textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0103.txt

                              FICTION-ONLINE

                       An Internet Literary Magazine
                            Volume 1, Number 3
                          November-December, 1994



EDITOR'S NOTES:
     
     FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the internet -- starting with
this issue, on a bimonthly basis.  The contents include short
stories, play scripts or excerpts of plays, excerpts of novels or
serialized novels, and poems.  Some contributors to the magazine
are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a
group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers.  However,
the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes
material from the public.
     To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please
e-mail a brief request to 
                    ngwazi@clark.net  
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address.  Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-
mail or by anonymous ftp from 
                    ftp.etext.org  
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines or by gopher
at gopher.cic.net under "electronic serials."  AOL users will
find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines."  

     "Letters to the Editor" are solicited and will be published
in subsequent issues.

     COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
published is retained by its author.  Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only.  All other rights, including rights to
copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to
give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video
recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are
reserved.

                                   William Ramsay, Editor
                                   ngwazi@clark.net



================================================================= 
                                 CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     "An Exercise in Fear," a poem
          Ayli Lapkoff

     "Janet's Campaign," a short story
          Ivy Main

     "Music's Loss," an excerpt (chapter 3) from the novel "In    
         Search of Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "The Decline, Partial Unwinding and Ultimate Collapse of     
         Civilization as We Know It," a ten-minute play
          Otho E. Eskin

================================================================= 
                               CONTRIBUTORS


AYLI LATKOFF attends high school in California.  She has
published two poems in "GraffittiFish" and has a chapbook in
press.

OTHO E. ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington. 
His play "Duet" is in production at the Elizabethan Theater at
the Folger Library.  
 
IVY MAIN is a writer living in McLean, Virginia.

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a writer and consultant on Third World energy
problems.  He recently published a short story, "Heritage," in
"Nebo."  He is coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. 
==============================================================    
                          AN EXERCISE IN FEAR

                              by Ayli Lapkoff


Your eyes fell shut
Like birds who crashed out of the sky
They have holes in their useless wings
Holes in the second hand clothing
That gathers dust in the basement of your fear

Your soul was washed up
Like jellyfish on the shore
Or the empty boats of lovers
Who clung to each other while they drowned
Martyrs for your fear

Your ashes were blown apart
Like travelers who parted ways
Fate wished that they met
Luckless patterns in plaid
Pointless because of your fear.

