|
|
Then it was the first Wednesday in February, soon after his
|
||
|
|
eighth birthday. He was asleep, and the sound woke him up. It
|
||
|
|
was hooves clattering and the clanking of metal-rimmed wheels on
|
||
|
|
the cobblestoned courtyard. He heard talking in the hall. Next
|
||
|
|
day he saw Dr. Moreau standing outside in the courtyard talking
|
||
|
|
to the Count. He overheard the butler talking to the downstairs
|
||
|
|
maid.
|
||
|
|
"She's very bad this time, I..." Then they noticed Wolfgang
|
||
|
|
and moved off down the hallway. But he could hear the words
|
||
|
|
'weak' and 'blood.'
|
||
|
|
The next morning, when he came out for breakfast, the hall
|
||
|
|
was full of men in dark coats. He ran into his parents' room.
|
||
|
|
His father put his arm around his shoulder and said, "The
|
||
|
|
Countess has gone to meet Our Lord, son. I'm sorry."
|
||
|
|
He felt nothing, as if he had been stunned. Later he went
|
||
|
|
up to the picture of the man in armor again and waited. It got
|
||
|
|
very cold in the bare corridor. Finally he went downstairs
|
||
|
|
again. He passed his sister on the first landing, by the potted
|
||
|
|
palm. Her face was buried in her handkerchief. As he passed by
|
||
|
|
the salon, he heard a man's voice -- the Count's -- moaning and
|
||
|
|
sobbing.
|
||
|
|
That night at the supper table, the stunned feeling began to
|
||
|
|
go away, now he suddenly felt as if a crushing weight had fallen
|
||
|
|
on him. The world looked dark and lonely. Later, he said good
|
||
|
|
night to Paul. Then, as he lay down to sleep, he came to the
|
||
|
|
mention of her name in his prayers.
|
||
|
|
"And also Countess Lotte and the Couuu..." He felt a sudden
|
||
|
|
gush of hot tears. There would never be anybody like her! Now
|
||
|
|
he was really alone, no one who loved him for himself -- not just
|
||
|
|
because of his music. Finally exhausted after some minutes, he
|
||
|
|
closed his eyes, his head swam, he said good night to Paul over
|
||
|
|
in the corner, and he fell asleep.
|
||
|
|
A few days later, after the funeral, Papa took them all to
|
||
|
|
Fontainebleau, where there was a monkey on the sidewalk that
|
||
|
|
lifted his hat when people said to him, "Vive le Roi." A giant
|
||
|
|
soldier in a tall hat talked to them. The soldier let him try to
|
||
|
|
lift his heavy sword -- he staggered under the weight -- and
|
||
|
|
asked him whether he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.
|
||
|
|
"No," he said, "I want to be a prince." The soldier opened his
|
||
|
|
mouth in a comical way. His father laughed. Why did he laugh,
|
||
|
|
princes could do everything, couldn't they? Everybody liked
|
||
|
|
princes -- they had to. At the supper table that evening, he
|
||
|
|
realized that he had forgotten about the Countess' death all
|
||
|
|
afternoon.
|
||
|
|
That night, while he was getting ready to say his prayers,
|
||
|
|
he asked his mother,
|
||
|
|
"Is Countess Lotte in heaven now?"
|
||
|
|
"She certainly is, yes, I'm quite sure she is."
|
||
|
|
"I want to go to heaven too, not to purgatory. I'm afraid
|
||
|
|
of purgatory." His mother stroked his head. He looked up at
|
||
|
|
her. "Mama, when are you going to die?"
|
||
|
|
His mother looked flustered. She said, "I hope not for a
|
||
|
|
long time yet."
|
||
|
|
"And me, Mama, when will I die?"
|
||
|
|
"Not for ages, don't fret yourself about it, Wolferl. Go to
|
||
|
|
sleep now. Sweet dreams."
|
||
|
|
But after she left, he did worry about death. He had to
|
||
|
|
make his plans. If he was going to die, he wanted to know when.
