textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0205.txt

                              FICTION-ONLINE

                       An Internet Literary Magazine
                            Volume 2, Number 5 (corrected)
                          September-October 1995



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

     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

     "Flowers and Parties: Poems" 
          Diana Munson

     "A Bad Day at the White House," fiction
          Ivy Main

     "Baesle," an excerpt (chapter 8) from the novel "In Search  
          of Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "Time Trials," short story
          Otho Eskin

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


                               CONTRIBUTORS

OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays
read and produced in Washington.  His play "Duet" was recently
produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, as well as at other theaters in the United States,
Europe, and Australia.

IVY MAIN is a writer living in MacLean, Virginia.  "A Bad Day at
the White House" was recently published in _The Belletrist
Review_.

DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C.  She writes short
stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in _Rent-
A-Chicken_.  She has published numerous poems in magazines and
anthologies.

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems.  He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.  His comedy, "The Importance of Being
Elvis," was recently produced at the Source Theater Ten-Minute
Play Festival.

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


                        FLOWERS AND PARTIES: POEMS

                              by Diana Munson


          ARGUMENT AGAINST DAFFODILS

When I was young I lived to grasp
the yellow moments,
catch falling stars,
and things that glimmered bright
if briefly; I sought the light,
I bought daffodils, and never asked the time.

But now, age mellowed
I know that daffodils wilt quicker,
and I prefer muffled tones, dusk,
and violet times and muted hues, chrysanthemums...


          THE LITERARY PARTY
     (Per me si va nella citta dolente)

Secluded, in the talk about Lust,
In the reference to Love,
In the appeal to Passion,
Between the olive and the vermouth,
Between the smile and the tongue
Taste gets lost
Among these tasteful,
Comes undone.

What remains:
A brimming ashtray's disarray,
The slick printed cards in the pocket,
And a few phone numbers scribbled illegibly
Between a black book's covers
(no one ever looks there to find lovers),
Burnt marks on the mantlepiece,
Broken glass in the bath,
A matchbook on the floor near the door.

Tomorrow in the aftermath
no one will say:
Greed came in casual dress,
And Ennui in decollete, and
Powerseeking in purple lip,
But isn't every Hell, in its own way, looking well?