=========================================================


                             JANET'S CAMPAIGN

                                by Ivy Main


     On her third trip to the supermarket that week, Janet
decided she had to make a change.  She didn't need the groceries;
it just gave her something to do.  And yet she was a lady of
independent means, still in excellent health -- she ought to have
been living a more exciting life.
     She tried going to the hardware store instead.  She made a
careful list of things one might buy, then left the list at home
so that she could forget something and have to go back.  As it
happened she remembered everything anyway, so she lost her
excuse, but she found something much better.  On the sidewalk in
front of the store, folded and dirty, lay a poster that read:
"WANTED: people to run for public office.  Poor salary, no
benefits.  Try it anyway."  It was put out by a group calling
itself Power to the People, and it listed a phone number you
could call for a free skills training seminar.
     It was the perfect hobby.  Nobody ever wanted to talk to
her; if she went into politics it would give them something not
to talk to her about.
     She began her campaign by accosting the first person she saw
on the street.  It was an old woman like herself, who was
fortunately hard of hearing.  They had an excellent discussion,
Janet of the need for honest government, the other woman of the
many kinds of perennial flowers suited to Northern Virginia.      
 As soon as she got home, Janet tried to call the number listed
on the poster, but the digits kept changing in her memory.  Twice
she dialed wrong numbers, and the second time she ended up having
such an interesting discussion with a five-year-old in Maryland
that she forgot about Power to the People.  
     As she was still holding the telephone, however, she called
her friend Dora.  Dora was only fifty-nine, so she understood
things that were too hard for Janet: how to work a computer,
which health insurance forms to file, how to make cash machines
give back her card, and why men wore earrings and teenagers
didn't lace up their shoes.
     "I'm going to run for mayor," Janet told Dora.
     There was a moment's silence.  "They don't have a mayor
where you live, Janet," said Dora.  "That's an unincorporated
area.  You'd better run for a county seat.  What are your
issues?"
     "I've been thinking about that," answered Janet.  "I've
decided I'm against junk mail and waiting in line."  
     "Those aren't so good.  You'll antagonize the junk mail
people and a lot of retail businesses.  You'd better be in favor
of something instead, then at worst no one will pay any
attention."
     That sounded sensible.  Janet went into town to talk to her
constituents and develop issues.
     It was five o'clock, and people were coming out of offices
and closing up some of the stores.  Janet chose a sidewalk in
front of a shopping center to start her campaign.  She held up a
clipboard, to which she had attached a sheet of paper with the
word "Petition" written across the top in large letters.  Before
she could start a speech a man standing in a doorway stopped her. 
    "This is private property," he told her.  "We don't want you
doing that here!"
     "You don't even know what I was going to say!" objected
Janet.
     "Well, what is it?"
     "I don't know yet.  I hadn't started talking."  Janet held
out the clipboard.  "You can be the first person to sign my
petition, if you want.  It's for preserving the sanctity of
private property."
     "Oh, I'll sign that."  The man took the clipboard from her
and carefully wrote out his name and address.  "You should sign
this, Jim," he said to a man in a brown uniform who was getting
into a van.
     "Sure, if you say so."
     "Thank you both," said Janet.  "And you be sure to vote for
Janet Andrecowski come election time!"
     "I may do that.  And I guess I don't mind if you collect
more signatures here."  The store man gave her a friendly nod and
went back indoors, while Janet made a note at the top of the
paper that this sheet was for people favoring private property.   
  A woman came by, hauling a little boy along by one arm.  She
didn't look very friendly, but Janet was feeling lucky.
     "Would you sign a petition favoring children behaving
themselves?" she asked the woman slyly.
     "I'd rather you minded your own business," snapped the
woman.
     "Then perhaps you'd rather sign a petition in favor of
everyone minding their own business.  I'm your candidate on that
issue, I'll say."
     The woman paused and glanced at the clipboard, where Janet
was busy writing "ISSUE" at the top.  "There's nothing on there
about that."
     "It allows for greater flexibility this way," Janet told
her.  "If you sign it, I can work up the details later, more
precisely according to your sentiments."
     The woman looked skeptical, but she signed.
     "Thank you very much.  I'm Janet Andrecowski, and I'm
counting on your support in the upcoming election."
     The woman raised one eyebrow, but she didn't say anything. 
She grabbed the little boy by the arm and hurried off.  
     Janet stayed there for an hour, until the last stores in the
little shopping center closed.  Seven more people signed her
pieces of paper: two in support of property rights, one for
everybody minding their own business, three for no unjustified
taxes, and one in support of meaningless pieces of paper.  This
last was a lawyer who wrote a whole paragraph, with many clauses
and subclauses, extolling the virtues of meaningless pieces of
paper, before signing with a bold hand, "C.L. Applebaum, Esq.,
Attorney at Law."  Janet had felt doubtful of the virtue of this
issue when the lawyer had suggested it, but he had composed the
petition with such cheerful enthusiasm that she ended up putting
it on top of the others on her clipboard.
     Her great success demanded that she give careful
consideration to her campaign; no longer could she take it so
lightly.  She walked home with a spring in her step and sat up
late studying the views of her constituents.  It was well past
nine when she at last forced herself to go to bed, and nearly ten
before the excitement had abated enough that she could sleep.     
Promptly the next morning she began calling numbers in the county
government until she reached a woman who didn't give her a
different number to call, but said, yes, she could answer
questions about running for office.
     "What office are you interested in running for?" she asked.  
   "What have you got?" countered Janet.
     "Well, there'll be an election for County Clerk this fall."  
   "Lord, no!" snorted Janet.  "I spent most of my life as a
government clerk!  I know all about _that_ kind of work!"
     After a short pause the woman said, "I see.  Perhaps you'd
prefer a position on the Board of Supervisors."
     "That's more like it.  Put me down for a Supervisor."     
"All right.  Will you be running as a Democrat or a
Republican?"
     Janet hadn't thought that far.  "Which party needs someone?" 
    "Well, the incumbent is a Republican, and he's running again. 
However, there are also two Democrats already announced.  Either
way you'd have opposition in a primary.  If I may make a
suggestion?  As you don't seem to have any strong party
affiliation, you might consider running as an independent."     
"Oh, yes!" chortled Janet.  "That sounds perfect.  Have they got
anybody running already?"
     "Has who...?"
     "The Independent Party."
     This time there was a very long pause on the other end of
the line.  "O.K.," said the woman finally, in a tone of
resignation.  "Ma'am, if you go to the public library, they can
probably show you some books on politics that would give you some
background here.  Meanwhile, I can send you out some information
on registering as a candidate.  You'll need to collect petitions
to get on the ballot -- "
     "I've already started that.  I've got nine signatures."     
"That's a start."
     Janet gave the woman her name and address, and hung up the
phone feeling well pleased with her progress.  Then she set out
for the library, but once on the street saw that it was too nice
a day to be indoors, so she interviewed two people at a bus stop. 
    The next day was also pleasant, and the next, so that when
the packet of information came in the mail, Janet had not
actually added to her understanding of the government in which
she sought to serve.  This was fine with her, because she never
could like libraries; the hushed atmosphere made her feel like a
child who'd been admonished not to wake the baby.  
     She took up a position outside the supermarket.  The manager
of the store was very friendly about it, and set out a chair for
her to sit on when she got tired.  He even signed one of her
petitions himself, although he was a Republican and could see the
threat Janet's candidacy posed to the incumbent.  Janet told him
she wouldn't shop anywhere else from now on, after he'd shown her
so much courtesy, but he said that was all right; it was the
civic duty of concerned citizens to support the rights of
everyone, even crazy people and Democrats, to run for office. 
Janet said in that case, she _would_ shop elsewhere from now on,
because his store was more expensive and not so convenient for
her.  At that point the store manager found he had to go back in
to work.
     By the end of the day, Janet had gathered eighty-four
signatures and had made anywhere from five to sixty new friends,
depending on whether a hearty handshake counted, or only the long
conversations that ended with Janet asking someone to dinner. 
Unfortunately, one young man with a ponytail and a backpack
accepted her invitation and proceeded to write down the
directions to her house, so that Janet was forced to remember a
prior engagement on the night in question.
     She could scarcely contain her excitement.  She called Dora
and met her at the McLean House Restaurant.  It was her favorite
place for dinner; the waitresses were all women almost as old as
herself, and they wore white aprons and support stockings and
called everybody "hon."  Janet had nothing against the trendy
cafes with their college student waiters and Japanese mushrooms;
but the McLean House was still the only place she knew of where
you could order a hamburger without danger of having it served
with salsa or blue cheese.
     "Let's go wild," she said to Dora as they perused the list
of specials.  "Let's order the London broil with a bottle of Cold
Duck.  I feel like celebrating."
     Dora lifted her chin to read better through the bottom of
her bifocals.  "You ought to be watching your cholesterol,
Janet."
     "Oh, cholesterol, pooh."  Janet pouted.  
     Their waitress came up.  "You girls ready to order?  You
want your usuals?"
     "I guess I'll have the fried chicken, Lily," said Janet,
cheering up again.  "With a baked potato and sour cream; and can
I have a salad instead of the vegetable of the day?"
     "You always do," answered Lily agreeably.
     "Well, I still feel I should ask."
     "I'll have the baked haddock," said Dora, snapping her menu
closed.  "Nothing to start, and just water will be fine."
     "No, no, we're having champagne!" cried Janet.  "Have you
got any champagne?"
     "I don't want champagne," said Dora.
     "But I do!  This is a celebration!"
     "Why don't you order a champagne cocktail?  You'd like that. 
They're sweet."
     "All right."  Janet nodded.
     "One champagne cocktail and two usuals," said Lily.  "What
are you celebrating?"
     "I'm running for County Supervisor."  Janet showed her the
clipboard.  "Would you like to sign my petition?  You don't
actually have to vote for me; this is just to get me on the
ballot.  I need three hundred signatures.  Of course, if you did
vote for me, that'd be even better."
     "Sure, I'd vote for you!"  Lily added her name to the
petition.  "You're against the widening of Route 123, aren't
you?"
     "Absolutely!" declared Janet.
     "Then you have my vote."  Lily gave a nod and bustled off.   
  Dora shook her head at Janet.  "You just decided that right
then and there.  You need to think about these issues carefully." 
    Janet pursed her lips.  "It's called delegating.  I've known
Lily for fifteen years, and I trust her judgment on certain
matters."  Suddenly her eyes narrowed.  "Unless you think Route
123 _should_ be widened?"
     "No, but that's not the point."
     "Isn't it?  Two of my closest advisors agree on an issue. 
I'd say that's pretty good."
     "What happens if you get elected?  You'd have to debate the
merits of the issues with the other Supervisors.  You couldn't
just say, 'A waitress friend of mine says this, and therefore
that's how I'm voting.'  You'd have to give reasons."
     Janet pursed her lips again, but fortunately Lily came back
with the champagne cocktail just then.  The restaurant manager
was with her, a stout man with a polyester suit and Clark Gable
moustache.
     "Lily here tells me you're using my restaurant to campaign
in!" he boomed, taking Janet's hand warmly in both of his. 
"Can't have that!  Can't have that!  I run a respectable
establishment!"
     Janet raised her shoulders in a shrug of delight, beaming. 
"I'm just exercising my First Amendment rights, Mr. Gianelli!"    
 "Is that what you call it?  Well, let's see that petition!"     
He picked up the clipboard and pretended to scrutinize it
thoroughly before scrawling his signature beneath Lily's.  "I'm
going to borrow this," he said when he had finished.  "I'm going
to make everyone in the kitchen sign it."
     "Oh, why, thank you!"  Janet watched him head back towards
the kitchen, stopping to gladhand a middle-aged couple who were
on their way out.  "What a nice man," she said to Dora as she
sipped her cocktail.  "I've always liked him.  Ooh, this _is_
good!"
     "I thought you'd like it."  Dora thumped her finger on the
table top.  "Now, let's get down to business.  I take it you're
serious about running for office?"
     "Absolutely.  I've never had so much fun before in my life. 
I'm just sorry I didn't think of it twenty years ago; I could be
President now.  Maybe I still will be."
     "If you _are_ serious, you need to get organized.  You need
a campaign manager and a treasurer.  You've got to recruit some
volunteers to campaign for you.  You'll need to raise money." 
Janet's face fell, and she added, "It's not easy to get elected. 
The road is all uphill."
     "If you don't mind," answered Janet, "I'll just go at it my
own way.  It seems to me you either have a way with voters, or
you don't.  If you don't, all the organizing and volunteers and
so forth doesn't matter.  If you do, it just gets in the way. 
Quality shows."
     "Not in politics," Dora warned her.
     "Oh, I think so.  You're not political, Dora, so it looks
hard to you.  But I'm a natural campaigner.  You'll see."
                             *   *   *   *   *
     With her clipboard in hand, Janet became a familiar sight in
front of grocery stores.  When she had gathered enough signatures
to get her name on the ballot, she went back to her earlier
petitions supporting specific issues, which allowed her to sound
out her fellow citizens on everything from road widening to
immigration quotas.  By September she was able to draw the
following conclusions:

     541 people favored private property rights, while 411 felt   
     the government ought to exist in some form;

     372 people believed in the separation of church and
     state, 480 felt religion had played an important role in the 
     formation of their characters, and 16 favored a     
     twenty-minute limit on sermons;

     97 thought roads should be widened where necessary,
     compared to 68 who felt there was too much construction      
     going on generally and 33 who said people should be
     taking public transportation whenever it was not
     inconvenient, including 2 people who favored a free
     county helicopter service;

     115 people agreed with the statement, "Schools are best      
     suited to educate children," while 12 did not;

     59 mothers with small children believed children ought       
     not to throw tantrums in public, while 64 stated it was      
     not the parent's fault that the children misbehaved,
     and 2 were inclined to blame the bad behavior on
     Satanic influences (Janet thought she might have
     interviewed the same woman twice on this last point,
     although she couldn't be sure, so she left it at two
     and wrote the word "Trend?" next to her notation);

     12 people approved of existing immigration quotas, 6
     did not, and 32 were wholly uninformed on the issue,
     while one person encouraged Janet to emigrate out of
     the country; 

     1 person supported the creation and distribution of
     meaningless pieces of paper, 9 did not, and 27 seemed to     
     take offense at the question; and finally

     3,748 people did not wish to respond to any questions        
     whatsoever and/or sign their names to any
     stupid/damned/idiotic petitions, while 19 people would       
     sign only a petition in favor of everybody minding
     their own business.  