|
||
|
|
He had a lot of things to do. Maybe there wouldn't be time
|
||
|
|
enough for him to become a prince. But at least he could do
|
||
|
|
things his father wanted him to do, like being a Kapellmeister.
|
||
|
|
But he couldn't fall in love and get married if he died young.
|
||
|
|
If he died in the night, he'd never see his Bimperl again,
|
||
|
|
jumping up on him in welcome, short tail wagging. All of a
|
||
|
|
sudden he was very afraid, and he pictured the room with its
|
||
|
|
heavy drapes all dark, and his body lying on the bed in his best
|
||
|
|
suit, with flowers around it and his hands crossed. He was
|
||
|
|
afraid to go to sleep, he tossed and turned.
|
||
|
|
He awoke tired in the morning, but the sun was streaming in
|
||
|
|
the windows, and he was alive. Alive! He jumped up and looked
|
||
|
|
out the windows at the trees in the park. He thought he'd never
|
||
|
|
see anything as beautiful in his life as the sunlight and shade
|
||
|
|
speckling the bare branches and the brownish green lawn below.
|
||
|
|
He thought of Countess Lotte in her coffin in the ground, then he
|
||
|
|
looked at a pigeon pecking at the bare stones of the courtyard.
|
||
|
|
It was good to be alive.
|
||
|
|
He took a look in the closet. Paul wasn't there again
|
||
|
|
today. He wrote down in his journal, in English, "Life is good."
|
||
|
|
They were going to England soon, he could hardly wait. He would
|
||
|
|
only speak English at the dinner table from now on. He had to be
|
||
|
|
able to talk English to the little English boys.
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
The pale sun of the London spring shown dimly in colored
|
||
|
|
flashes through the gigantic rose window of the Great Chapel.
|
||
|
|
"Like this, Papa?"
|
||
|
|
"Yes, just like that, on Mr. Bach's lap." His father was
|
||
|
|
smiling his concert smile. Wolfgang felt uncomfortable -- and
|
||
|
|
silly, like a baby. He could hear stirrings in the audience.
|
||
|
|
Some coughs. The old church was cold, streams of light from the
|
||
|
|
stained glass windows filtered bleakly into the nave. There were
|
||
|
|
two candles placed above the topmost keyboard to cast light on
|
||
|
|
the score.
|
||
|
|
"And now," said a voice from down below the pulpit, "Mr.
|
||
|
|
Johann Christian Bach and Mr. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who is
|
||
|
|
eight years old, will play a toccata by Handel."
|
||
|
|
More stirrings in the audience. He could feel Mr. Bach's
|
||
|
|
big belly pressing against his back. "Don't be afraid," he
|
||
|
|
heard, "when I say 'jetzt,' then you take over and play from the
|
||
|
|
start of the following measure, and when I saw 'bitte,' you'll
|
||
|
|
turn it over back to me."
|
||
|
|
Mr. Bach started it out, and it was easy to go back and
|
||
|
|
forth. He had no trouble with the tempo. At one point he
|
||
|
|
improvised a few extra notes. Then Mr. Bach improvised a few
|
||
|
|
more in answer when it was his turn. What fun!
|
||
|
|
After they finished, Mr. Bach held him up on his shoulder
|
||
|
|
while the people applauded. Then Wolfgang jumped down from the
|
||
|
|
bench and ran over to his father. He held onto the altar rail
|
||
|
|
and lifted himself up, swinging his legs back and forth. "We
|
||
|
|
fooled them, didn't we? Nobody knew who was playing when."
|
||
|
|
"You're right. I knew, but that's only because I know you
|
||
|
|
and I also know Herr Bach's style."
|
||
|
|
"That was fun." He looked out at the departing audience.
|
||
|
|
Another little boy, about his age, with hair as blonde as his
|
||
|
|
own, was looking at him. The boy's mouth was open. He stared at
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang. Wolfgang waved to him. The boy remained staring.