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


                       A BAD DAY AT THE WHITE HOUSE

                                by Ivy Main

                                     
     "You are the greatest.  You are the supreme being.  You are
the ne plus ultra of world leaders.  You are the -- "
     The President reached over and slapped the "off" button on
the alarm clock.  For a moment he contemplated going back to
sleep.  He was on the verge of blissful unconsciousness when a
thought floated to the surface of his mind, crystallized into
realization, and brought him fully awake.  This was to be his day
of triumph.  Today a Justice Department special prosecutor would
formally charge his arch-rival, House Speaker Jim Deerborn, with
misappropriation of campaign funds.  Deerborn would be forced out
of the primary race, the President would reunite his party, and
he would sail to reelection in November with only enough of a
fight from the likely Republican challenger to make the race fun. 
    President Bruce Dudley sat up in bed, rubbing his hands. 
"Petersen!" he yelled; and then, as nobody came running, he
strode to the door and opened it to call out again, wrapping a
silk paisley dressing gown around his ample frame as he went.
     "Petersen!"  
     "Here, sir."  A freshly-scrubbed young aide trotted forward
with the morning's news clippings already assembled in a leather
file embossed with the presidential seal.  "Shall I order your
tray now, sir?"
     "All right."  Dudley took the file and flipped through it
while Petersen spoke into the tiny radio on his wrist, announcing
to the White House kitchen that the President would condescend to
sample breakfast immediately in his suite.
     "What's this?"  Dudley stopped at a news item about the
upheaval in Ivory Coast.  He shot a quick glance at Petersen. 
"Ivory Coast?  What's going on there?"
     "That's this week's Third World basket-case.  The government
fell on Tuesday, and the capital's in chaos.  Everybody killing
everyone else."
     "Really?  I thought that was Burundi."
     "No, sir.  That was last week."
     "Wasn't Myanmar last week?"
     "You're thinking of Laos, and that was last month."
     "No, I remember Laos, because the riots there followed the
cholera epidemic in Venezuela."
     "Guyana."
     "Whatever."  Dudley flipped the pages.  "There's nothing
here about Deerborn.  Why aren't the papers on top of this?  The
man has broken the laws of this country.  Where's the outcry?"
     "Well, the special prosecutor hasn't gone public yet.  Until
it's clear what she's going to do -- "
     "_I_ know they've got the goods on him.  You telling me the
"Washington Post" doesn't know that?"
     "You have to remember, it was our people who supplied the
goods.  Sir."
     A maid appeared bearing an immense silver tray with a domed
cover.  The men trailed her back into the room and over to a
small mahogany table by a window overlooking a presidential
expanse of lawn.  She took the cover off, revealing a dry toasted
English muffin, a small dish of preserves and a glass of prune
juice, surrounded by heavy silver service and a linen napkin. 
Dudley made a face.  "Julia thinks I need to lose weight for the
campaign."
     "The First Lady has an unerring sense of these things."
     Petersen wore a look that was probably intended to be
sympathetic, but his slender frame lent it no credence.  The
President scowled.  "Wait until you're a grown-up.  Fifty changes
everything."  But as he scraped the jam out onto the bottom half
of the muffin and covered it up with the top half, sandwich-
style, he found his good humor returning.  "Never mind.  I'm
eating venison for lunch!"
     "Sir?"
     "Venison.  Deerborn -- get it?  Venison!"  Dudley exploded
with laughter, as much at Petersen's incomprehension as at his
own pun, although it was a very good one.  But the laughter,
coming just when he had taken a bite of his breakfast, caused him
to inhale a crumb and choke on it.  Petersen pounded him on the
back; his eyes watered and he felt his face grow flush.  By the
time he could breathe again, he had forgotten his joke.  He
cleared his throat and wiped the white napkin over his mouth. 
"Well, what's on for today?"
     Petersen opened the file to the typed schedule inside the
back cover.  "Briefing with the Chief of Staff, 8:30 a.m.  He
wants you to fire some people to prove to the media that this
isn't the big-spending, do-nothing Administration they say it
is."
     "Those slimy reporters!  They couldn't report the truth if
it came to them on stone tablets from God."
     Petersen chuckled.  "You always say so, sir."  He continued
reading from the schedule.  "Nine o'clock, croquet with the
Secretary of State.  Nine thirty-five, the White House Counsel;
McNaughton wants to hire a new assistant so he doesn't have to
spend so much time on legal matters, especially with the pro-am
golf tournament coming up.  Then at 9:45 you're presenting a
plaque to the Girl Scout who sold the most cookies this year."
     Dudley glanced up hopefully.  "Are they bringing some
cookies?"
@@@  "They've been asked not to.  At 9:55, the signing ceremony
for the Bathtub and Shower Safety Act, followed immediately by a
photo op with the U.S. Olympic Crack Team."
     "The what?"
     "Crack team.  Oh, I expect that's not right.  Must be a
typo."  Petersen studied the paper intently, squeezing his lower
lip between his thumb and forefinger.
     "Then what?"
     "Ten-twenty, you meet with a delegation of agribusiness
executives to assure them that your Family Farmer Initiative
isn't intended as a slight on non-family farms.  At 10:35 there's
a cabinet meeting to sort out this question of who's entitled to
transportation by government helicopter.  They may also try to
bring up the subject of which of them gets to go to Camp David
this Fourth of July, but if that comes up, the meeting's going to
go over time.  If necessary, you could postpone the 11:08
congratulatory phone call to Mrs. Thelma Jefferson -- you know,
the old lady who's turning a hundred and eighteen today.  By the
way, she's senile, so she won't know who you are.  Anyway, try
not to let the schedule slip too much.  We've already put off
your consultation with the upholsterer twice; if you miss the
11:15 appointment today we won't get the new chair coverings in
time for the state dinner."
     "I'll make it.  I can control my cabinet."  The President
dusted the crumbs from his dressing gown and eyed the prune
juice, which he despised.
     "Eleven-thirty, the third sitting for your official
portrait.  That will take half an hour, during which the chef
wishes to nail down the menu for the dinner.  Be careful, by the
way.  Rumor has it he's getting creative hankerings again."
     Dudley grunted.  "Just no fiddleheads and mushrooms in
Chinese black bean sauce.  That dish destroyed our relations with
an important ally."  He shook his head, recalling the last state
dinner.
     "Yes, it was unfortunate about the wild mushrooms," murmured
Petersen.  "But Egypt seems to have come out of the succession
crisis all right."
     Dudley held his breath and drained his prune juice, then set
the glass down on the tray as he pushed away from the table. 
Petersen followed him towards the bathroom, still reading from
the schedule.  
     "Twelve o'clock, lunch with the First Lady, who wants to go
over choices for your son's summer camp.  Twelve forty-five, a
meeting with the Vice President."
     Dudley stopped at the door of the bathroom.  "The Vice
President?  What can he want?"
     "I don't know.  He just asked for ten minutes to discuss
'matters of national significance.'"
     "Curse that fellow!  Doesn't he realize I'm busy?  A couple
times a month he does this to me!"
     "Maybe it's time to send him on another fact-finding
mission." 
     "But then he always comes back with facts!"  Dudley started
into the bathroom, then turned, smiling.  "And don't tell me. 
Two o'clock, the special prosecutor makes her announcement on
national television, after which I pull a long face for the press
and bemoan the downfall of my lifelong friend and friendly rival,
Jim Deerborn.  Ah, me!"  He heaved a mock sigh, smiling
heavenward, and shut the bathroom door.
     Thanks to Petersen, it was exactly twelve o'clock when
President Dudley sat down to plain broiled cod and steamed
carrots with the First Lady, and twelve forty-five when he
returned to his office for the meeting with the Vice President. 
Petersen's penchant for keeping to schedules would have been
called legendary if he had been old enough to be a legend; as it
was, he was the brunt of a joke to the effect that the recent
economic boom would have occurred sooner, except that it couldn't
be worked into the schedule.  The President especially loved this
joke, as it implied that something he'd done had caused the boom.
     Vice President John Ramirez appeared at the office door
looking like the ghost of a Spanish aristocrat from centuries
ago.  Certainly his skin could not have been paler had he spent
the last couple hundred years underground.  His lean face with
its patrician lines lent him an air of dignity and wisdom, and a
lifetime in politics had taught him to use this advantage to
effect.  Even the President felt a shrinking in Ramirez's
presence, and had to remind himself that looks were deceiving. 
Still, he could never keep from standing when the older man
entered the room.
     "John!" he cried, waving him in and covering the standing-up
difficulty by striding across the room to close the door.  "Just
back from Rangoon, is it?  How was the trip?"
     "Jakarta.  I've been back for two weeks, but I've been
unable to get in to see you."
     "Why, nothing wrong in that part of the world, is there? 
You saw what's-his-name properly buried?"
     "No, I saw what's-his-name properly married."  
     "Ah -- same thing, eh?  Ha ha."
     Not the slightest hint of amusement touched the Vice
President's features.  "The bride and groom were touched by your
gift of two American bison.  Unfortunately, the animals died
within three days of their arrival, and seem to have spread a
lethal virus around the entire zoo, in spite of the quarantine."
     "That's embarrassing.  I'm sure you turned it to good
account, though.  What did you tell them, that the virus is like
democracy, which will spread in spite of all efforts to quash its
nascent -- "
     "No."
     "No.  I can see how the 'lethal' business would make that
sound bad."  Dudley nodded vigorously.  "Anyway, if the country's
already a democracy -- what country are we talking about, anyway,
Madagascar?"
     "Indonesia."
     "Oh, of course.  I'd just lost my train of thought for a
moment there.  Same area, anyway."  Dudley briefly wondered
whether Indonesia could safely be called a democracy.  Or
unsafely, for that matter; he hadn't a clue.  In the end, he
decided to steer clear of the question.  Instead he said, "Well,
well, what can I do for you, John?  A matter of national
significance, you told Clay Petersen?  Only I warn you, I've got
only a few minutes for it.  I'm meeting with the American Photo
Keepsakes Manufacturer's Association at one.  I think they may
throw us their endorsement.  We've got to start thinking about
reelection, John."
     "Oh, I am."  
     The Vice President managed a grim smile, which usually meant
he was thinking of something unpleasant.  Dudley clammed up and
waited.
     Ramirez coughed into his hand.  "I met with the FBI Director
yesterday -- you were busy with the representatives of the Parade
Float Workers Union."
     "It turned out to be really worthwhile.  The guy who does
Santa Claus in the Macy's Parade showed up.  Did you know he was
a lifelong Democrat?  How's this for a line: 'Even Santa Claus
votes for Dudley!  And Ramirez.'"
     "About the FBI..."
     "Yes, go on."
     "The Director gave me a piece of information that is at the
very least scandalous, and potentially seriously damaging to the
Administration and the government as a whole.  Its implications
for national security and military morale have me gravely
concerned."
     Dudley swallowed.  "Well?"
     "It seems the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is
having an extramarital affair."
     The President relaxed, infinitely relieved.  "Is that all? 
John, I know you're a bit of a Puritan -- "
     "His affair is with another man."  
     "Oh, Christ."  Dudley stood up abruptly and paced around the
room, his hand on his forehead.  "That is awkward.  I don't
suppose there's an exception to our gays-in-the-military policy
for generals, is there?  The press will have a field day.  I
never liked the man, you know.  Not that I'm in any way anti-gay,
it must be understood, but I have a special obligation to protect
our nation's traditional moral values -- "
     "It gets worse."
     Dudley missed a step.  "No, don't tell me.  The other
man...?"
     "Is the Senate Majority Leader."
     "Oh, Jesus!  There goes the budget deal."  Dudley brought
his other hand up to his head, too.  His pace increased, so that
he crossed from one end of the office and back in only a few
seconds, whirled around, and sped back the other way.  "We've got
a crisis.  Yep, it's what you could reasonably call a crisis. 
There's no other word for it."
     "Calamity.  Disaster.  Debacle.  Catastrophe." 
     Dudley ignored him.  "But we're going to weather this.  The
timing's bad, but it doesn't actually involve any of our people. 
I mean, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is more a Pentagon guy,
and the general consensus is that he's got Republican leanings
anyway.  I don't see this as hurting our reelection campaign --
much."
     "Deerborn's been critical of the Chairman."
     "Don't worry about Deerborn!"  Dudley started to chuckle
until he recalled that the Vice President was not privy to the
information that would shortly be bringing down the rival
candidate.  "We'll see what happens on this front.  Now, unless
there was anything else you needed to talk to me about -- "
     "As a matter of fact, there is."  Ramirez looked, if
possible, even a shade more grave.  "It concerns the report on
Mexico that the CIA sent over an hour ago.  -- Oh, but I see it
on your desk.  You've read it, I assume?"
     "Yes, yes, and I'm prepared to take appropriate measures." 
Dudley cast a sidelong glance at his desk.  There, sure enough,
front and center, lay a file plastered with "Urgent" and "Top
Secret" and "For Your Eyes Only" stickers.  The sight of those
stickers always gave him a thrill, although otherwise he hated
CIA reports.  They all concerned boring foreign policy matters. 
     Petersen stuck his head in the door.  "The Photo Keepsakes