     Armed with this information, Janet launched the next phase
of her campaign: manipulation of the media.  By this time she had
read two chapters in a political book Dora had lent her, which
talked a lot about the power of the press.  
     She dropped by the office of one of the local newspapers and
breezed past a secretary with her back turned, going straight to
a door marked "Mary Roarty, Editor."  Rapping loudly, she walked
in and declared, "Apathy!"  
     The editor looked up from her work and fixed Janet with a
puzzled stare.  She was a woman in her thirties with that harried
look that seemed to cling to so many members of the middle class. 
Stacks of papers pressed in on her from all sides; she was under
siege.
     "Apathy!" repeated Janet, and she dropped her stack of
petitions on top of Ms. Roarty's other papers.  "I've talked to
more than six thousand people, and two-thirds of them wouldn't
even talk to me.  Here I am running for office as a service to
the community, and most of the community isn't interested in
conveying their views.  There's a story for your paper!"
     "Apathy?" said the editor.
     "Apathy!"
     Ms. Roarty sighed and eyed the door.  "But you see, it's
hard to get people to read our paper as it is, even though we
give it away.  I'm sure the apathetic ones aren't reading papers,
so a story about it wouldn't reach them.  And the people who do
read the paper are a little more concerned, so a story about
apathy wouldn't resonate with them.  What are you running for?"   
  "Supervisor!  I'm running as an independent.  My name is Janet
Andrecowski -- surely you've heard my name?"
     Ms. Roarty looked blank for a moment, and then a smile of
comprehension came to her face.  "Oh, are you the one who stands
out in front of the Safeway?"
     "Yes, that's me!"  Janet beamed.  She had name recognition.  
   "Sit down, Ms. Ander -- "
     "Andrecowski, spelled like it sounds."
     "Ms. Andrecowski."  The editor nodded towards a battered
vinyl armchair.  
     "Call me Janet."
     "We were thinking of doing a story on you.  Do you remember
talking to one of our reporters a few days ago?"
     "I talk to so many people," demurred Janet, sitting down.    
   "Well, this was a -- "
     "I remember her."  Janet smiled coyly.  "She didn't say she
was writing a story, but after talking to her I knew your paper
was the one I wanted to talk to first.  I felt you had the
integrity and the professionalism to help me get my message out." 
She leaned forward.  "So much is riding on this election."     
"What in particular would you be referring to?"
     "It's all there."  Janet stood up to point to the petitions
she had dropped on the editor's desk, then sat down again.  "Read
the summary on top.  People in our community want action!  They
need a leader who understands their concerns.  Not a single one
of the other candidates has been in such close touch with the
electorate.  At least -- have they?"
     "I don't think so," returned the editor.  "But there are
only two other candidates, you know."
     "I thought there were more than that!"
     "There were originally.  But there was a primary election
back in June."
     "Oh."  Janet considered for a moment.  "I was especially
busy then.  Campaigning requires a lot of focus, I find.  Maybe
you could just -- I haven't read up on my opponents yet -- "     
"The Democrat is Allison McDonald and the Republican is the
incumbent, James Hardwick.  You're still the only person running
as an independent, though."
     "I knew that," said Janet, "because our party didn't have a
primary.  Anyway, as you'll see from the work I've done, people
in our community have a lot of issues and a lot of concerns."     
"I thought you said there was mostly a lot of apathy."      Janet
nodded vigorously.  "There is.  That's why the
community needs someone like me.  Listen, this is your interview
for your paper, so I won't tell you how to run it, but wouldn't
you like to focus on more specific questions?"
     Ms. Roarty blinked and sighed again.  "Sure.  Why don't you
tell me about yourself, something about your background.  I
gather you've never held elected office before?"
     "That's true.  I haven't become part of the system yet; I'm
still able to think for myself and to represent the people's
interests."
     "But do you have any relevant experience?  You know,
managerial -- "
     Janet sat up straighter.  "I was a records clerk for the
Farm Administration for thirty-nine years.  I know all about
government.  And besides that, I have life experience.  I was
born in nineteen-fifteen.  That makes me..."  She frowned.
"Seventy-six."
     "Seventy-eight."
     "No, because my birthday was in January.  At any rate, it's
obvious that I have more experience than either of my opponents,
who are much younger, aren't they?"
     "Yes, but Mr. Hardwick has experience already on the Board
of Supervisors, and Allison McDonald has been a community
activist for many years.  They're both very impressive
candidates, I should tell you."  The editor glanced at her watch. 
"I'm going to need to go; I have another appointment.  If it's
all right with you, I'll let our reporter call you for a more in-
depth interview."  She stood up and offered her hand.  "Would you
just leave your number with the office manager on your way out?"  
   Janet stood up reluctantly.  "I'm sorry you haven't got more
time; I do enjoy discussing the issues with an intelligent person
like yourself.  Oh, I know: why don't you come have dinner at my
house, and then we can talk in a more relaxed setting?"
     "That's so nice of you," answered Ms. Roarty, shaking her
head.  "But how would it look for the editor of a paper to be
having dinner with one of the candidates for an important
election?  If I don't seem to be objective, I'll hurt the
credibility of the newspaper."
     "That's so," agreed Janet cheerfully.  "And as I'm hoping
for your endorsement, it's important to me that people trust
you." 
     "Yes, well, that's a matter for our editorial board.  Good-
bye, Ms. Andrecowski, and good luck to you!"
     Janet left, feeling extremely pleased with the way the
campaign was going.  There were two other local papers that would
be covering the election, and she visited these in the following
days.  The editors and the reporters treated her with great
courtesy, and all of the papers mentioned her name in the weeks
following.  Ms. Roarty's paper devoted the most space to her
campaign, however, even sending out a photographer to take
pictures of her standing with her petitions in front of the
supermarket.  When that edition of the paper came out, Janet
flipped eagerly through the pages until she came to a smiling
picture of herself in her red dress and plastic rain boots,
standing in front of a sign reading "BONUS SPECIAL--TURKEY PARTS"
and holding up her clipboard.  A short article accompanied the
picture.  It bore the headline "It Takes All Kinds," and it read: 
     At least the election won't be dull.  Not with Janet
Andrecowski running.      
     Janet is 76 or 78 -- she can't remember which -- and is
running for public office for the first time in her life.  With
her clipboard loaded with "petitions" on unlikely issues, she has
become a familiar fixture outside the Safeway on Chain Bridge
Road in McLean. 
     "The customers like her," says Manager Joe Farrell. 
     "She's local color.  We've had very few complaints."
And her campaign platform?  
     "I don't have one," says Janet.  "I think they're boring,
and besides, I like to change my mind."
     She changes her mind a lot, it seems, but she certainly
isn't boring.  Her petitions cover opposing sides of issues such
as road improvements, religious beliefs, and, more recently,
whether people should be allowed to keep ducks in their back
yard.  
     "That's a very important question right now," she     
emphasizes.  "Three gardening-type people have said ducks eat
weeds, but two respondents thought the ducks might wake them up
early in the morning with their quacking."
     With issues like this, and no campaign funds -- Janet
refuses donations (or maybe they aren't offered) -- what makes
her think she can win?  "I've met most of the voters -- at least,
the ones who do their own shopping, so everybody knows me, and
they know when they have an issue, they can sign one of my
petitions.  That's pretty good, isn't it?"
     It may or may not be good, but it's certainly
entertaining.

