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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 3, Number 5
September-October 1996
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts
of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please
e-mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as
part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment. Back
issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from the editor or
by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from
ftp.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, courtesy of the
Writer'sCenter, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the
following URL:
http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
Back issues may also be downloaded from the Writer's Center
BBS archives. (Call 301-656-1638 and log in as "new user.")
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is
licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy
or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings
or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any
other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Pensees," verses by
Hamid Temembe
"Scotch Tape," a short-short story by
E. James Scott
"A Kick in the Pants," an excerpt (chapter 16) from
the novel "In Search of Mozart"
William Ramsay
"Gluttony," a scene (#3) from the play, "Act of God"
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, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters
in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his
and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was presented last fall at the
Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and plays the viola da gamba.
He lives in La Jolla, California and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he
practices his hobby of photographing and charting the migrations of
cetaceans.
DR. HAMID TEMEMBE attended lycee in Abidjan and received his
medical training in Montpellier and Paris. Before his recent untimely
death, he was the director of a psychiatric clinic in West Africa.
=================================================
PENSEES
by Hamid Temembe
My Father
Les yeux me suivent,
Les centres bruns, et a l'entour, les cornees
Ornees aux jaunes rayons de la colere indigene.
L'homme est mort
Et fourre dans une voute civilisee
A une eglise importee d'Europe.
Mais les yeux...
Non.
Ils brillent encore des toits de paille
D'un village fonce dans la foret noire et verte,.
Temoins a la memoire
De la magie
Qui a survecu les millenaires sauvages
Et qui ne me laissera jamais tranquille.
[The eyes follow me/ Brown centers, and around them, whites/
ornamented with the yellow streaks of the anger of the race./ The man
is dead/ And interred in a civilized vault/ In a church imported from
Europe./ But the eyes... / No./ They continue to shine from the straw
roofs of a village swallowed up in the black-green jungle,/ Witnesses
to the memory/ of magic/ Which has survived the savage millenia/
And which will never leave me in peace.//] *
Waves
A la plage, en regardant
Les ondes sans couleur --
Cependant blanches et vertes et bleues,
Des etincellements d'argent dore qui sautent dedans--
Qui balayent les sables fins
De la patrie brillante et noire,
Je grippe les grains blancs et diamantes
Et je pense au paysage au bord de la mer --
Humide, fetide,.
Sale, vivant ---
Et a un avenir ou des anges memes
Ne pourraient pas y faire face
Sans tomber dans le desespoir.
[At the beach, looking at/ The waves, colorless --/ Yet white and
green and blue,/ With sparkles of gilded silver leaping through them
---/ Which sweep the fine sands of my bright black country,/ I squeeze
the white and gemlike grains and I think about the land behind the
shoreline --/ Humid, stinking,/ Filthy, alive --/ And about a future
which even angels/ Couldn't face/ Without falling into despair.//]*
* Translations by the editor
=================================================
SCOTCH TAPE
by E. James Scott
She's so cute. A darling. The littlest, sweetest pink fingers.
One day, maybe I'll have one of my own, just like her. Red hair,
strawberry blonde really. My hair is such a mousy brown.
She doesn't want to go to sleep. Well. Mommy said you had
to b in your little bed by eight. Yes, eight. No, well, maybe another
story. I never had stories read to me. So this will be for both of us,
Shelley.
No, don't throw the book. No, no. Give it here, you sweet
thing. Let go! My God, you're strong. Such a big girl.
No, stop crying. Come here. I'll hug you. Yes, that's better.
Does your mommy give you great big hugs like that? I thought so, I
could tell, I hug good, don't I? Not that I learned that much from all
those foster mothers. Yes, one more hug, O.K., two, then to bed.
Oh, I'm so sleepy myself. The noise from the neighbors,
going at it in the wee hours last night. Drives me crazy, gives me a
headache listening to them.
Yes, that's a bunny rabbit, yes. God. You're a smart little
girl, Shelley. Yes, and that's the fox. Well, the fox wants to eat
her up. No, don't dry. Lets; read something else.
No, this is about snakes, I can't stand snakes. Evil things.
Why does God allow such things? Ecology, I guess. But still, they're
things of the devil.