people are waiting.  We're one minute behind schedule, but I
think we may be able to make it up on the meeting with the
Federal Reserve Board Chairman."
     "You're not going ahead with your schedule under these
circumstances, are you?" cried the Vice President, rising.  
     Dudley patted him on the shoulder as he eased the old fellow
towards the door.  "Now, now, I don't try to tell you how to do
your job, do I?  Of course, you haven't actually got a job;
that's the bad news about being V.P.  Ha, ha.  See you around,
John, thanks for stopping by and sharing your concerns with me."
     As soon as the Vice President had left, Dudley whispered,
"You know anything about some problem with Mexico?"
     "I haven't heard anything."  Petersen glanced down the hall
where Ramirez had gone.  "Maybe it's a Hispanic thing."  Then he
looked at his watch.  "We're a minute and a half off schedule,
sir."
     "All right.  Bring in our guests."  The President returned
to his office and settled himself in his chair, turning slightly
to one side because he'd found it gave the best effect when
people walked into the room.  He opened the file on his desk in
order to appear to be doing something of national importance, but
before he could pretend to read it his secretary spoke through
the intercom.
     "Mr. President, Ted McNaughton is on the line.  He says it's
urgent."
     Dudley picked up the phone.  "Ted, we went over this this
morning.  We made a big deal out of these new hiring guidelines;
if you really want another lawyer in the White House Counsel's
office, it's got to be a black female with a disability."  He saw
the door open and Petersen usher the Photo Keepsakes contingent
into the office.  Ignoring McNaughton's insistence that this call
concerned an entirely different matter, Dudley changed his tone
to one of cordial respect and said into the phone, "Well, thank
you, Mr. Boutros-Ghali.  I certainly couldn't have negotiated
that peace settlement without U.N. support."  Then he hung up and
turned, smiling, to greet his visitors.
     President Dudley was still having his picture taken with the
delegation from the American Photo Keepsakes Manufacturer's
Association when Petersen marched in again, holding his wrist in
front of his face and exclaiming that his watch had to be running
fast, because one could not accuse the President of running slow.
The visitors accepted the hint and left to tour the grounds, but
not before Petersen had begun dancing with anxiety.
     "We've lost two more minutes -- make it three!  No."  He
stopped jumping around long enough to stare at the hands of the
watch, calculating.  "Two minutes and fifty-five seconds! Fifty-
seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine -- now it's three minutes!  You're
just going to have to tell the Chairman of the Fed to come talk
about interest rates another day."  
     "You're shaking, Petersen.  You'd better take your
medication."
     Petersen nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, but his
fingers trembled so much that he spilled the little yellow pills
all over the office floor.  Instead of stooping to collect them,
however, he stood still and began uttering a high-pitched
whooping sound which, from the intermittent convulsing of his
shoulders, suggested that he was sobbing.
     "Oh, come on, now!  I promise we'll make up the time," cried
Dudley, getting down on his hands and knees to search for the
pills.  "What's next on the schedule?"
     Petersen's body had begun to curl up like a drying leaf.  He
staggered towards one of the window seats and collapsed on a blue
chintz cushion.  "The Fed Chairman," he whimpered.  "And then
you're supposed to decide on a new Supreme Court nominee.  I
allotted ten minutes for you to discuss the candidates with the
search committee!"
     "Then that should just do it!  If I can't choose a Supreme
in under seven minutes, I don't deserve to be President."
     Dudley held out one of the pills, but Petersen seemed to
have passed a point of no return.  He slowly drew himself into a
tight ball and began rocking back and forth on the window seat,
whooping softly to himself.  The President dropped the pill into
the bottle and returned to the task of gathering up the others. 
He was just crawling under the desk to retrieve the last one when
he heard a voice say, "Good God, what's the matter with
Petersen?"
     Dudley reversed course.  When he could get his head out he
found his Chief of Staff standing just inside the door.  "Oh,
it's just one of his attacks, Harris.  Only worse than usual,
maybe."
     "I didn't mean that.  I meant the haircut."   Harris crossed
the room to stand in front of Petersen.  "Did he decide to go
short, do you know, or did this just happen?"
     Dudley got to his feet and stood beside Harris, looking down
at the stricken man.  "It is bad.  I guess I hadn't noticed."
     "Have you given him a pill?"
     "No.  When he gets like this it's too late for the yellow
ones.  We need to find the pink ones."
     Harris stepped forward to frisk Petersen, who now seemed
oblivious to their presence.  "Here we go!"  He put his hand into
a pocket and pulled out a pill bottle and a slip of paper. 
"Damn," he said, shaking the bottle, "it's empty.  Here's the
prescription for the refill."
     "Well, that's annoying."  They both looked at Petersen's
rocking, whooping body.  "What did you want to see me about,
anyway?  That Supreme Court Justice thing?"
     "No, actually, the CIA's been on my case.  They want to know
what to do about Mexico.  Do you know something about this?"
     "Mexico again!"  Dudley jerked his thumb towards the desk. 
"There's something about it there.  You might want to look at the
report."
     Harris turned to the desk, and Dudley looked around for a
pillow to place behind Petersen's head, in case the rocking got
so violent that he hit the window.  He was about to suggest that
they call in the White House physician, when he heard Harris
gasp.  "What?  What is it?" he asked him.
     "The Mexicans!  They -- they want Texas back!"
     Dudley forgot Petersen and came to stand by Harris. 
"They've got balls.  What the hell do they mean by it?"
     "They claim it's in NAFTA.  What'll we do?"
     The President thought it over.  "Can't we just let them have
it?  Texas generally votes Republican."
     Harris was starting to answer when a young woman burst
through the door, waving a copy of Playboy.  "Mr. President, have
you seen this!?"
     "Not this month's issue," answered Dudley.  "And by the way,
doesn't anyone knock first any more?  Are you on the schedule,
Janet?"
     "No, sir, but the Fed Chairman had a heart attack in the
lobby, and security's taken him off.  So you've got a minute of
play in the schedule."
     "That's a relief."  Dudley smiled over at Petersen, who,
however, seemed unable to hear.
     "Not entirely.  He's left instructions to raise interest
rates by two points.  The stock market just crashed."  Janet
waved the magazine again.  "But this is what I wanted to show you
-- these pictures!"  She opened the magazine to a marked page.
     Dudley took the magazine, saying, "Really, Janet, I didn't
know women liked this sort of thing -- well!  These are hot, hey,
Harris?"
     "Mr. President, that's your wife!"
     "It is?  Oh, I wasn't looking at the face."  Dudley paled. 
"It is her, although she looks pretty young.  It's amazing what
they do with make-up.  Where'd they get these, Janet?"
     "They're old movie stills someone sold to the magazine."
     "Movie stills!"  He staggered, and his face grew whiter.
     Janet took the magazine out of his hands and helped him into
his chair.  "You mean you didn't know the First Lady was a porn
star in Australia before she married you?"  
     "You'd better get Ted McNaughton in here," gasped Dudley. 
"I think we need a lawyer."
     "He's here now."
     Indeed, the White House Counsel was striding in the door as
the aide spoke, a sheaf of papers in his hand.  "Excuse my
intrusion," he said.  "I know how busy you are, Mr. President,
but it's critical that we discuss this.  Mr. President, you had
better brace yourself.  In fact, perhaps we ought to discuss this
in private; it concerns a matter involving a member of your
family."
     The President tried to smile, but it was all he could do to
speak calmly.  "It's all right.  We know about it.  I'll admit
it's shaken me up a bit.  What should we do, Ted?"
     "We'll issue a statement denying it ever happened," the
lawyer answered promptly.
     "Denying it?"  Dudley blinked.  "How could I do that?"
     It was Ted McNaughton's turn to grow pale.  "You mean it's
true?"
     Dudley laughed nervously.  "Well, they've got the pictures
to prove it."
     "Pictures!"  McNaughton groped behind him for a seat.  At a
nod from the President, Janet opened the Playboy again and held
it in front of the lawyer's face.  Slowly McNaughton's look
changed from horror to curiosity.  At last he said, "But -- but -
- this is the First Lady!  Where's your daughter?"
     "My daughter!  Have they got pictures of her, too?  Are you
telling me they were both porn stars?"  
     The two men stared at each other in an alarm that only
increased as they shot questions at each other.
     "The First Lady was a porn star?"
     "Did my daughter pose nude for Playboy?"
     "Is your wife suing you also?"
     "How is she blaming me for this?"
     "Are you telling me you know nothing about her allegations
of sexual abuse?"
     As they spoke, a woman wearing a worn suit and a "Re-elect
Dudley!" button stomped in the door and threw a battered
briefcase into an empty chair.  "You'll never believe it," she
announced, scowling at them all.  "The goddamned special
prosecutor just announced she isn't going to indict Deerborn
after all."
     "What?"  Dudley staggered to his feet.  "Rita, you're
joking!"
     "Turn on the television and see for yourself.  Petersen's
gone off again, I see," she added, noticing the now-catatonic
aide on the window seat.
     Janet scurried over to a remote control on the President's
desk and turned on the television in the corner.  She flicked
through the soap operas until she found a station covering the
special prosecutor's announcement that she had found the evidence
against Deerborn unpersuasive.
     "What's the matter with the woman?" cried Dudley.
     "She's a goddamn airhead bimbo puppet of the opposition,"
answered Rita, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply on it. 
When she spoke again, smoke seeped out of her mouth and nose as
if she were a dragon preparing to shoot flames.  "I fed her a
dozen separate pieces of evidence, each of them documented and
with witnesses.  I couldn't have spelled it out better if I'd
written the indictment myself.  She's a goddamn spineless
Republican lapdog.  Well, Bruce, that's it for me.  I resign as
your campaign manager."  She stubbed out her cigarette on the
sole of her shoe, flicked the butt into a wastebasket, and stood
to leave.
     Dudley began protesting her decision, but his words were
nearly drowned out by the ringing of a telephone.  "Who turned up
the volume on that thing?" he fumed.    
     "Mr. President!" cried Janet, turning to look at the phone. 
"It's the hot line!"
     "Great."  The President swore.  "As if I didn't have enough
problems, the Russians have to come crying to me."  He picked up
the receiver.  "No more loans, Boris!"
     After these initial words, he fell silent and listened to
the voice on the other end.  Slowly what little color remained in
his face drained away.  A nervous tic that he had overcome many
years before suddenly resurfaced in his right eye, causing it to
wink compulsively.  His staff gathered more closely around him,
awaiting the outcome of the call in silence.
     At last he set the phone down and grabbed at a cup of cold
coffee on the desk.
     "You don't want that," observed Rita as it reached his lips.
"I was using it for an ashtray."
     He sprayed out the mouthful and gasped weakly, "The Russians
say..."
     They all leaned forward.  "Yes?"  
     Dudley motioned at Janet, who hurried to a side table to
pour him a glass of water.  When she returned with it, he
snatched it up, drained it, and set it down again before meeting
the eyes of his staff.  "They were only kidding about democracy." 
    "What!"  The room erupted into a nervous murmur of
incomprehension.
     "And also..."  
     The murmur ceased. 
     "There's a missile headed for New York."
     "Oh, my God!"  
     "And also..."
     "Yes?"  The strained faces stared, huge-eyed.
     "Richard Nixon was KGB."
     Panic seized the staff, but nobody seemed to know what to
do.  Harris started to cry.  Janet helped herself to a bottle of
Scotch that Dudley thought he had hidden from everyone behind a
row of books.  McNaughton paced back and forth, muttering, "There
must be some basis for suing them."
     "I'd suggest you call your Defense Secretary," sobbed
Harris, "but he's just been arrested."
     Rita lit another cigarette, took two long drags, then
stubbed it out again.  "I don't see how we're going to put a
positive spin on this," she said at last.
     "If it's any consolation, sir," offered Janet between gulps
from the bottle, "things can hardly get any worse."
     As she spoke, a uniformed butler appeared in the doorway. 
"Excuse me, Mr. President, but your cat is throwing up all over
the Lincoln bedroom."
     Dudley barely managed to squeak out, "Mittens is?"
     "Yes, sir.  Or I should say, he was.  The housekeeper became
so enraged that she shot him, then turned the gun on herself. 
She's left a suicide note admitting that she's been operating a
heroin ring out of the White House ever since she got here.  Your
son is beside himself; apparently this has cut off his supply."
     Dudley tried to rise from his chair, but found his legs
would not support him.  Janet appeared at his side, somewhat
unsteady herself from the Scotch but managing nonetheless to help
him up.  Leaning heavily on her shoulder, he stumbled to the
window seat and crawled up onto the cushion next to Petersen.
     "Mr. President!"  A young aide appeared in the doorway,
flushed and out of breath from running.  "Mr. President!  I've
just come from the Conference of Southern Governors!  They've
voted to secede again!"
     Rita lit her third cigarette and spoke to the aide through a
cloud of smoke.  "I think you're too late, kid.  Look at him."
     They all looked.  President Dudley had drawn his knees up to
his chin and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.  His eyes
stared blankly as he rocked forward and back, slowly and gently,
to the rhythm of a soft whooping sound.