     Janet carefully tore out the whole page and took it with her
to the McLean House Restaurant, where she was meeting Dora for
lunch.
     "Have you seen this?" she called out gaily when she spotted
her friend at their usual table.
     "Yes, and I've already been on the phone to the editor about
it!"  Dora was scowling.  
     "Oh, you didn't have to do that."
     "Well, somebody had to.  They should know that they can't
get away with treating people like that.  They should have the
decency to accord you some respect."
     Janet slid into the seat opposite Dora and fixed her friend
with a puzzled stare.  "You mean you didn't like the article?"    
 Dora frowned back at her.  "I was appalled.  First they line you
up in front of a sign for turkeys, and then they make fun of
you."
     "But don't you think it's a nice picture?  And it has my
clipboard, so it gets my message across all by itself.  You
almost don't even have to read the article to see that here is a
candidate who's concerned about people's opinions."
     "They're making you out to be a crazy old lady."
     Janet smiled.  "There are worse things."
     Dora shrugged her eyebrows.  Lily came up, bringing plates
of food.  "I don't have much time, so I went ahead and ordered
you a tuna fish sandwich," Dora explained.  "I hope that's okay." 
    "Yes, I haven't got a lot of time today either."  Janet set
to with great appetite.  "The campaign is really heating up now,
you know," she said between bites.  "I've noticed my opponents
have signs up now, so I figure I'd better too."
     "That's where you needed to get donations.  Now you don't
have any money to buy signs, and I'll bet they're expensive."     
"That's all right.  I bought a bunch of poster board and some
markers, so I can make my own.  I never saw much point in those
signs that just have the person's name on them.  I'm going to
make every one of mine a little different, and I'll illustrate
them or put a slogan on each one.  Also, I bought some gold
glitter -- but do you think that's tacky?"
     "Gold glitter on a campaign poster?"  Dora pushed a pickle
around on her plate.  "I don't know, Janet.  I've never seen it
done before."
     "That's reason enough to do it, then.  It's eye-catching;
sets me apart."
     Dora fidgeted.  "Where are you going to put them?"
     "I'll give them out to my best supporters so they can tape
them up on their windows and so on.  I already asked Joe at the
Safeway, but he says there's a company policy against it.  He
said he'd put one in the window of his truck, though.  He's going
to park it by the street, just at the entrance to the parking
lot, so everybody will see it.  That's pretty good, huh?"
     "That's great!" said Dora with a laugh.
     "And I've challenged my opponents to a debate.  What do you
think of that?  The elementary school says we can use their
auditorium, and I'm trying to get the cable T.V. station to cover
it."
     "Oh, dear!  Are they going to do it?"
     "I don't know yet.  I just called their offices yesterday. 
Isn't it exciting?  There's never been a televised debate for
this position."
     "Don't...."  Dora hesitated.  "Don't get your hopes up. 
They might not want to debate an...an independent candidate. 
They may not consider your candidacy enough of a threat that they
would need to face you.  What I mean is...."  She spoke slowly,
watching Janet's face.  "They may be focusing on each other. 
These are political considerations for them; and traditionally
it's been Democrats versus Republicans, so you shouldn't take it
personally if...."
     "Don't you worry about me," broke in Janet, touching her
friend's hand.  "I'll be all right.  We politicians are made
tough.  What counts is the election results."
     "Well, yes, but you're at something of a disadvantage there,
too, because your opponents have money and the backing of the
major political parties.  They're more visible -- "
     "Now, _that_ can't be true.  I'm as visible as you get. 
People just see their names on posters, but they don't know what
they look like or talk like."
     "They know what they stand for," muttered Dora.  She picked
up the sandwich that had lain untouched on her plate, then put it
down again without taking a bite.
     "Do they?  _I_ don't.  Meanwhile I'm developing a platform. 
Look here!"  She hauled a plastic grocery bag off the floor onto
the table and drew a thick pamphlet out of it.  "The county
budget!  I've been doing my homework, you see?"
     "I'll be damned."  Dora pulled the pamphlet around so she
could read the cover.  "It _is_ the county budget!"
     "And do you know what?  The county is going to spend
_seventeen million dollars_ to put air conditioning in schools! 
Do you believe it?  Schools that aren't even used in the summer
time!  When I was a girl we didn't even have air conditioning in
our house; nobody did."
     Dora nodded her head.  "That's a good issue."
     "You want another?  The county replaces its cars every four
years.  Why do they need cars at all?  Let employees use their
own.  Or why does anybody need a car?  I don't have one.  Maybe
the bus service would be better if the county employees had to
use it."
     "That may be asking a bit much; after all, most of the
voters around here have two cars.  Still, it's a good point; I've
never traded in a car until it was at least eight years old. 
There's no reason the county should have newer cars than I have." 
Suddenly Dora laughed.  "You're doing all right, Janet."
     "Well, I told you I was.  Meanwhile, I've got to go."  Janet
stuffed her papers back into her bag and put some money on the
table.  "There's just so much to do!"
                             *   *   *   *   *
     The note came, terse and barely polite. "Mr. Hardwick will
be unable to attend any debates with Mrs. Andrecowski due to
other pressing concerns."
     Janet put it next to the phone while she called Allison
McDonald's office.  "I'm just calling to settle on a date for the
debate between Miss McDonald and me," she told the woman who
answered.
     The conversation did not go as well as it might have.  The
woman first said she didn't know anything about it, then that Ms.
McDonald still had to firm up the rest of her schedule, then that
they were waiting to hear what Jim Hardwick was going to do, and
finally (after Janet told her of Mr. Hardwick's refusal) that
there really wasn't much point in a debate that didn't include
the incumbent.
     Janet hung up the phone unfazed, then called a local
newspaper that had run some nice lines about her in its last
edition.  The editor seemed very sympathetic, even to the point
of proclaiming it shameful that the other candidates would refuse
to debate Janet.  He promised to run a scathing article on the
snub.
     "You don't need to do that," protested Janet, pleased.  "I
expect they're just intimidated.  Possibly they haven't spent as
much time studying the issues as I have, or maybe they don't
speak well in public.  That bothers some people, you know."     
But the editor was adamant, and Janet eagerly awaited the next
issue of the paper.  She was not disappointed; on page 13,
underneath the gossip column, she found an article titled
"Election Watch" which read:
     Candidates for the Board of Supervisors have been busy in
the past week.  It was incumbent Jim Hardwick's birthday last
Saturday, and close friends Ellen and Gregory Elliot, Jr. hosted
a birthday party and fundraiser for him, with a hundred and sixty
of their closest friends in attendance.... Meanwhile, Democratic  
challenger Allison McDonald has been celebrating the birth of a
nephew, born to her sister Jennifer and her husband, Timothy
Hurley, of Falls Church....
     Independent candidate Janet Andrecowski called us recently
to complain that the other candidates had refused to debate her
on the issues facing you voters this Election Day.  Ms.
Andrecowski (yes, that's the correct spelling!) is best known for
her campaign strategy of standing around outside of supermarkets
asking people questions like, "Do you have any religious beliefs,
or should they widen Route 123?" 
     Personally, we'd have enjoyed watching the debate.