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang started to walk over to the railing. The blonde boy
|
||
|
|
looked at him again, then a slightly older, dark-haired boy came
|
||
|
|
up behind the blonde boy and shoved him, knocking him against the
|
||
|
|
pew. Then the older boy ran away, back down the aisle toward the
|
||
|
|
great door. The blonde boy turned and ran after him, yelling,
|
||
|
|
"Jim, Jim, wait for me, Jim!"
|
||
|
|
"Come, Wolfgang, we'll be late for the reception at Hampton
|
||
|
|
Court." He followed his father down the long cold aisle.
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
The weather was cooler. Leopold gave thanks to the Lord,
|
||
|
|
from whom all blessings flowed. Finally he was over his fever --
|
||
|
|
it had been terrible, face burning, sweaty bedclothes glued to
|
||
|
|
his body. Bach sat back in the plush chair, the musical scores
|
||
|
|
in his hand, a big smile on his jowly face. Leopold was glad to
|
||
|
|
have company, and lunch had tasted good for a change. "Well,
|
||
|
|
what do you think?"
|
||
|
|
"They're very well done, quite correct musically. And a
|
||
|
|
good sense of rhythmic interest."
|
||
|
|
"He wrote them while I was sick, the doctor told him not to
|
||
|
|
disturb me by playing the spinet. So he sat down and composed
|
||
|
|
these!"
|
||
|
|
"Impressive."
|
||
|
|
"Of course, I know as symphonies go they're not profound."
|
||
|
|
"One could hardly expect that," said Bach, wrinkling his
|
||
|
|
long nose. "But for his age, they are truly amazing. Often we
|
||
|
|
see performing talent, but this. He has a remarkable career in
|
||
|
|
front of him."
|
||
|
|
"I hope so." Leopold pulled up the woolen jacket he was
|
||
|
|
wearing. "The child himself certainly thinks so."
|
||
|
|
"A little conceit is natural. As long as it doesn't get out
|
||
|
|
of hand."
|
||
|
|
"I'll see that it doesn't, Bach!"
|
||
|
|
Bach pursed his lips. "Mozart, how is the boy doing, I
|
||
|
|
mean, in general?"
|
||
|
|
"In general? Quite well. His health is good. Oh, if you
|
||
|
|
mean his spirits, quite good. Just look at these new
|
||
|
|
compositions."
|
||
|
|
"Does he get out enough? I mean to play with other
|
||
|
|
children?"
|
||
|
|
"As best I can. It's difficult in a foreign
|
||
|
|
country. But I try to keep his life well-rounded, Herr Bach.
|
||
|
|
Please give me some credit."
|
||
|
|
"No, no, you must excuse me, Mozart, it's just that I come
|
||
|
|
from a large musical family. I know some of the problems with
|
||
|
|
having talented children."
|
||
|
|
"I'm sure you do. Your brothers, I know their music, and I
|
||
|
|
understand your father was quite gifted too. "
|
||
|
|
"Yes, he certainly was. More than the rest of us, by far."
|
||
|
|
What a loyal son. Johann Sebastian Bach's music was quite
|
||
|
|
old-fashioned and uninteresting. "I'm certainly glad to have any
|
||
|
|
advice you can give me."
|
||
|
|
"Be sure he has a chance to be a boy." Bach's mouth was
|
||
|
|
twisted and his eyes looked sad. "My father tried his best, but
|
||
|
|
I can't say that we Bach children led a normal life."
|
||
|
|
"'Normal life'! What's so good about that?"
|
||
|
|
"We're all only human, Mozart."
|
||
|
|
"Yes, of course," Leopold answered. But when Bach had left,
|
||
|
|
he realized the other musician didn't understand. The Bach
|
||
|
|
children had been talented -- but not like Wolferl. There was
|
||
|
|
plenty of room in life for music and everything else. There had
|
||
|
|
to be.
|
||
|
|
He had better be sure that Wolferl was still working out the
|
||
|
|
problems in that last violin sonata he had composed. "Wolferl,
|
||
|
|
Wolferl!" he called.
|
||
|
|
"Yes, Papi. Here I am," called his son from the parlor.
|
||
|
|
"Come here, son, let's go over that sonata."
|
||
|
|
"Yes, Papa."
|
||
|
|
A good son, that's what he had, a remarkable son!