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


                                  BAESLE
[an excerpt from "In Search of Mozart, A Novel": chapter eight]  
                         

                             by William Ramsay
 

     The stars belonged to everyone -- even to the unjustly
imprisoned, like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, immured in Salzburg. 
The stars were constant, pinpricks of heavenly light breaking
through both the clear dark skies of Guyana and the pale gray
half-gloom of Salzburg.  Venus appeared blue-white and alone in
the western sky.
 
     Star light, star bright
     First star I see tonight
     I wish I may
     I wish I might.

     The gray pearl dusk glimmered on the rooftops on the west
side of the Makartplatz, across from their parlor window.  The
sun had gone down behind the Moenchsberg some time ago, but below
the evening star, the sky was still glowing.  The silhouette of
the medieval Hohensalzburg Fortress could be seen sharp atop
Castle Hill.  He could barely make out the houses below it, but
he could still see clearly the gabled roofs of the buildings on
the other side of the river as far as the Residenz of the
Archbishop.  A chilly breeze had sprung up and the afternoon haze
had lifted.  It was a beautiful summer evening in Salzburg.  He
was in the twenty-second year of his life.  He gazed at the
evening star, which would live forever.
     The stars would look the same from anywhere.  Paris, London,
the valley of the Orinoco.  But not so the moon.  Guido had
explained to him years ago in Bologna that with a good telescope
the moon -- which was almost overhead and half full tonight --
should look slightly different from the jungles of Guyana.       
Guyana!  He hadn't even been as far as Milan for the last four
years.  He missed Italy.  He missed the outside world -- all of
it.         
     "Is Papa home yet?"  The soft voice of his sister called
upstairs.
      "Not yet," he called down.  She came up the steep and
narrow stairs, her hair, as blonde as his, shining in the faint
light.  Her face, big nose and all, brightened the room.
     "Where is he?"
     "He's seeing the Archbishop."
     "About the trip?" she said, fixing his collar.  
     "Yes," he said.
     "Well, don't look that way.  It won't kill you, whatever
happens."
      He threw his head back. "It's just that that fat turd is so
jealous of his prerogatives!  If he won't give me a decent job
here, why can't he let me look in other countries?"
     "Well, maybe he will," she said.  "Maybe the Archbishop --
he _isn't_ really fat -- will be nice.  I'll bet he'll give you
permission and even hold your jobs open for you."
     "Oh, sure.  On salary!"
     "You always were a dreamer, Wolferl.  You can tell from your
noble brow, and those far-seeing eyes."  She grinned impishly.
     "You mean those far-bulging eyes."  He came away from the
window, walked over to the stairs, then back to the window.  He
turned to her.  "I'm going for a walk."
     "Good luck, darling bubboo," she said, blowing him a kiss.  
He went down the stairs, three at a time, and came out into the 
Makartplatz.  The vendors had gone home for the day, and he began
to walk very rapidly around the open square, the heels of his
shoes clicking on the cobblestones, wondering what had happened
in the interview with the Archbishop.  He and Papa had both been
on the staff of the Priceless Archbooby for what seemed like
forever.  Papa was fifty-eight now and probably too old for
advancement -- God, practically all he could talk about was his
aging bowels!  He himself was grown up now and ready to move up. 
But even if the Archbishop had felt more friendly to them, a
promotion to Chief Kapellmeister was impossible.  Good old Lolli
was stooped and bent with arthritis and always complained about
his digestion, but he was still very much alive -- God be
praised, of course. 
     They just had to get out of Salzburg.  
     His father finally appeared in the distance, coming from the
direction of the Residenz across the river.  He was tall, and he
usually held himself ramrod-straight.  But he walked now with his
head lowered and a pout on his lips.  His father took him by the
arm, and they crossed the square and opened the nailed- studded,
rust-colored front door of the house and climbed the stairs to
their rooms.
     "His Highness would give you leave, unpaid of course.  But
if I were to go, I'd lose my position.  And we can't get along
without my salary."  He looked Wolfgang straight in the eye.  His
father's eyes were of a beautiful china blue color, but they
looked dark and ugly tonight.  "I'm sorry, Wolferl, I know you're
disappointed."
     "But Papa!"  
     "There's nothing I can do about it."
     "Why can't I go alone?"  He waited for an answer.  His
father seemed reluctant to speak.  "I'm twenty-one years old
now!" he said.  "Why not?"   Wolfgang got up and paced around the
room, knocking a leather-bound book off the table.  "I know my
way around well enough by now.  Mon Dieu, Papa!  I've been 
traveling all over Europe since I was six."
     His father leaned over and picked up the book.  "No, I don't
think so."   He spoke as if his teeth hurt, his chin held
rigidly.  
     "You're still treating me like a six-year-old!"  he said,
feeling his mouth quiver.
     "I don't want to talk about it now."  His father still
looked grim and abstracted.
     His father was acting as if he were still a baby!  But did
he have the nerve to go against the old man?  And if he were to
go alone, could he handle  the trip all by himself?  Papa had
always _been_ there. 
     His father turned away from him and stared out the window at
the street below.  Wolfgang suddenly felt helpless at the sight
of the shiny pleats on the back of the familiar long black coat
and the black ribbon on the second-best periwig.  Then his father
turned back to him and said, somewhat more gently,  "Let's talk
about it later, I need time to think."
     "Time to think" -- that's all Wolfgang had.  Time to think
about music, about getting a position -- and about still being
the oldest virgin male in Salzburg!
                                    ***
     Several days later, Leopold sat down beside his wife. 
Dinner was over, and she was brushing Bimperl's coat. 
     "Oh, my lovely little doggie-pie.  How are you this evening?
Yes, Yesss, so bright-eyed.  Mama's little bitsy puppy."
     While Leopold had been told that he was still a handsome,
slim and imposing man, he thought his wife was beginning to look
definitely middle-aged.   But somehow she looked comfortable 
with it.  Her nose was large, and her chin receded, and she had
become more than a little stout.  But still, she had a certain
presence -- she was visibly proud of herself, Marianne Pertl
Mozart, wife of a Deputy Music Director.  "Marianne, I've come to
a difficult decision. "
     "Yes, Mozart?  About what?"
     "You know how essential it is that we find a place for
Wolfgang.  I'm afraid there's only one possibility left.  You --
you'll have to go with him.   I'll stay and take care of things
here, Nannerl will help me.  You'll be able to give him the
guidance he needs.  It won't be hard," he added hurriedly, "We 
have friends everywhere."
     "Oh, Leopold!"  And tears came to her eyes.  "To be
separated from you -- and Nannerl.  And" -- she whispered almost
inaudibly -- "Bimperl."
     "I know.  But there's no help for it.  It's your duty to our
son."
     "Oh, Leopold!" the tears flowing fast.  "My duty?"  She wept
harder.  "Well if it's my _duty_."  She took a clean white linen
handkerchief from her large bosom and wiped her eyes.  "All
right, Leopold."
     "It _will_ be all right, I promise you.  He kissed her
gently on her furrowed forehead.
     Leopold planned out the trip with enthusiasm.  First
southern Germany, then perhaps Holland, but finally, and most
important -- Paris!  Everything would depend on where Wolfgang
found promising opportunities, God knows how long they'd be away.
Possibly as long as the money -- or rather the credit -- held
out.  All kinds of details needed taking care of: clothes, hair
brushes, music paper.  Letters of credit had to be drawn up on
bankers or merchants in Munich, Mannheim, Frankfurt, Paris.  And
he still had to persuade his good friend Hagenauer the dry goods
merchant and the other local businessmen in Salzburg to authorize
the necessary back-up credits.  
     But I'm sure that they will go along, thought Leopold. 
They're proud of Wolferl.  After all, he's one of them.  Of us. 
He's a Salzburger. 
                                    ***
     It was a bright autumn morning, with the sun climbing over
the gray-green heights of the Kapuzinerberg.  
     "Remember who you are," said his father, hugging him.    
     "I will," he said.  But as he and his mother climbed into
the magnificent  new beige coach, he wondered how he could
remember something he wasn't so sure about as the reality of his
identity.  In a very brief sense, he was someone labeled "W.A.M."
-- the initials almost seemed to have a life of their own.  The
totality of his name remained, the 21 letters -- just his age --
like blanks to be filled in by Life itself. 
     The springs of the coach squeaked with the weight of the
baggage on top and behind the cab.  His mother seemed to be
content, and after dropping a few onto the beautifully groomed
coat of Bimperl, appeared to be looking forward to the trip. 
Wolfgang felt euphoric.  The air was crisp, there had been a
frost the night before.  They said their final farewells and the 
coachmen whipped up the horses.  The coach took off with a lurch,
clattering over the Makartplatz, headed for the road to Bavaria. 
     The swaying of the coach, as they crossed the low Staats
Bridge onto the Mullner Hauptstrasse, provided a rhythmic
background to Wolfgang's thoughts.   He was leaving Salzburg. 
This was his chance.  With music.  And maybe this time in Munich,
his luck with women would be better too.
     The skies were cloudless on their arrival in Munich.  It was
good to see the familiar towers of the Frauenkirche, dominating
the old Gothic city and the newer rococo palaces -- he could
identify for his mother a palace and a theater where he had given
concerts in the past.   At this time of year the court was still
resident in the sumptuous new summer palace at Nymphenburg, and
the next day, as he drove through the massive gates into the
enormous park and up to the  baroque splendors of the palace
itself, his face felt flushed with excitement.  He remembered
Munich two years before, and the success of 'La finta 
giardiniera.' 
      He was announced to Count Seeau.
     "How are you, my dear Mozart!  So pleased to see you again. 
Taking a vacation from Salzburg?"  Even shorter than Wolfgang,
the tiny Count was at his most dapper, dressed in a beautifully
tailored suit of gray silk with gold piping.  
     "No, I've left for good." 
     "Oh?  Not had a falling-out with our good friend the
Archbishop, have you?"  The Count looked at him slyly.
     "No, no, it's just that there's no scope for me at that
court.  I need a more stimulating place."  God, this was
embarrassing!
     "But where will you go?"
     "Well, I'm looking around.  I'd love to find something in
Munich, if there's anything available."  Come on, what did he
have to say?  These Bavarian idiots should be overjoyed at the
prospect of having him there!
      The next week, sitting at the rickety writing table in
their cramped quarters just down from the Frauenkirche, he wrote
to his father:  