No, don't tear the page. Oh, it's all torn off. Oh dear. What
will I do? I need to find some scotch tape. You stay here. Where the
hell is there some? Not in this drawer, maybe somewhere in the other
room. Now, you just stay there.
Nice furniture. The crystal chandelier must have cost a
fortune. Some people. And the sideboard. Ah, there's a roll of tape.
Shelley! Not my can of Coke! All over the Oriental carpet.
Oh God. No, stop that.
I mean it.
Where's a sponge? Oh God. No, you're coming with me this
time. You can cry all you want. Why can't people keep their
kitchens organized? If only I had one like this.
So cry! Have a tantrum. I wouldn't have to drag you if you'd
do what I say. You have to do what adults say. Do I have to shake
you again? Listen!
All right. Into the playpen with you. You're too old for that,
but you won't do what I say. Now. Oh. It's going to leave a spot.
And there's sugar in Coke. What will I tell Mrs. Miller? She'll kill
me. And Mr. Miller, those looks of his. Like that last foster father
I had.
The bastard.
Stop crying.
Why can't people be happy? People who have so much. If
only I had a baby like this.
Stop crying.
So sweet, such round little cheeks.
Stop crying.
Do you need changing? Yes, I see. All right. Just a second.
Stop crying.
I have to fix the page in this book first. There, it's just as
good as new. Yes, yes, you're unhappy. Now. Let us get you
changed. Don't kick. Stop it. Stop kicking. My God, at last.
Stop crying.
Come along. Now. Yes, your little beddie-bye.
Stop crying.
No, lie down. Now.
Stop crying.
I'm turning the lights out.
Stop crying.
Stop crying.
All right, I'll leave the light on. Will you stop crying?
Lie down. That way. Lie down. Lie down.
Stop crying.
Stop crying.
Maybe some water. Now you've spilled it. Where's the
sponge? Well, I have to get it. Oh, never mind.
Stop crying.
Stop crying.
Stop crying.
Why won't you listen to me!
Ohhh. Ohhh. Uhhh.
There. I'm sorry, but I had no choice.
Quiet.
All quiet.
But Shelley, you're all broken.
Where did I put that scotch tape?
=================================================
A KICK IN THE PANTS
by William Ramsay
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 16 of the novel "In Search of
Mozart"]
The sun shown brightly above a high bank of clouds that hung
over the dark hills beyond the Danube as Wolfgang drove into
Vienna. He recalled the day twenty years before when he had first
caught sight of the forest of steeples rom the decks of the boat from
Linz. As they passed through the archway of the Salztor he caught
sight of the towers of Maria am Gestade and St. Stephen's. The lead
horse stumbled and almost fell on a loose paving stone on one of the
long narrow streets approaching the Graben, quite near to where he
had practiced on the white clavichord in preparation for meeting the
old Emperor and Empress, when he was six. At the corner of
Rotenturmstrasse, he caught a glimpse of the "Iron Hat" eating place
that he especially loved, and further on he peered in the direction of
the tavern on the cramped, narrow Plankengasse -- the "Old Tomcat's
Cellar." Turning into the Graben, they were halted for a moment
behind a line of donkey carts, and he could make out the words,
scrolls, banners, and fantastic monsters and devils on the column of
the Plague Monument. Vienna -- it was good to be back. A chance to
see old friends -- Mesmer, Lautgeb, and Frau Weber and the younger
girls were there now.
He ordered the driver to stop at his new lodgings at the
Archbishop's Vienna establishment, the House of the Teutonic Order
on Singerstrasse. He left his trunk and his bag with the porter and
went up to inspect his new room on the third floor. Three hard beds,
two red-flowered chamber pots, a small window overlooking a
courtyard and rows of red-brick buildings. He changed his breeches
and his neckcloth. It was lunchtime when he came downstairs, so he
went into the refectory. Refectory meals were new to him: he had
been classified as a servant of the Archbishop for a long time, but in
Salzburg he ate at home. The room was dominated by a long plain
wooden table -- monastery style. He started to sit next to Hans
Meyer, Count Arco's valet, near the head of the table.
"Oh, Herr Mozart, you'll find your place is down there," said
Meyer with a smirk. And he pointed toward the middle of the table.
And there Wolfgang saw his colleagues Brunetti and good old
empty-drawers Ceccarelli. The musicians' section. So he squeezed in
next to Brunetti, asking him if he'd tried reading Wolfgang's new
violin sonata yet. Brunetti, that boorish idiot, grunted something.