     Janet cut out the article and taped it onto a piece of
paper, underneath two other articles about her candidacy.  On her
way to the supermarket she stopped at a copy store and asked for
a hundred copies.  While she waited, the young salesman stood at
the machine, casually reading the first copy as the others ran.   
  "Hey, is this you?" he asked her finally, turning to
scrutinize her.
     "Yes.  Yes, it is."  Janet smiled and nodded.
     "I can't believe the papers treat you like this."  He
slapped the copy in disgust.
     "Oh, well, they know how popular I am.  It's not so much
flattery as it is them doing their job, covering the news."     
"Flattery?"  The man frowned, glancing around the room as if
seeking an explanation in the air.
     "All right, perhaps it is.  But that's human nature, isn't
it, to want to curry favor with people in positions of power --
or in this case, who are likely to win election to a position of
power.  Anyway, if you're going to blame someone it might as well
be me, because I'm going to make the most of this.  I'm handing
out these copies to everyone I see today.  I know that's bold,
but I'm a tough campaigner!"
     The man frowned again, but only said, "A hundred copies
won't go far."
     "I know, but at five cents a copy that's twenty-five
dollars, which is rather a lot, I think.  I'm giving up my
haircut this month to pay for it -- not that my hair needs
cutting every month," she added.  "I'm not depriving myself of
anything I need."
     "This article says you don't accept campaign contributions. 
Hang on, will you?"  Before Janet could say anything more, he had
disappeared into a back room.  A minute later an older woman
poked her head out, stared at Janet for a moment, and ducked back
in.  Another minute passed before the young man returned.
     "Sorry for the wait," he said.  "Okay, here's the deal.  The
manager says I can give you a volume discount, five hundred
copies for your twenty-five dollars, _if_ -- " here he raised a
hand to quiet her protest -- "_if_ we write at the bottom of the
page, 'Copies by Ace.'  See, we'd be in effect buying advertising
from you, because you're going to be giving these papers out all
over the place.  So it's not like we're giving you anything
free."
     "I should say not," snorted Janet.  "That's very shrewd of
you, getting me to pay you for me to do your advertising."  Then
she glanced at him slyly out of the corners of her eyes.  "What
about the hundred you just ran, that don't have your slogan? 
They don't count.  Those you'd just have to throw away, wouldn't
you?"
     The young man laughed.  "All right.  Those you pay for with
your twenty-five dollars.  Then we'll run five hundred with our
name on them, and consider the advertising for us to be your
payment for them.  Deal?"
     "Deal!"  They shook hands.  Then, smiling, Janet asked,
"Maybe you'd like to buy even more advertising?  We could make it
a thousand."
                             *   *   *   *   *
     On Election Day Janet stood outside of the elementary school
in a cold rain, wielding her sign and accosting voters as they
hustled by.  A middle-aged woman held a sign that read
"McDonald"; but she was a volunteer, not the candidate.  Janet
introduced herself during a lull, but the woman only nodded.     
The sun broke out after the morning rush hour was over, and some
of the voters stopped to chat with Janet for a moment or two. 
They were mostly older people now, or mothers with young
children.  Some of them shook her hand and said "Good luck," and
a few even told her that they were voting for her.  One woman
engaged her in a conversation about sidewalk improvements, as if
Janet had already won.
     The McDonald volunteer was not attracting the same
attention, Janet noticed, and during another lull she tried to
cheer her up.  
     "It's hard to be a volunteer for one candidate when another
candidate is there in the flesh, isn't it?  People don't have so
much to say to you."
     "That's all right, as long as they're voting for us."  The
woman looked away.
     "Oh, yes, that's the 'bottom line,' isn't it?" answered
Janet cheerfully.  "We need those votes."
     The woman seemed to be ignoring her, and Janet was about to
leave to go greet a voter when she spoke.
     "You know you're a spoiler, don't you?"
     "A what?"  Janet turned back, astonished.  
     "A spoiler.  You're attracting some of the voters who would
have supported Allison; you get old people and the sympathy vote
and all.  Allison has done a lot for elderly people; she
supported the senior citizen's center and helped start the local
chapter of Meals on Wheels.  If you wanted to get active in
politics you could have volunteered to work for her, instead of
going off with your -- ."  She checked herself, biting her lip. 
"But you can't win, even if the Washington Post likes you."     
"I think I draw from a very broad base of support," said Janet. 
"Many Republicans have told me they like my positions on county
finances.  I don't get the Post, so I haven't seen their
editorials, but I've had good coverage in all the local papers. 
The Tribune has said, in print, that I have 'unique' ideas.  The
Journal has referred to me as an 'innovative thinker.'  I don't
mean to brag; you raised the point.  Why do you say I can't win?" 
    The woman gave her a funny look, her anger momentarily
checked.  "You don't get it, do you?"
     "Get what?"
     "Those weren't articles praising you; don't you understand
sarcasm?"
     Janet set her sign down on the ground, leaning on its long
stick for support; but she kept her head up, and she smiled.  "I
can read as well as anyone; I know what the articles said.  Why
can't I win?"
     The woman shrugged and turned to speak to a voter.
     "Why can't I win?"  Janet reached out to touch her on the
arm.
     The woman spun on Janet.  "Because you're just a crazy old
lady!"  The words rang out like a shot; she took a deep breath
and lowered her voice.  "Allison McDonald has worked very, very
hard to serve the people of this county, and now just when she
finally could be elected and could really make a difference, you
come along and spoil her chances.  You don't think about that, do
you?  You just think, oh, wouldn't it be fun to run for office! 
Well, you won't get elected, but you may stop Allison from
getting elected.  So if I'm not as nice about it as some of the
people who sign your idiotic petitions, well, excuse me, but I
care about what happens to our government!"  Then, pressing her
lips together, she stepped away to meet a group of people getting
out of their cars.
     Janet stayed where she was, leaning heavily on her hand-
painted sign, for many moments unable to move.  It had started to
rain again; water dripped from her plastic bonnet and slid down
her cheeks, carrying with it some of the pink blushing powder she
had applied in honor of the election.  Her glasses fogged up;
when she finally noticed, she took them off to wipe them with a
damp tissue.  A man smiled and nodded at her on his way into the
school, and she managed to bob her head a little in response.     
 She was tired; the months of campaigning had perhaps been too
hard on her.  She picked up her sign and made her way back to the
bus stop.  She moved slowly and sat down heavily on the bench in
the glass shelter.
     Yesterday's Washington Post lay beside her, and she picked
it up.  She turned the pages, looking for the election news.  She
hadn't known they covered these local races.  But the McDonald
volunteer was right; she found a whole paragraph about herself:   
       In the 3d district race, we support independent
     candidate Janet Andrecowski.  We have nothing against     
either the incumbent Republican James Hardwick or the Democrat,
Allison McDonald, both of whom are creditable candidates; but Ms.
Andrecowski impresses us with her willingness to challenge
established ideas and practices.  The local press has liked to
poke fun at her for her grass-roots campaign and for refusing
contributions, but her approach has kept her free of political
obligations to special interests, while putting her in touch with
the opinions and needs of ordinary people.

     Janet read and reread the paragraph, and then she read
everything else on the page.  The Post had something to say about
each election, and none of it seemed to be sarcastic.  She went
back to the paragraph about her and read it one more time,
slowly.  
     A passing car pulled to a sudden stop just ahead of her and
began backing up to the bus stop.  Janet recognized Dora's blue
Toyota and stood up.
     The window rolled down.  "Get in!" cried Dora.  She was
grinning as Janet eased into the passenger seat clutching her
sign and the newspaper.  "I was looking for you at the school;
figured you must have gone home for lunch.  I'm glad I caught
you.  Let's go to the McLean House; my treat -- call it a soon-
to-be-victory lunch.  Oh, you've got that page of the Post; have
you been showing it to everyone who comes to vote?"
     Janet looked down at the newspaper in her lap and smoothed
out the page with her fingers.  "Are they really supporting me?"  
   "If that's not support, it's a damned good imitation!"     
"Yes."  
     "A Post endorsement means a lot.  Some people don't follow
the issues, they just look in the newspapers to decide who to
vote for."
     "Yes."
     "And in your case, the endorsement means that people who've
met you but maybe weren't sure about you will see you now as a
serious candidate."  She paused and glanced over at her friend. 
"Is everything all right, Janet?"
     "I'm just doing some thinking."  Janet sat quietly until
they had turned into a parking space in front of the restaurant. 
Then, as Dora prepared to open the door, she said suddenly, "Let
me ask you something, Dora.  Would you vote for me?  If you lived
in this district?"
     Dora paused with her hand on the door and gave Janet a long
look.  "Of course I would, Janet!  You know that!"
     Janet's face brightened, but she stayed in her seat.  "What
if you didn't know me?  Would you vote for me then?"
     This time Dora laughed.  "Yeah, I still would.  Assuming I'd
met you, but then almost everyone in the town has met you by now. 
On the other hand, if I'd met you, I'd know you, so maybe that
doesn't count."  She smiled down at Janet.  "I think you're going
to win.  I think you've done it.  Now, shall we get some lunch?"  
   Janet nodded, smiling, and they got out.  As they started
towards the restaurant door, Janet stopped.  "You go on in," she
told Dora.  "I forgot something."
     She opened the car door again and picked up the sign that
was lying upside down against the seat.  Turning it around, she
propped it up against the side window, facing out to the street,
and stepped back to view the effect.  Anybody who was driving by
could see the bright blue sign with the blue glitter stars and
the neon-yellow lettering that read, "Janet ANDRECOWSKI for a
DIFFERENCE."  
     Janet looked around her.  A man in a passing car honked his
horn and waved, and she waved back enthusiastically.  Then she
hurried into the restaurant, intent on the London broil.