          ...Seeau offered to try to get me an audience with
     the Electoral Prince, and told me if there was any snag
     that I should just put my request in writing.  I told
     him they needed a first-rate composer there and he
     agreed.  I talked to Prince Zeill, the Bishop of
     Chiemsee, who told me how he admired my work and
     promised to try to talk to the Electoral Princess.      
      Prince Zeill was sure that something could be done,
     and that personally he was very anxious to have me
     there.
      
     Your Obedient son

     Wolfgang Amade Mozart

     The next day, he made a point of showing Count Seeau his
creased and re- creased diplomas from music academies in Verona,
Rome, and Milan.  Two days after that, he asked his banking
connection, Henkel, to mention his name to the Prince-Bishop of
Chiemsee again.  The Prince-Bishop spoke to him the following 
day at a reception, saying in a kindly voice that he was almost
sure that he should be able to get the Electoral Prince to offer
Wolfgang a job.  "Patience, Herr Mozart, a bit of patience,
please."
     Patience!  Anything but that!  He tried to contain himself. 
He filled the waiting period -- making music -- playing billiards
and drinking -- attending the theater and concerts.  Then one
night he saw "Orfeo and Eurydice" -- and  what a Eurydice! 
Red-haired, cheekbones that never ended.  Mimi Kaiser.  He sent
her a bunch of chrysanthemums after the performance.  Backstage,
she bowed politely at him, with a little mocking smile.  Her
pink, soft cheeks with their tiny black beauty spots were
enchanting -- she looked in radiant health, close up, more like a
lusty peasant girl than an opera singer.
     "Honored, Herr Mozart," she said, curtseying.  "I admire
your work.  I really want badly to sing one of your roles."
     He felt his groin swelling -- he could think of other things
she could do for him besides sing.  "Charmed, Mademoiselle.  Your
singing is magnificent." 
     She bowed again.  He asked her if he could call.  Three
evenings later he did call, but she was not in.  His thoughts
drifted back to her pink-tinged white shoulders as he toured
Nymphenburg the next day.  The painted ceilings with their
depictions of Hercules throwing a rock at some water nymphs and
of Diana bathing in a quiet blue pool in the forest were like
some kind of earthly heaven.  He could imagine himself as
Hercules, Mademoiselle Kaiser as the more robust of the nymphs. 
But then the Electoral Prince's giant blue-and-white-tiled bath
that was the envy of the other rulers of Europe reminded him of
who he was -- a struggling musician.  What must it be like to
actually live in one of these incredible palaces, to loll in a
bath like that?  Would he get bored with that kind of life? 
Shit, how would he ever find out?  He remembered the naive little
boy who had told his father he wanted to be a prince.
      One thing was obvious.  Princes would have an easier time
approaching the Mademoiselle Kaisers of the world.
                                    ***
     The letter arrived in Salzburg in the middle of October. 
One section in  particular angered Leopold:
          
          [Marianne:] Bimperl, I hope, is doing her duties and
          making up to you, because she's a good, faithful fox
          terrier.  Please say hello to Tresel for me and tell
          her it doesn't matter whether..
      
          [Wolfgang (continuing her last phrase):] ...I shit the
          crap or she eats it...
 