Wolfgang then said hello to poor Ceccarelli. Then he looked to see
who was at the foot of the table. It was -- the cooks. The table of
precedence was evidently (1) valets, (2) musicians, (3) cooks.
The nerve!
He speculated idly on possible mnemonics for the scheme --
"hose before bows, but tones before bones." Or "credenzas before
cadenzas, but keys before peas." Or maybe "catguts before fatguts."
Then he quickly gulped down his bread and stew, got up,
bowed to the company, and resolved to eat out from then on.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's search for himself seemed to be turning
up someone who looked very like a serf. The line from his
great-grandparents was breeding true. Cavaliere di Cowdung, wake
up! A week later, he walked up the flight of marble stairs to the front
door of the Russian Ambassador's mansion, stepping heavily and
with lips pursed. It was a beautiful spring day, the leaves were just
recently out on the lindens along the street. He had just finished one
of the cigars his friend Dr. Mesmer had given him, and his mouth still
tasted of tobacco. Konstanze Weber had told him that he could
smoke in her house if he wished, but he didn't feel it was the thing to
do when he was calling on a young lady, so he had waited to light up
until after he left the Webers'. He spit into one of the pots of
paperwhites set along the wall. Konstanze had admired his new sky
blue suit with its pale mauve trimming. She had good taste, at least.
As he reached the door, he felt himself starting to get angry
again. The Archbishop had had his nerve, sending that asshole
Brunetti to summon him to show up at seven on the dot -- "on the
dot," mind you -- so that he and Brunetti and Ceccarelli could go
together over to perform for Prince Galitzin! It was getting worse
and worse. Well, he was there, it was seven-thirty, and he didn't
much care if those two assholes had gotten there or not. At the door,
a lackey in black livery asked his name. He said, "Chevalier de
Mozart" and brushed past the man. There were only a sprinkling of
people in the room, but the small orchestra was playing a quadrille.
He saw the Prince, fortyish and tall and thin in a violet-colored suit,
standing with a dark-haired young lady in red.
"Your Excellency!"
"M. Mozart, how delighted I am to see you!"
"It's been some time, Your Excellency."
"Yes, may I present my daughter, Anastasia."
She appeared to be about eighteen years old, with a nice
cheekline and glowing skin. "Enchante, Mademoiselle la princesse."
"Enchantee, Monsieur Mozart. I've been an admirer of yours
for some time." "Where are your colleagues, M. Mozart?" said
Prince Galitzin.
"I don't know, Your Excellency." He looked around. Finally,
he saw them, behind the orchestra, sitting on a bench in the corner.
"They are here, Your Excellency."
"Good, well, we'll get started before long. Oh, by the way,
you are going to play for us in the Tonkuenstler-Sozietaet concert in
two weeks?"
He felt the blood rise to his face. "I'm extremely sorry, but the
Archbishop won't give permission."
The Prince's mouth dropped open. "The Musicians' Society
concert is the most important benefit of the season. For the widows
of musicians, it's a very good cause. This is our tenth year."
"I know, Your Excellency, I regret it more than you do."
"Oh," he said, putting his hands to his head, "this is
disgraceful. We've got to do something about it."
Wolfgang bowed. "Your Excellency."
"All right, I'll see what I can do. Well, I suppose you are
anxious to begin your concert."
"Yes, but first could I ask the Princess if she would grant me
one dance?" He turned to her inquiringly.
She blushed slightly, then she looked at her father.
The prince smiled thinly. "Maybe you should begin the
concert, M. Mozart," said the Prince. He looked around the room at
the thin scattering of people. "The guests will be waiting impatiently
to hear you."
"Of course, your Excellency. But perhaps after the concert,
Mademoiselle la princesse?"
She looked at her father again. Galitzin gazed upward. She
turned to Wolfgang and said, "I'm not sure I'll be dancing much
tonight, M. Mozart." She frowned as she looked into his eyes.
"Perhaps some other time."
"Yes, of course, Mademoiselle la princesse," he said, making
a low bow and heading swiftly for the orchestra. Aristocratic swine!
Brunetti came over to him. "What shall we play, Mozart?"