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
In the dark back room at the Aux Trois Soldats in Lille,
|
||
|
|
Wolfgang sat at the keyboard, waiting while his father got his
|
||
|
|
violin out and tuned it. Suppose he got sick like Papa in
|
||
|
|
London, could they go home then? No, nothing ever stopped them.
|
||
|
|
Next month they had to go to the Hague, then back to Paris.
|
||
|
|
Father said they could go back to Salzburg the following winter.
|
||
|
|
In Vienna, the old Emperor had died. Now that stuck-up
|
||
|
|
Joseph would be Emperor -- he probably still didn't count when he
|
||
|
|
played. But he did at least like music. Papa said it might be
|
||
|
|
worth their while to go to Vienna, once they got home, and see
|
||
|
|
about opportunities at the new Court.
|
||
|
|
Home. Salzburg. He had almost forgotten what it was like
|
||
|
|
at home. His friends, Damian, Willy, Melchior, he wouldn't know
|
||
|
|
them. They wouldn't remember him. Hardly. A whole year more.
|
||
|
|
Why couldn't they go home?
|
||
|
|
Because of music. His 'genius.' Nannerl's 'talent.' Lucky
|
||
|
|
them!
|
||
|
|
He got up, went over to the cupboard, and took out the
|
||
|
|
silver medal King George had given him. The lion on its face
|
||
|
|
roared at him. At him, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart -- it was a medal
|
||
|
|
struck especially for him.
|
||
|
|
He knew he was not like everybody else. He was a wonder, a
|
||
|
|
marvel -- he had overheard people call him a monster, a freak of
|
||
|
|
nature. How much of him was a marvel or a freak? Just the
|
||
|
|
musical part of his brain? Or the rest of his brain, or his
|
||
|
|
total self? God knows he was like ordinary people too. He felt
|
||
|
|
starved right that minute -- and it was still an hour to supper!
|
||
|
|
If he was a monster or a genius, there were certainly no special
|
||
|
|
privileges for monsters -- or geniuses.
|
||
|
|
So what did the word "genius" mean? What difference did it
|
||
|
|
make that he was or wasn't one? Did "genius" apply to just music
|
||
|
|
or to all of him? What could he do about it all, anyway?
|
||
|
|
Nothing.
|
||
|
|
He had to live his life. Just like everybody else. Even
|
||
|
|
though he wasn't like everybody else.
|
||
|
|
It just wasn't fair.
|
||
|
|
If he had to be a "genius," he was going to make sure that
|
||
|
|
there would be something in it for him! Something besides just
|
||
|
|
music.
|
||
|
|
But what would that something be?
|
||
|
|
If he could only grow up faster!
|
||
|
|
Waiting was awful. But meanwhile, he knew one thing.
|
||
|
|
Nobody could ever take his music away from him.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
[CHAPTER THREE OF "IN SEARCH OF MOZART" WILL BE EXCERPTED IN
|
||
|
|
VOL.1, NO.3 OF "FICTION-ONLINE]
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
=============================================================
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
SPEAK, MUSE
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
by Otho E. Eskin
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
CHARACTERS:
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
A Playwright
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
A Muse
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
SCENE:
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Your typical artist's garret. There is chair and a table on which
|
||
|
|
sits a manual typewriter.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
TIME:
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
The present.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
=================================================================
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
AT RISE: The playwright is slumped over the typewriter.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
ENTER MUSE. She is dressed in a suitably squirrely
|
||
|
|
outfit and carries a Filofax. The playwright
|
||
|
|
becomes conscious that he is not alone, slowly
|
||
|
|
raises his head. He is unpleasantly surprised to
|
||
|
|
see the Muse.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Cheerfully)
|
||
|
|
Good evening!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
How did you get in here?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I flew upon sweet Zephyr's radiant wings.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You're supposed to call up from the lobby. Would you get out.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I'm here to help you, sir.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I don't need your help.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Oh, yes you do.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
If you don't leave right now, I'm calling the police.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Oh, dear, I hope I haven't gotten it wrong again. Aren't you a
|
||
|
|
playwright?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
(Suddenly conciliatory)
|
||
|
|
Well, as a matter of fact...