     Leopold, in Salzburg, threw the letter down, bruising his
hand on the ink-sander.  He could feel his cheeks burning.
     "Shit the crap"!  Gutter nonsense and no action!  Three
weeks in Munich!  How would they be able to make the money hold
out?  And all his son could do was make bad jokes.  They were
obviously giving him the runaround.  And Wolfgang was probably
happily out drinking, chasing tarts, and Lord knows what!  And
Marianne obviously couldn't stand up to him.
     Wolferl must get moving.  On to Paris!
                                    ***
     It had been a lovely, glowing hour, alone with her in her
dark apartments high above the narrow Hinsichtsgasse, with the
noise of a rain shower on the roof as a faint obbligato.  She
demurely poured out another glass of sherry for him.  Did he dare
to reach for her hand across the Chinese table with the 
flame-bellowing dragons?  He reached out to touch her arm with
one finger, but she pulled back and his finger grazed her thigh. 
He almost jumped out of his chair.
     She laughed.  "Do you need something else, Herr Mozart?"     
    "Yes," he said, "I need more tenderness in my life."
     She laughed again, in soft, sweet tones.  "You musicians
always need that.  You need a wife, Herr Mozart."
     "I need the love of a woman."
     "But first, perhaps, you need a position in life.  Right?"   
 She was right, but he could feel himself blushing.
     "You're very young, Herr Mozart."
     "Not so young."
     She took _his_ hand.  And patted it.  He tried not to
recognize that she patted it like a sister.  "Think about music,
Herr Mozart, not women.  You have so much talent.  Take this from
an older woman."  She _was_ older, maybe twenty-five.
     But as he walked out into the sharp wetness of the
Hinsichtsgasse, he still thought he might be able to win
Mademoiselle Kaiser's heart.  Persistence  -- never say die.  A
Mozart didn't give up easily.
                                    ***
     Electoral Prince Maximilian III sat back in an old but very
comfortable chair.  He had gained a good deal of weight lately. 
His foot, swollen with gout, was resting on a hassock.
     "You Highness," said the Bishop of Chiemsee, "I wanted to
speak to you about young Mozart."
     The Electoral Prince made a face.  "Let's not, please."     
     "I don't mean to insist, but I thought you shared my high
opinion of his talents."
     "But I do share them, Bishop.  But there's no vacancy."
     "But you have no court composer currently."
     "No, I haven't.  But I don't think I'll be filling the post
soon."  The Prince squirmed, then said, "Ach," as he moved his
leg slightly.
     "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you about it."
     "No, Bishop, you're not bothering me, you just don't
understand.  There are _special_ _reasons_ in this case."
     "Oh, I see."
     "I apologize, Bishop.  Oh, by the way, have we heard
anything new from the court in Vienna?"
     "Nothing, Your Highness. It's all quiet.  The Emperor hasn't
issued any  pronouncements this week.  At least none that concern
Bavaria."
      "Good!  We have to watch that man -- he's a tricky one."
      "The world is full of tricky people, Your Highness."
     "You are so right, Your Grace, so exactly right."
                                    ***
     Wolfgang had to explain the whole mess to his father -- it
wasn't his fault he had been stuck in Munich all this time!
          
          ...but after those honeyed words, Father -- what
          happened?  Nothing, exactly nothing.  Prince Zeill
          spoke to the Electoral Prince, who said that it was too
          soon for me to be looking for a position there.  He
          said he was not refusing me, but it was too soon: why
          didn't I go to Italy for a while and make a name for
          myself?
     
     Well, Papa, I couldn't leave it at that, not after all our
effort.  Woschitka, whom you had recommended to me, got me an
audience with the great potentate himself.  I said I had come to
offer my services.  The Electoral Prince asked why I was no
longer in Salzburg, and I told him.  I made a point of telling
him that I had _already_ been to Italy.  I bragged on passing the
test for admittance as a member of the Accademia Filarmonica in
Bologna.  But he interrupted:
      
     "Yes, my dear boy, but I have no vacancy.  I'm sorry.  If
     only there were a vacancy."
      
     "I assure your Highness that I would bring honor to Munich!"

          
     He turned away, saying over his shoulder, "I know.  But it's
     no good, there's no vacancy here."
     
     What twaddle!  So such is life here!  How is everybody at
     home...      
     
     Your obedient son
                           
     Wolfgang Amade Mozart
                                    ***
     "Shit!  Yes, shit, that's all I can say -- after that cold
shoulder from someone like the Electoral Prince that I thought
was a friend of mine," he said to Peter Kodalyi, a young
Hungarian officer attached to the court.
     "At least Prince Max didn't literally give you a gold
watch!" said Peter.  Kodalyi was twenty-seven and had a pair of
dashing black military mustaches.  Wolfgang had only seen
mustaches like his in pictures in books, or on Turkish traders.
     "Yes, do you suppose I could set myself up in the watch
business?" 
     "Got a lot of them, have you?  Oh, waiter, more wine, and
some bread and cheese."  They were in a small eating house off
the Marienplatz.
      "Dozens, dozens of them, all oh-so-honorable and
oh-so-useless.  After a thousand performances in drafty salons
for the benefit of a bunch of fat chattering princely assholes."
     "Any interesting assholes?"
     Wolfgang laughed.  "How about the Queen of France's?"
     "Marie-Antoinette?"
     "She's an old friend of mine.  I proposed to her once."
     "You did?"  Kodalyi loosened his stiff high collar.
     "Yes, I was six and she was seven!"
     Kodalyi laughed.  "A youthful lecher."
     "Mind you I haven't actually seen her bare-assed, but I bet
she's got a cute one.  And now she's married to a lockmaker, at
least that's the kind of thing they say the King of France spends
his time on when he isn't playing  monarch." 
     "Maybe he fixes watches too," said Kodalyi.  
     "I'll keep it in mind.  I could go partners with Louis in a
watch shop if the people ever got tired of him and he lost his
job."  Wolfgang leaned back, arms behind his head, dreaming of
the future partnership.
     "Not much chance of that, I'm afraid."
     "No, not likely."  He pulled on the chain on his waistcoat
and looked at  his diamond-encrusted watch.  "It's late, I want
to stop somewhere on the way home."
     "A girl"
     "Yes."
     "Who?"
     "Mademoiselle Kaiser."
     "You're kidding!"
     "No!"
     "Mozart, the lovely Mademoiselle Kaiser already has all the
men she needs.  Didn't you know that she's being kept by the
Bishop of Ulm?"
     "What?"  He felt as if a sword had sliced into his chest.
     "Poor Mozart.  What an odd duck you are.  Have another
drink.  You need it."
     The Bishop of Ulm!  Even bishops have women, while talented
musicians live lives of excruciating celibacy!
     To hell with Munich!  Sometimes even a Mozart knew when to
give up.                                    
                                    ***
     It was a gray autumn morning in October when he and his
mother finally left Munich en route to Augsburg.  Augsburg was
the Mozart family home, and they would be able to rest at his
uncle's and give some concerts -- while they prepared to go on to
Mannheim, the next likely hunting ground for would-be court
musicians.  
     They passed by the impressive cathedral, with its famous
bronze door bearing thirty-three intricate bas-reliefs of
Biblical scenes.  He recalled a candy seller with a completely
bald head who had stood out in front of the cathedral almost
exactly eleven years before.  He had eaten so much candy then 
that he had gotten sick, waking up in the garret in his uncle's
house, his stomach cramping, vomiting into the chamber pot.  He
remembered that feeling in his throat as they turned the corner
just the other side of the nine-story  hall.  And how his uncle
had held his head, and his cousin "Baesle" had asked, in her
high, screechy voice, "What's Wolferl making that noise for, why,
Papa, why?"
     They pulled up to the house where his father had been born,
with the high brick walls and the narrow windows from which he
could pretend he was on the battlements of a tall castle, ready
to throw boiling oil on the enemy below.
     His nineteen-year-old cousin Maria Thekla Mozart greeted
them at the door  with a broad smile and a warm, sweet-smelling
embrace, soft lips on his cheek.  It had been ten years or more
since they had seen each other.
     "Hello, Wolferl, it's good to see you," said Thekla.
     "Hello, 'Baesle.'  Good to see you," said Wolfgang, holding
her forearms with hands. 
     "You're the only one who has ever called me that: 'Little
Cousin,'" she said.  And her full-cheeked face turned a little
red.  Her bright blue eyes sparkled.
     "How you've grown, " said his mother.
     "Yes, maybe too much," she said, sweeping her arms into a
circle to indicate her buxom figure.
     "No, you've grown into a fine girl," said his mother,
kissing her.  They went inside the old large house, which held
the print shop on the first floor and the living apartments
upstairs.
     Not too buxom, not at all, thought Wolfgang.  Well, maybe a
little bit too thick in the hips.  But not much.  
     She patted him on the hand as he and his mother prepared to
go out.  He felt an erection rising up.
     "Are you going out to see the town today?" she asked.
     "Yes," he said.
     "What is there to see?"
     "Not much," she said.  It's a small town.  Sometimes it
feels really very small."
     Lucky me! he thought.  I've found yet another Salzburg!
     "You must miss your friends at home," she said later as they
ate a late dinner informally around the unfinished pine table in
the kitchen.
     "Well, yes."
     "I suppose you have a girlfriend there."  
     "Not to speak of," he said.
     "You must have met lots of people in Munich."
     "Some, yes some," he thought, thinking about Mademoiselle
Kaiser.  Some, but not  enough!
     At supper that night, he felt a small foot pressing on his
under the table.  He pressed back with his other foot, trapping
hers between his.   After a few minutes, he reached down and
squeezed her knee with his left hand -- the  flesh below the
kneecap felt soft and warm.  She giggled.  He found himself 
giggling back.  Uncle Ignaz looked up, but merely smiled vaguely.