================================================================= 
    
 

                               MUSIC'S LOSS
             [Chapter three of "In Search of Mozart," a novel]    
                          by William Ramsay


     They were in Vienna -- and it was now the beginning of
spring.   
     "A real friend," Papa had said about Archbishop Sigismund,
because he had allowed them to stay away from Salzburg for over
six months -- and on salary too.  And just a short while ago, his
father had succeeded in getting him a commission from the Court. 
And what a commission -- he was writing an opera for the Emperor! 
     Wolfgang sat at the large white harpsichord in the grand
salon of the mansion of their friend Dr. Mesmer.  His fingers lay
still, tired of playing.  He put the sheaf of scores aside.  He
found his eyes half closing as he gazed out through the rippled
glass squares of the french windows at the long green rectangles
of the new lawn.  If he could only re-create in music the gentle
sunlight falling on the bare gray trees in the garden, the
colonnaded walks leading down the hillside, the cool
green-and-olive sweep of the immense park stretching off to the
pale dirt road in the distance, the darkening wooly clouds
drifting slowly across the pale spring sky -- that would be
composing!  Alone, in the shining glitter of the sunlight,
looking forward to creating the opera, it felt something like
being an angel.  Only himself alone, the world was empty except
for himself -- and the music that was filling his brain.
     At that moment he didn't need anyone else.
     Writing music was better than any other game he could think
of.
                                       ***
     It was July, but so far 1768 had been an unusually cool
year, and the Court had not been long settled in the summer
palace at Schoenbrunn.  The Emperor Joseph walked across the
parqueted floor to a window along the east side.  The gardens of
Schoenbrunn were shimmering with flowers: irises, carnations,
gladiolus.  The sky was cloudless.
     Prince Kaunitz, the Imperial Chancellor made a slight,
dignified bow.  "Your Majesty should have a welcome break from
politics today.  They tell me there will be music later in the
afternoon."
     "Oh, good!  Is it dear Chevalier de Gluck coming to see Us
again?"   
     Baron Harnack, the Imperial Chamberlain, cleared his throat. 
"Kapellmeister Mozart from Salzburg is here with his son and
daughter, Your Majesty."
     "Oh, yes, the Mozart brood.  Good enough.  My, I did so
enjoy that last opera of Gluck's."
     "Signor Affligio has commissioned the Chevalier to write
another one, as you commanded, Your Majesty," said Harnack.     
"Yes, Affligio.  Well, let him handle it.  What does Mozart want
-- besides money, of course?"  His seventeen-year-old brother
Ferdinand, dressed in black velvet, came in unannounced, bowing
very slightly.
     "I believe it's about the boy's opera, Sire," said Harnack.  
   "Did you really ask a twelve-year-old to write an opera for
you, Joseph?" said his brother.
     I wish there were something useful I could ask you to do,
thought Joseph.  Some boys, at least, are good for more than
lounging around in fancy clothes and needling their older
brothers!
     "He's a very competent musician, Archduke," said Kaunitz.    
    "Yes, he was always one of your favorites, Prince," said
Joseph.  "I remember when he first came to Vienna as a child. 
You raved about him.  The little brat had the nerve to sit on my
mother's lap!"
     "A little mature for that now, Sire," said Harnack.       
The Ritter von Stein, Kaunitz' secretary, one hand half inside
his bright violet waistcoat, brushed at his pale cheek with one
finger.  "If it please Your Majesty" -- he giggled -- "I have
heard the Mozart boy described by one of the ladies of the Court
as the world's oldest infant prodigy." 
     Stein looked at him expectantly.  Joseph smiled thinly -- he
had heard that one already. 
     "Some of the singers," said Harnack, "are complaining about
their parts in this Mozart opera, the music is too easy, or the
words are too difficult.  I forget which."  He blew his short pug
nose into a brown-stained handkerchief. 
     "Why am I being bothered about all this?" said Joseph. 
"Inflict it on Signor Affligio, that's what I have him for.  I
command you, Baron, to afflict Affligio!"
     They all laughed.  He enjoyed keeping spirits up around the
Court.  Lord, he had to do everything around there, even make the
jokes.  No one else, not even Kaunitz, had the ability to deal
with all the problems that a great monarch must face.  Ruler,
musician, philosopher, God had given him valuable gifts --
moderate enough gifts, perhaps by some standards, but still... 
He had a responsibility toward his Creator.  As did all men, to
be sure.  A lonely, lonely job.  But that had always been his
fate.  "Music gives me so much pleasure," he said.     
     It's a shame that Your Majesty hasn't the time to devote to
the art," said Harnack.  "Chevalier de Gluck was telling me the
other day how delightful Your Majesty's harpsichord playing is."  
     He waved his hand, embarrassed.  "No, it's nothing."
     "Not at all, mein Kaiser, people are right to call you the
Musical Emperor.  There is not only your own talent, but your
gift for patronizing the best of Europe's musicians."
     Joseph sighed.  "And you see, Baron, I'm not appreciated. 
Everywhere, there are complaints.  Herr Kapellmeister Mozart is
so concerned about his son's opera.  Does he have any idea of the
worries I have?"  He sat down on the beige silk sofa.  His
brother sat next to him, the others remained standing.  A servant
brought over a footstool, he made a gesture, and the man lifted
his feet up onto it.  He wished he could take off his left shoe.  
    "A deputation from Olmuetz is scheduled in the afternoon,
Your Majesty."  Baron Harnack paused and reached for his
snuffbox.  It fell on the floor and bounced over against the
brass fireplace fender.  A red-liveried servant rushed over,
gracefully swept it up, and started to return it to the Imperial
Chamberlain.
     "Just a minute," said Joseph.  "Let me see that."  He held
out his hand for the little golden box.  He lifted it up to
inspect it more closely and then arose and carried it over to the
narrow south window, its rippled panes draped in white taffeta
curtains.  He ran his finger along the tiny diamonds inlaid
around the edge of the cover.  He turned it over. "Made by Herr
Hagen, that jeweler on the Kohlmarkt that everybody's talking
about.  I wonder how much it cost?"
     "I couldn't say, Your Majesty," said Harnack, lifting his
long chin and dropping his eyelids until his eyes were just
little slits.  Beside him, Prince Kaunitz shuffled his feet and
smiled faintly.
     "Well," said Joseph, "what about the Olmuetz delegation? 
What's bothering my Moravian subjects, Kaunitz?  More of the
same?"
     Bowing his head regretfully, chin twisted to the side, the
Chancellor frowned.  "Yes, Sire, the Abolition problem."
     Joseph stamped his foot.  Ouch!  A sharp pain in his little
toe.  Those shoes!  "Imagine!  The eighteenth century of the rule
of Our Lord and we're still saddled with the feudal vestiges of
the Middle Ages.  Serfdom!  Don't you find that hardly credible,
Prince?"
     "Yes, Your Majesty."
     "And the hypocrisy of it.  That's what infuriates me.  Take
you, Harnack, how many serfs would a man have to sell to buy that
little snuffbox?" 
     "I couldn't say, Your Majesty."
     "Hmmpphh, you couldn't say.  It's people of your class who
are destroying this Empire, wasting money on luxuries, resisting
reforms.  Selfishness, vanity." 
     "Yes, Your Majesty," said Kaunitz.
     So much to do and so little time.  His father had died
relatively young.  And his father, God rest his soul, had been a
good man.  A patron of the arts and sciences.  But weak, not a
ruler.  It had been left for him to do what needed to be done. 
With his dear, dear, stubborn mother as co-ruler! 
     "And how about the money for worthy cultural things," he
said, "like this opera by this Mozart boy?  Where is all the
money to come from, Prince?  Already I've had to scrimp and save
to pay for my new educational system.  Next there will be
agricultural reform.  And the army.  Meanwhile, so much waste and
degeneration around me!  Some day," said Joseph, "we'll put a
stop to streetwalkers in the heart of Vienna -- and to jeweled
snuffboxes that cost more than an industrious farmer can make in
ten years."
     "All such steps will be accomplished in time, Your Majesty." 
Kaunitz' face looked as smooth as an ivory statuette's.
     "Yes, in time."  He took out his lace handkerchief, screwed
up the end of it, and tried to clear some wax out of his left
ear.
     "Signor Affligio will make sure that any musical event pays
for itself, Your Majesty," said the Baron.
     "Exactly.  And so I'll be glad to see the Mozarts.  The
little boy and girl play wonderfully.  Of course, the boy is
painfully conceited." 
     "Yes, Sire."
     "And first things first -- I adored Gluck's 'Alcide.'  Don't
let anything stand in the way of producing his new opera.  Tell
Affligio that, Harnack." 
     "Yes, Your Majesty."
     Joseph waved his index finger and they all bowed their way
out of the salon.  His valet took off his shoes for him.  Oh!     
Child prodigies.  Nonsense!  If only he hadn't been born a
prince.  He would have had time to develop his own talent.  Ah
well, one couldn't do everything in life.  To bring the Empire
into the modern world -- that was a task worthy of anyone.  He
was still saddled with his dear mother the Empress and her old-
fashioned ideas.  The Empire could only be saved by new ideas,