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Aren't you the author of "All This And Philadelphia Too"?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
How'd you hear of that? It's never been produced. Who are you?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
My name is Euterpe and I am your Muse this evening.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You're my what?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I've been sent here to inspire you to create things of noble
|
||
|
|
beauty and immortal grace.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You can't just come barging into people's homes like this.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Showing the PLAYWRIGHT a plastic, laminated identity card.)
|
||
|
|
It's all right. I'm a licensed nymph.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(MUSE walks to the typewriter and looks at
|
||
|
|
the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Uhmmm.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I've been going through a bad period. Can you really help me?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Of course. How do you suppose those other guys do it? You think
|
||
|
|
all the great artists just pump it out? No way. It takes
|
||
|
|
inspiration. You take Andrew Lloyd Weber or even Anthony Newley.
|
||
|
|
Without inspiration from a muse, they'd be nowhere.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You worked with them?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Not me personally. Now, sit at the table and start writing.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(PLAYWRIGHT sits at the table, leans over
|
||
|
|
the keys -- and freezes.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Go on.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
(Desperate)
|
||
|
|
I can't think of anything to say.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Very firmly, like a school teacher.)
|
||
|
|
You're not even trying.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(PLAYWRIGHT struggles at the keyboard,
|
||
|
|
then slumps.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I can't.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
OK, how about this. Shut your eyes and think about beautiful
|
||
|
|
scenes and music -- like in that movie, "Fantasia."
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The PLAYWRIGHT closes his eyes intently.
|
||
|
|
There is a long silence.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Well?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I think I'm falling asleep.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Impatiently)
|
||
|
|
Oh, for Pete's sake! Try again. This time, put your back into
|
||
|
|
it.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Somehow, I expected inspiration would be different.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The PLAYWRIGHT sits miserably at the
|
||
|
|
typewriter, staring at the blank sheet of
|
||
|
|
paper. The MUSE wanders around the room,
|
||
|
|
humming to herself in an annoying,
|
||
|
|
distracting manner.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Got any rocky road ice cream?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I don't think you're being any help to me at all.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
That's all I hear. Want. Want. Want. Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.
|
||
|
|
Have you tried drinking yourself into a coma several times a
|
||
|
|
week?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I can't tolerate alcohol.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
How'd you ever become a playwright in the first place?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I've always loved the theater. Ever since I saw Peter Pan on
|
||
|
|
television. It's in my blood.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Did you ever stop to think there might already be enough plays
|
||
|
|
and playwrights? After all, they've been writing plays in
|
||
|
|
English for over four hundred years. Maybe we've got enough by
|
||
|
|
now. Do we really need another play about a family tortured by
|
||
|
|
guilt? What I think is, what this country needs are people who
|
||
|
|
can do really competent work on transmissions.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You're not making me feel any better. Are you sure you're a
|
||
|
|
Muse?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
To be absolutely precise, I'm a Muse trainee.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
How many artists have you helped?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
You want the actual figure?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Yes.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Including you?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
OK.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
One.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Oh, my God.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Don't get the wrong idea. I've got lots of experience.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Such as?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I did my internship with a lyric poet.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
So what did he achieve?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Nervously)
|
||
|
|
I don't want to talk about it.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I think I was better off before you came.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
You don't like me, do you?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
It's just that you're making me feel really depressed.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
That's what everybody says.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I don't think you have any idea what you're doing.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Please give me another chance. I need this job. I'm on probation
|
||
|
|
you know. Ever since that incident with the sculptor.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
What incident?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I'd prefer not to dwell on it, if you don't mind. (Beat) My
|
||
|
|
mother told me I wouldn't make it. Of course, she always does
|
||
|
|
that to me. Never has any confidence in me. No matter what I
|
||
|
|
do, she finds fault. Never builds up my self esteem. This from
|
||
|
|
the woman who could only cook two things -- meat loaf and tuna
|
||
|
|
casserole.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Miss...