His mother complained about a headache and kept worrying that
their little Bimperl wasn't being taken care of well enough back
home.  She fell asleep in her chair after dinner and went to bed
early.   
     "Well, I'm going to bed," said Thekla finally.
     "All right, I'll be right along," he said.
     Giggles.  "Oh, you will, will you?  I don't think that would
be so nice."
     "Oh, but I'd be sure to make it nice, first I'd take good
care of your little you-know-what" -- they were talking softly,
her father still sat in the far corner of the room -- "and then I
bet you can't guess what I'd do."  Wolferl was trying to smile
confidently, but his heart was pounding in anticipation.
     "Oh, no, I don't think I'd like that at all!" she said as
she got up and leisurely made her way upstairs.  "Good night,
Papa."
     A few minutes later, he stood up.  Uncle Ignaz said, "Oh,
Wolferl, are you off to bed so early too?"
     "Yes, Uncle, I'm tired.  I'm exhausted."  And he went off
upstairs, trembling, walking loudly first to his room and then
tiptoeing back to hers.  As he opened the door, Thekla was
standing by the bed in her shift, facing away from him.  He
walked slowly over to her, put his arms around her, his hands on
her breasts.  They were deliciously heavy and warm.  He prodded
his fingers into the sheer cotton covering the nipples.  She
sighed and turned her head toward him.
     Oh, God, he thought he was going to come right away!  But
his luck held out for a few more flurried minutes with clothing
being flung off and bodies jostling for position.  He got it in,
but then it was out again.
     "Take it easy," she said, helping him.  Finally, panicked,
he found the right place, rushing himself to climax in a crazy
fit of violent desire.  She gasped as he came.
     And oh to feel her arms around him afterward!  And to know
that he was a man at last -- a real man.
     Waking that next morning, with the sun shining in the tiny
window, his thoughts drifted to music.  It was all music -- love
was -- but through the skin and the eyes, not just through the
ears.  It couldn't be written down on paper, it was nothing
without the performance.  What was any one of his operas  the
production?  Just a dream, a fancy of his mind recorded in notes
on  lined paper.  A sleeping thing, needing people and
instruments and enthusiasm  and sweat to bring it to life.  Sex
with a real live woman was like music --  like the best, most
exciting moments in a string quartet, like the high note in an
aria.
     Over the next few days, the bedroom at the top of the stairs
became "their" place.  Making love, the lying on the bed for
hours thinking, recovering between spasms.  His body drained,
almost aching.
     This must be what makes all that other shit worthwhile.  I
_am_ a real person, just like everybody else.  I wish I _never_
had to leave Augsburg.  Here I am, Wolferl Mozart, I really
wouldn't have to do anything or be anything more ever again -- I
could just lie here the rest of my life and let this girl make
love to me, love me, and let me make love to her, and love her.
     He was over a divide now =-- the child prodigy was gone. 
The boy who sat on the lap of the Empress.
     All I had to do in that other life was play music,  then I
was allowed to jabber on and on afterward, with people courting
me, spoiling me rotten. 
     Now I am a man.  And I've entered another world -- a world
of good old Prince Maxes and their "no vacancies."  I'm no longer
a cute, talented little babbling boy in a pigtailed wig.  I'm a
short young man with protruding eyes and a funny nose.   Christ,
I'm a far better musician than I was when I was a  child touring
Europe.  But things have changed.  _I've_ changed.
     I'm a man.  And I'm just not so cute anymore.
     Thekla came up behind him as he stood gazing out the tiny
window at the top of the Rathaus, visible over the gray and red
roofs of the intervening houses.
     "You're a special person, you know that, Wolferl?" 
     "No.  I'm not really."
     "Yes, you are.  And I don't mean just the music."
     He searched her eyes.  A serious gray blue.
     "I know you'll probably be a great man.  Everybody says so." 
     He shrugged.
     "But that isn't why I like you."
     "No, you like me because I make the best puns in Germany.  I
know your game."
     "I do like the amusing little boy who's full of pranks.  And
I respect the great musician.  And you know what else?"
     "Oh, let's not talk about such things."  He made a face and
started to turn away from her.
     "I love the young man who needs and desires me.  Maybe as he
has never desired anyone else."
     Oh," he said.  He felt his face brightening.  "If you're
going to talk about desire, that's different."  And he began to
press his body up against hers.
     "Wait a minute, Wolferl.  I want to say something first."   

 "Yes, darling Baesle, what is it?" he said, looking into her
eyes.
     "Be careful."
     "What?"
     "I'm afraid you want too much.  God gave you talent, but
maybe as a kind of cross to bear.  We all have crosses.  And they
can crush us."
     "Oh, let's do talk about something else!"
     "But, Wolferl!"
     "I'm tired of talking about talent, and genius, and all that
nonsense."
      "All right, Wolferl.  Just don't want too much.  Maybe you
want more than a person can get."
     "Well, I know what I want right now," he said, pressing his
mouth to her breast.
     As his teeth lightly gnawed on the stiffened rough flesh of
the nipple, he felt suddenly apprehensive.  He tried to put away
the thought, but he couldn't:
     How long before I get another one of those hysterical
letters from Salzburg?