extraordinary measures.  Under his leadership.  By him.  Joseph. 
Joseph the Great. 
     Lord, it felt good to have that left shoe off!
                                    ***
     "He never seems to come out of that room."  Dr. Mesmer's
valet, Fritz, took a coal from the small fire in the butler's
pantry in the mansion on the Landstrasse and lit his long white
clay pipe.
     "Yes, it's a busy time."  Jakob, Leopold Mozart's
manservant, brought out his own pipe.  His bald head was cold and
he wished he had brought his wig cap along.
     "Does the boy work that way all the time?" 
     "Well, no, but you know the opera has to get finished.  Can
I squeeze in there closer to the fire?"  Fritz moved aside for
him.  That was better.  "Awfully cold for September, isn't it?"   
    "Yes, and thank goodness the Doctor doesn't begrudge us a
fire this early," said Fritz.  "He's a good man."
     "The Kapellmeister thinks very highly of the Doctor. 
Especially since the Doctor is paying for this opera.  It's the
boy's second, he already wrote one for the Emperor -- but it
hasn't been put on yet.  So he's very excited about this one."    
 "The Doctor has money.  And he knows how to spend it," said
Fritz, recrossing his knees with difficulty over his fat belly
and then scratching his bulbous nose.  He pulled out his sack of
tobacco.  "Would you like some?" 
     Jakob reached over his hand for the sack.  
     "Anytime, Jakob, anytime.  You're a good sort, not like some
of the valets we see come through here.  And don't worry about
the expense.  As I said, the Doctor doesn't stint us on anything,
no, sir."
     "Thanks."  They smoked a moment in silence.
     "Young Mozart's awfully young for all this, isn't he?'     
"Yes, he's a marvel of Nature, they say.  He writes all kind of
music.  For the Emperor, kings, dukes, everybody.  And now for
Herr Doktor Mesmer here."
     "And we're very glad to have you at Doktor Mesmer's.  Have a
mug of wine."  He poured out a pale yellow liquid from a brown
stone bottle into two mugs.  Jakob took his and raised the mug in
a salute to his new friend. 
     "Poor boy," said Fritz.  Does he ever get outside?"
     "Oh yes.  It's just when he's working on music.  You know,
he's a smart one."   Jakob tapped his skull with his index
finger.  I mean he's smart in everything,  he speaks French and
English and even Latin."
     "Latin?  He should be a priest.  Who teaches him?"
     "The Kapellmeister, I think, but sometimes he just seems to
know things, I don't know how."
     "Hmmm.  Spooky.  You know what we used to say about such odd
things up in the Tyrol, where I come from."
     "No, what?"
     "The Devil makes a bargain with his own."
     "Not in this case!" Jakob shook his head vigorously. 
"Master Wolfgang is a good boy, a Catholic boy."  Jakob pursed
his lips.  "He's very devoted to his family.  He goes to
confession every week, and he hardly ever misses mass."
     "I'm certainly glad to hear that.  Too many young people
nowadays seem to have no religion at all."
     "And he doesn't work all the time.  You'll see, after they
put on the opera, he'll be down here asking if anyone wants to
play billiards or go drinking." 
     "You mean he'd come down here, to be with us?"
     "If his father doesn't catch him, he will."
     "I don't know, the kind of gentleman drinks with servants,
well..." 
     "He's still young yet.  And he's alone a lot, poor boy.  He
needs the company.  But you'll see.  You'll like him -- he's
funny, he can joke about anything.  Meanwhile, if I could just
impose on the Doctor's wine bottle a bit more..."
     "Sure you may," he said.  Fritz poured out more wine and
lifted his mug. 
     "Prost, Jakob! "
     "Prost, Fritz!  Here's to Herr Doktor Mesmer."
     "And to Herr Kapellmeister Mozart -- and his son," said
Fritz, recrossing his fat legs, with a grunt.
     "Who is a good Catholic."
     "And plays billiards -- even with the servants."
     "And to their households, who are all good fellows," said
Jakob.
     "The best!" said Fritz, and lifted his mug to drink it all
the way to the bottom.
                                    ***
     The leaves on the lindens were beginning to turn yellow.  A
fire had been laid in each of the tiny fireplaces in three of the
walls of the small room, but only one had been lit.  The sky was
gray and candle flames flickered softly from the wall sconces.    
     "Ah, Brother, am I disturbing you?"  The Archduke Ferdinand
entered the Imperial Music Room.  He pulled down sharply on the
lapels of his white silk suit, displaying a wider swathe of the
bright blue waistcoat that nipped in tightly about his narrow
waist.
     "Not at all, Ferdinand," said Joseph standing by a small
white spinet.  "I'm merely going over some keyboard pieces with
the Chevalier.  He wants my advice about some harmonies.  Gluck,
you know my brother, of course?" 
     "I have had that pleasure," said the Chevalier de Gluck,
starting to raise his tall, spare frame from the keyboard.     
"Please don't get up.  I just dropped in to tell you about
something I heard last night.  This should interest you,
Chevalier."  He dropped into the thick gray wool seat of a
lyre-backed rosewood chair.
     "Ah," said Gluck, "you mean the Mozart musical theater."  He
wrinkled his nose as he sat down again.  He began to play a bass
figure loudly on the harpsichord.
     "Yes," said the Archduke, raising his voice.  "It was quite
a success." 
     "Really," said Joseph, "why does nobody tell me these
things?  I thought his opera had been delayed, or canceled, or
whatever."  He idly twirled the queue of his wig with his little
finger.
     "I don't know about that.  Anyway, it was charming.  I admit
I was surprised because Mozart's so young.  It wasn't a real
opera, they tell me, because it was in German.  But still it was
charming.  'Bastien und Bastienne,' it was called."
     "German?  I never sponsored an opera in German."
     "Your Majesty," said Gluck, "the Archduke does not refer to
the opera young Mozart had in production here at Court.  That
one, 'La finta semplice,' was a failure before it ever got to the
stage, I'm afraid.  This one was a little musical drama that was
produced privately."  He started playing an E-minor scale, in
octaves.
     "Yes, it was put on in the garden of Doctor Mesmer." 
Ferdinand shivered.  "It was cold, even with charcoal braziers."  
   "Mesmer, oh him!" said Joseph.
     Gluck shrugged.  "It's too bad, the boy's talented, he's
wasting his gifts this way."  He made a clucking sound with his
tongue.
     "Yes," said Joseph, "German musicals!  What a shame!"  He
shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.
     "What does it matter if it's in German or not, as long as
it's good?" asked his brother.
     Gluck looked at him pityingly.  Joseph smiled. "You don't
understand music, Ferdinand."
     "Evidently I don't," said his brother.  "You'll excuse me,
I'll take my ignorant intellect along to the billiard room."  He
got up with an arrogant, lazy motion and sauntered out of the
room.
     "Where were we, Gluck?  Oh, yes."  He called over a servant
to readjust the lamp on the keyboard.  "It's a shame about the
Mozart boy, isn't it?  But I  can't sponsor every musician that
comes along, I can't afford it.  Besides, Affligio told me there
was some conflict between your production and Mozart's." 
     "Not precisely a conflict, but there were some problems with
scheduling the singers."  Gluck looked down at his feet.
     "Well, you should know, Chevalier, you and Affligio.  I have
a great deal of confidence in you, both of you."  He smiled
warmly at Gluck.    
     "Thank you, Sire, I shall try to deserve your faith in me."  
   "My dear Gluck, I'm so delighted that you have settled in
Vienna after your great success in Paris.  My faith in you is
unbounded."
     "Your Majesty is too kind."  He looked up.  "Shall we?"     
"Yes," said Joseph.  "Three, four-and, one ..."  Gluck began to
play, his narrow fingers deftly coaxing the dainty melody out of
the little harpsichord. 
                                    ***
     Wolfgang stared up at the dark maroon hangings decking the
large, feather-soft bed.  They must have cost a fortune, like
everything else in Doctor Mesmer's house.  With his wife's landed
estates, the Doctor lived like a prince -- a generous,
intelligent prince who appreciated music.  And who had the most
interesting ideas about healing people through "animal
magnetism." 
     Thank God for friends like Mesmer.  He'd never forget the
thrill of hearing the opening tenor solo of his Singspiel, as his
first dramatic work sprang to life in the flickering light of the
torches under the lindens. 
     Wolfgang's eyelids felt heavy, sleep would come.
     "Put not your trust in princes."  That's what his father had
said to him afterward.  He should have known.  "La finta
semplice" -- the make-believe fool, what a name for his opera! 
He was the fool, the not-so-make-believe fool.  The Emperor had
promised, but it had been like getting a promise from a
two-year-old.  The Emperor did whatever he wanted -- promises,
honor, responsibility, meant nothing!  Commoners could be treated
as trash.  Genius occupied a far less important position in the
minds of those idiots in the Hofburg than a new pretty face or a
handsome silk waistcoat. 
     But the world didn't revolve around Vienna.  There were
other places where you could get operas staged.  Munich, Paris,
Berlin -- London.  Rome.  "The Musical Emperor"!  They would
laugh at such presumption in Italy, the birthplace of modern
music!
     Just thinking about the Eternal City made him feel entirely
wide awake again.  He saw glory in his future -- glory like that
of the Caesars, glory he well deserved!