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I mean, our entire family lived for years on tuna casserole with
|
||
|
|
fucking corn flakes on top. No wonder my brother likes to wear
|
||
|
|
dresses.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I'm sorry about your brother.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I thought we were talking about my mother. Am I boring you?
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Not at all.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Maybe you should write a play about me.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I don't think so, really. Do you want me to call you a cab?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Call me a dreamer. Call me a fool. Just don't call me a cab.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I think it's time you left.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I'm not helping you, am I?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
So far, all you've done is suggest I become an alcoholic or a car
|
||
|
|
mechanic.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I'm a failure.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The MUSE begins to cry.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The MUSE sits on the floor and weeps.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Please don't cry. I hate it when you cry.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I never do anything right.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Don't talk like that! It's not that bad. Remember, it's always
|
||
|
|
darkest before the dawn.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
It is?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You've just had a run of bad luck. That's all.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
You don't know the half of it. Did I tell you about my ex?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
When you fall off a horse, you've got to get right back up and do
|
||
|
|
it again.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Do what again?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Keep telling yourself -- I'm good. I'm good.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
That helps?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The PLAYWRIGHT takes the MUSE by the hand
|
||
|
|
and pulls her to her feet. He points
|
||
|
|
somewhere grandly off stage.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
There's a brave new world out there waiting for you to conquer.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Really?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
You just need someone to believe in you. We'll do it. You and
|
||
|
|
me. Look out world, here we come.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The MUSE straightens up.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
(Singing)
|
||
|
|
When you walk through a storm keep your head up high and don't be
|
||
|
|
afraid of the dark.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(MUSE dries her tears and looks out at
|
||
|
|
the world off stage.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Singing)
|
||
|
|
I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it after all.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(Taking a deep breath.)
|
||
|
|
OK, where were we?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Nowhere. That's just the problem.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Perhaps we should review your whole play-writing technique. (The
|
||
|
|
MUSE puts on her glasses, opens her Filofax and studies several
|
||
|
|
pages). Uhmmm. Do you have a clear protagonist?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Of course.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
A balanced situation? A disturbance?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Naturally.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
You develop complications and sub-stories leading smoothly
|
||
|
|
through a crisis to climax and resolution?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Every time.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
(The MUSE slams her Filofax shut emphatically.)
|
||
|
|
That's your problem right there!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I don't get it.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Your whole approach is bad. You're writing the wrong plays for
|
||
|
|
the modern theater. I took a workshop in this once.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
What can I do?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Do you use plots in your work?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Yes, of course...
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Get rid of them. Character development?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I try.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Forget it. Clarity of diction? Beauty of style? Dramatic
|
||
|
|
dialogue?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Well, I...
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Trash all that. Do your plays make any sense?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Sure.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Really bad idea.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
(Suddenly inspired)
|
||
|
|
Maybe you've got something.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
(The PLAYWRIGHT rushes to his typewriter
|
||
|
|
and begins to type furiously.)
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
That's it! That's it! I feel it coming. Mindless symbolism.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Right!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Meaningless dialogue!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Beautiful.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Pretentious rhetoric!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
I think you've got it.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
Incomprehensible plots! Unbelievable characters! Boring story
|
||
|
|
lines!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
You've made a breakthrough.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
I can feel it coming. Total absence of motivation. Obscure
|
||
|
|
literary references. Offensive language.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Congratulations! You're a modern playwright! Now there's
|
||
|
|
nothing to stop you. Agents will be begging for you. Critics
|
||
|
|
will eat out of your hand. Starlets will leave indecent messages
|
||
|
|
on your answering machine. Make room on your mantelpiece for
|
||
|
|
your Tony awards. Mr. Playwright, you're a success.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PLAYWRIGHT
|
||
|
|
How can I ever thank you?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
MUSE
|
||
|
|
Just doing my job.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
=================================================================
|