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


                                TIME TRIALS
                                     
                             by Otho E. Eskin


     "I do wish you would learn to play mahjongg," Eva says as
she puts her cup of hot chocolate on the table top.
     Suddenly it is very important that I understand why I am in
the Fuehrerbunker talking with Eva Braun when we haven't even
been introduced.
     "I don't have the time," I say.
     She stirs the chocolate with a silver spoon.  The spoon
makes a small tinkling sound as it strikes the side of the cup.
Her hands are thick and have faint red spots on them. She is
putting on weight.  How is it that I have never noticed that
before? 
     "I don't have the time," I say.
     Dr. Sullivan lights a Marlboro with a gold lighter, then
waves away the smoke from between us.  "I hope you don't mind my
smoking." 
     I hate smoking.  I have strictly forbidden it. I know they
sneak out into the garden and smoke.  I can smell it on their
breaths.  It's on the tips of their fingers.  It comes through
their skin.  It oozes through their pores like pus. People who
corrupt their bodies with tobacco should be shot.  No. Better
they should be strangled.
     "What's to mind," I say.
     Dr. Sullivan picks a piece of tobacco from her lower lip. 
She is wearing simple navy, wool gabardine separates with a
fitted double-breasted jacket. Poor stitching in the collar. It
is beginning to pucker.  She probably paid too much for it. 
     The airless air, the smell of damp concrete suffocates me. 
Somewhere through the meters of steel and mortar I sense the
throbbing of the generators.
     What am I doing here?
     Dr. Sullivan sees me looking at her hands. She seems to be
self-conscious about them.  She stubs out her cigarette in a
large ceramic ashtray half-filled with burnt out ends and folds
her hands in her lap.
     "What seems to be the problem?"
     "I have terrifying visions.  I think I'm maybe going crazy."
     "Tell me about them."
     "I'm in a room. Sometimes I'm alone. Sometimes there are
others."
     "Are these other people strangers?"
     "Yes. No."
     She shakes a fresh cigarette from a package and holds it,
unlit, in her hand.
     "Can you describe the room?" 
     "Just a square room.  No windows.  There is a desk -- or
maybe a table.  A couple of chairs.  Outside, mortar shells rain
down onto Wilhelmstrasse.  Trucks and tanks burn in Potsdamer
Platz. That's all."
     "What are you doing in that room?"
     "I am waiting for someone.  I haven't much time left."
     "Does the room remind you of some place you have been? 
Maybe when you were young?"
     "I have never been in that room.  No.  That is not quite
true.  I have always been in that room."
     "These dreams..."
     "These are not dreams. Dreams I can live with.  What I see
is real. I'm telling you, they are more real than you, Dr.
Sullivan."
     She glances to see if I am looking at her hands. "Do you
have any health problems?"
     "In the last few days I have been suffering from headaches. 
And I've been getting stomach cramps."
     She lights her cigarette and takes a long drag, then coughs.
"Jesus, these things are going to kill me."  She puts the
cigarette, still lit and smoldering, into the ashtray. "I've been
trying to stop. I've been through self-hypnosis, TM, behavior
modification.  Nothing works. Do you follow any regular regime of
exercise?"
     What should I know from exercise? I work twelve hours a day,
six days a week in my clothing store on twenty-fourth street to
keep food on the table. I should be in a fancy jogging suit and
hundred dollar shoes running around Central Park with all the
low-lifes?
     "I don't have time, Dr. Sullivan."
     "Yes, you do.  You have all the time in the world."
     She's right of course.  But how could she know that?
     "Do you have a balanced diet?"
     With the aggravations I have, what do I know from a balanced
diet. Sometime, if I'm lucky I have a lean corn beef on rye for
lunch and maybe in the afternoon a glass tea.
     I hear sirens, muffled by tons of concrete and steel and
time.  So much time.  So little time. My hands shake.  I can't
move my left arm.  Eva is complaining that she is bored.  She is
wearing a simple cotton dark-blue print frock with white polka
dots. The seams of her stockings are crooked. I can barely
suppress my rage.
     We are being invaded by the barbarians. Thousands of Russian
soldiers pour through the streets above us. And she is bored. Big
deal. Within hours she will be dead. The world is coming to an
end and she wants to play games. A rocket scientist she's not. I
tell her I don't have time. She pouts and drinks her chocolate.
     "Have you been seeing any physicians?" Dr. Sullivan asks.
     Dr. Sullivan thinks I am hallucinating.  I'm not
hallucinating the Red Army on Frankfurter Allee. I'm not
hallucinating the bombs that fall on the city, the fire storms
that are sweeping us away.
     I've never been sick a day in my life.  So why am I sitting
here with a crazy-doctor at $90 an hour when God knows what is
happening at the store? 
     "I occasionally see specialists to help with my arm," I tell
her.
     She holds the cigarette back and away from her. "You didn't
mention anything about your arm."
     "It happened many years ago."
      She is attractive in a coarse, Mediterranean way. She is
maybe in her thirties and has a nice figure.  She sees me
watching her and she sits back in her high-backed chair and folds
one arm across her breast, the cigarette in the other hand, just
in front of her mouth.  She has a full mouth with generous,
inviting lips. I wonder if anyone has ever told her that.
     "I am seeing Dr. Kreuz," I say.
     She flicks her tongue along her lower lip.  The sight of her
pink tongue excites me.  
     "Dr. Kreuz is a fraud," she says. Dr. Sullivan stubs out her
half-finished cigarette. She stirs the butt in the ashtray among
the others.
     Eva has gone and I am alone. She doesn't approve of Dr.
Kreuz and she doesn't want to be around when she comes. How long
have I been alone?  Shouldn't there be people here?  Have they
all gone? Have they sneaked out of the bunker? Are they scurrying
like frightened field mice through the burning rubble?  The
General Staff, the guards, dear Eva. All deserters. 
     I won't miss her. Least of all Eva.
     Maybe I'm the only one left in the bunker. There is no one I
can trust.  I am surrounded by traitors. I am the victim of
corruption and cowardice. I go to the door and listen but hear
nothing.  I can't even hear the generators any more.
     Eva has become a trial.  It was all right at the Berghof.
Now she thinks she can make claims on me. Now that we are
married, she has become impossible.  She says she gave up a
promising career to be with me. Eva's getting to be a real pain. 
Who needs it?
     Is it my imagination or is the air becoming more stale?
Maybe the air circulation system has stopped. I feel my heart
pounding in my chest.  I can no longer breathe. How long does it
take to die of asphyxiation?  I open the door a crack and look
into the office beyond. Bormann glances up at me. He is wearing a
heavy, gray worsted jacket. I shut the door quickly, embarrassed.
     "Dr. Kreuz is a fraud."  Dr. Sullivan is fiddling with her
lighter.  She taps it on the desk top. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I hope
she will show me her tongue again.  "She's not even a doctor, you
know."
     "She didn't help you," I tell her. The tapping is making me
nervous. Do I dare ask her to stop?
     "She talks a good line," Dr. Sullivan says. "She makes all
kinds of claims.  But she is incompetent. I paid a fortune to
that woman to cure me of my smoking habit. She said: no problem. 
She'd done it hundreds of times, she said. But at the end, she
tells me the cure is too dangerous. I might not survive the
treatment. By the time I was through, I was a nervous wreck and
smoking three packs a day."
     The bombardment has begun again. The enemy has located the
bunker and the shells fall like hammer blows above my head. The
noise is so great I cannot think. The earth trembles. Fine dust
drifts from a crack in the ceiling. How can the walls support the
stress?  The room is full of smoke.
     What if something has happened to Dr. Kreuz. She has told me
many times that nothing can harm her. But can she withstand steel
and flame?  She has survived worse, she says.  She stands at the
far end of the room telling me the time has come.
     "Are you ready?" she asks.
     Now that it is time, I hesitate.
     "Will I forget?" I ask. 
     Dr. Sullivan is looking at me intently.  Her mouth is partly
open and her lips are moist.  She seems to be breathing quickly.
     "Are you all right, Dr. Sullivan?"  I stand up and cross to
her. She is at least six inches taller than I am. "You seem...you
should excuse the expression...excited."
     "I'm just upset. You'd be upset too if some bitch ripped you
off for six grand."
     I lead her to the couch. "Sit down, Dr. Sullivan.  You must
rest." She sits on the couch and I take off her shoes -- gray
pumps -- totally inappropriate to her outfit. I lift her feet to
the couch.  She puts one hand over her eyes and takes a deep
breath.
     "You can't imagine how I hate this job."
     There is a knock at the door. "It's me. Eva.  Can I come
in?"
     "We must hurry," Dr. Kreuz says.
     Eva knocks more loudly.  "We are running out of time," Eva
says.
     "We are running out of time," Dr. Kreuz says. I hear the
impatient rapping at the door and have a hard time following Dr.
Kreuz's words. "I have the key to the Arcanum. I am immortal. 
Use your powers and you will be immortal too."
     "Can I speak frankly to you?" Dr. Sullivan interrupts.  I'm
sitting on the couch next to her.  "I know this isn't
professional, but I find you strangely attractive."  She is
looking at me intently. "I find you somehow magnetic."
     "Please pay attention," Dr. Kreuz yells at me. "You must
concentrate. Time's web that binds you is dissolving."  There are
so many voices. The roaring in my ears splits my skull. The
bunker groans from the impact of a bomb fifty feet above us.  The
sound of traffic drifts up from the street below.  There is
tapping at the door.
     "Please answer me."
     "I'm losing you." Dr. Kreuz's voice is a hoarse whisper.
"I'm losing you."
     "Did you hear what I said?" Dr. Sullivan asks.  "You don't
seem to be paying attention."  She grasps my hand fiercely. "I am
losing you."
     "What is happening?" I hear myself asking.
     "Concentrate." Dr. Kreuz grasps me by the hand. "Use your
powers. The matrix of time no longer has you in its power.  In a
moment your spirit will fall across space and time."  
     "Who will I be?"
     "Even now I search for a vessel.  Perhaps nearby.  Perhaps
on the other side of the world."
     "When?"
     "Then is now. Somewhere, sometime, someone waits. The world
waits for you."
     "What are you doing in there?"  Eva's voice has a sharp edge
on it. "Let me in this minute." Such a yenta.
     "Use your powers." Dr. Kreuz is calling me from a great
distance. "Even now you take possession of another. Do not fail
me. Do not fail destiny."
     I can hear nothing except the incessant knocking on the
door.  Will no one stop her? Will no put an end to my torment?
     I make out the words of Dr. Kreuz. "We shall meet again,"
she says from a very long time ago.
     Torrents of icy darkness sear my soul. My flesh is stripped
away, the marrow sucked from my bones.
     The woman lying on the couch looks at me eagerly. Her hand
is at the back of my neck and pulls me toward her.  I am too
startled to resist.  Her lips are soft and moist.  I can smell
her cologne, I can smell her flesh.  I am so close I can see the
texture of her skin under her makeup. She opens her lips and her
tongue touches mine. I can taste the tobacco.
     I hear myself screaming; the words pour from my lips; words
I didn't think I knew.  I am shaking her violently. She is unable
to comprehend what is happening. I taste the smoke in her mouth;
I feel the corruption of her body.  My rage becomes incandescent.

My hands are at her throat. Her eyes widen -- in terror? -- in
expectation? -- in understanding?
     My rage burns out as quickly as it began.  Only my hands
tremble.  Otherwise, I am entirely normal.  I rise and go the
desk. I search through the Rolodex until I find the name of Dr.
Kreuz.  I write the address on a slip of paper.
     I am anxious to leave.  I have a great deal to talk to Dr.
Kreuz about.

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