[CHAPTERS FOUR AND FIVE OF "ON SEARCH OF MOZART" WILL APPEAR IN
VOL. 2, NO. 1. OF FICTION-ONLINE]

================================================================= 
                      THE DECLINE, PARTIAL UNWINDING 
                   AND ULTIMATE COLLAPSE OF CIVILIZATION
                               AS WE KNOW IT

                             by Otho E. Eskin


SETTING:  The Grand Salon on a large cruise ship.

NOTE ON PROPS: There are only two props: a clipboard and a   
whistle.  The whistle is very important.  At                    
the beginning the Acting Deputy Cruise                    
Director uses it as a badge of office and                    
symbol of her authority. At the end it is a                    
cry of despair.

AT RISE:  A young woman wearing a modified "Love Boat" outfit     
with a whistle hanging from a chain around her neck          
bounds onto the stage.  She holds a clipboard in one          
hand.  Her manner is perky and relentlessly, implacably          
cheerful.
          
          She blows her whistle.

People!  People! (Blows whistle)  Settle down. Please settle
down.  That's better.  Please, let's get with the program.  I'm
the Acting Deputy Cruise Director.  The Director has asked me to
take over for another one of our famous fun-filled evenings. I
just know we're all going to have a simply fabulous time. 
(Listens to someone speaking from the audience.)  I'm glad you
asked me that, Mr. Laufer.  I want to set the record straight on
that right now. There's not a shred of truth to those stories
that the ship is sinking. (Listens) Iceberg? What iceberg? (Beat)
The first thing I think we should do is to get to know one
another better. This will be kind of an icebreaker. (Laughs
nervously) I want each of you to give us your name and your
favorite color.  Won't that be fun? (Long pause)  Let's all try
and get into the spirit of things. (Listens) I don't see why you
keep harping on that. (Beat) It's true there is a very large
white object looming over the ship which does resemble in some
respects a giant iceberg.  But I'm sure there's a very good
explanation for its being there. (Beat) Maybe I should begin by
telling you a little bit about myself. I'm a people person.  When
I was a teenager I decided to become a nun.  I wanted to be like
Mother Teresa -- only with a better wardrobe. (Listens) You say
you can't hear me because of the screaming from the women and
children trapped in the economy class?  Could somebody please
close the door? That's better, isn't it? (Blows whistle)  Let's
all tell each other what kind of vegetable we would be -- that
is, if we were a vegetable. (Beat) Anybody?  A little shy, are
we? I think I'd be a parsnip. (Stops and considers her choice.) 
Why on earth would anybody be a parsnip?  I'm not even sure a
parsnip's a vegetable. (Blows whistle) I must have your attention
as we have a full evening of activities planned for your
entertainment. Would somebody please grab hold of Mrs. Moscowitz. 
She's beginning to float away. (Looks at clipboard) The Welcome
Aboard Mardi Gras Gala has been cancelled. The band was last seen
on an ice floe heading north. (Beat) This is my first trip on a
cruise ship but you needn't worry.  I'm fully qualified. I've had
intensive training in shuffle board and limbo contests. (Inspects
clipboard) I'm afraid we're going to have to postpone the
extravagant Las Vegas-style cabaret review with our famous
glittering showgirls and singing waiters as the Tropicana Lounge
seems to be filling with scalding steam. (Beat) Did I mention
I've been in therapy? (Brightly) But enough about me. (Listens)
Now I don't see why you're getting upset about those people in
economy class. It might seem the right thing to help them out
onto the deck but management has explained that, in the long run,
it wouldn't be doing them a favor.  It's time they learned to
show some personal initiative and self-reliance.  We've got to
encourage that "can-do" attitude that has made this cruise ship
great. Personally I think all those people below the water line
should lighten up. The ones that are screaming are probably
malcontents and trouble-makers anyway.  (Listens) You want to
know what happened to the Activities Director?  I'd just as soon
not talk about that. (Blows whistle. Looks at Clipboard.) We're
going to try and combine the Wild and Wacky Passenger Talent Show
with the skeet shoot. Mr. Johannsen, I wish you would stop
crying.  It's depressing the other passengers. (Blows whistle.
Studies her clipboard) Work with me -- please. I want to announce
that the crew is making every effort to remove the barracudas
from the piano bar before happy hour. I'll keep you informed. 
(Looks at clipboard) Mr. and Mrs. Levine are scheduled to give a
slide presentation on their trip to Nova Scotia. What was that,
Mr. Levine?  Mrs. Levine was swept overboard? (Inspects her
clipboard)  I'll tell you what, Mr. Levine, I'll pencil you in
for the Singles Rhumba contest. (Listens)  Of course we're in no
danger. Just because the ship seems to be leaning to one side
doesn't mean a thing.  We have a wise and experienced captain. 
He wouldn't drive the ship right into an iceberg, now would he?
(Laughs hysterically. Blows whistle)  He wouldn't be captain if
he didn't know what he was doing. (Blows whistle)  Mrs. Moscowitz
is floating away again. What was that, Mr. Harlow?  If I blow
this whistle one more time, you'll put it where? Well, Mr.
Harlow, I hardly think that's a constructive attitude.  Do you? 
Just because we're encountering a few teensy-weensy problems is
no reason for us to lose our sense of humor. (Blows whistle)
Would somebody please lash Mrs. Moscowitz to the bingo table?
(Consults her clipboard)  Some of the tourist class passengers
have broken out and are acting up.  Just because there aren't
enough life boats. (Laughs, blows whistle, looks desperately at
her clipboard) Our world-famous olympic-size swimming pool has
been temporarily relocated to the main dinning room.  But don't
worry -- you couldn't use it any way.  It's filled with burning
bunker fuel. (Studies clipboard carefully) Actually most of the
activities for this evening do seem to have been cancelled.
(Listens) You say you just saw the Captain and officers leaving
the ship in the last life boat, Mr. Harknis?  No need to worry. 
I'm certain they've got a plan. (Beat) I wish you would stop
screaming.  It's this kind of negative attitude that's the real
cause of our problems. (Laughs hysterically. Blows whistle.
Studies clipboard.) It looks like we have time for only one last
event -- our famous Sing-Along. Does anybody here know the words
to "Nearer My God To Thee"? 

===============================================================
===============================================================