"How about 'Three Blind Mice,' for falsetto, fiddle, and
keyboard thumper!" he said in a hoarse voice. He began to pace back
and forth, shuffling pages of music manuscript. He bumped into a
music stand, making it rock back and forth. He kicked at the swaying
stand, knocking it over, and it fell with a clacking crash. Looking up,
he saw Brunetti staring at him astonished. In the background, some
of the guests were looking his way. But not the Prince and the
Princess.
So much for the social status of the Chevalier de Mozart! But
he'd have those fops eating out of his hand before he was through
with Vienna. Lion strength, lion strength!
***
A bad day at the Deutsches Ordenshaus. It was lucky he
couldn't keep wome around. Because he couldn't trust his roommates
not to drink it up, or else he would really have gotten soused. Well,
later, he'd go out after he finished writing to Papa. He had to finish
by sundown. The Archbishop's household was moving back to
Salzburg, and they were running short of everything, including
candles. He had just two of those cheap tallow candles left, and they
stank up everything, leaving a greasy smell in the air.
He peered out the tiny window. It was raining, and there was
a line of moisture forming along the big crack in the pane. It felt
good, anyway, to put it all down on paper:
...In short, a week from Sunday, April 22nd, Ceccarelli and I
are to go home. When I think of having to leave Vienna without
bringing home _at_ _least_ a thousand gulden, I'm heartbroken. So
for the sake of a malignant prince who persecutes me every day and
only pays me a lousy salary of four hundred gulden, I'm to give up a
thousand? Because I'd certainly make that much if I gave a concert.
When we had our first grand concert in this house, the Archbishop
sent each of us four ducats. At the last concert, where I composed a
new rondo for Brunetti, a new sonata for myself, and also a new
rondo for Ceccarelli, I didn't receive anything. But what almost drove
me crazy was that the very same night we had this stupid concert, I
was invited to Countess Thun's, but of course I couldn't go. And who
should be there but the Emperor! Adamberger and Madame Weigl
were there and got fifty ducats apiece! Besides, what an opportunity
to talk to the Emperor!
Well, he could finish the letter tomorrow. What was the rush?
He picked up the pathetic sliver of mirrored glass and looked at his
hair in it. It would pass. Maybe not for princesses, but for barmaids
it would do. It was warmer than it had been all year. He decided not
to take his coat along to the Altkaterkeller. The wine and, he hoped,
women, would keep him warm enough!
***
In Salzburg, the Archbishop stood looking out his window at a
crippled flower girl in the Peterplatz. His face was screwed up, his
hands clenched behind him. The May sun shown brightly in the
square. It was noon, and clergymen on foot mixed with crowds of
women dressed in shawls and vendors selling hot rolls and sausages.
"Geniuses!" he shouted at Count Firmian. "Lord help us, I
didn't ask for this cross!" He paced up and down his room.
"Has Mozart arrived yet?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Show him in."
***
Leopold entered the baroque throne room with a heavy step.
The Prince-Archbishop looked even more testy than usual. "Well,
Kapellmeister, what about this son of yours?"
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said. "What has Wolfgang done
now?"
"It's what he hasn't done, Herr Mozart. What he hasn't done,"
the Archbishop repeated loudly.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I beg your pardon. What precisely
hasn't he done?"
"He hasn't been a faithful servant, that's what! He's never
there when I need him, he spends all his time playing music at other
people's houses. And also... Well, since you are his father, I'll
spare you any comments about his immoral behavior."
Leopold felt his stomach sink. "Anything I can do, I'll be glad
to do, Your Highness."
"Well, for one thing, see if you can get him to return to
Salzburg. I suppose I have a right to have my musicians in Salzburg
when I myself am in residence here?"
"He intends to return soon, Your Grace," he said in a soft
voice.
"Hmmphh. 'Soon.'" the Archbishop put his hands on his hips.
"Do you know when I ordered him to return ?"
Was it April 29? he wondered. "No, Your Grace, I don't."
"The third week in April, that's when he was supposed to be
back. And it's now past the middle of May. Is that good, loyal
service?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons, Your Grace."
"His reasons!" said the Archbishop sarcastically. "Yes, his
reasons. I'm sure he has. All having to do with women. Or wine."
The Archbishop smiled bitterly.
"I've tried, I've written him twice a week,Your Highness, I
don't know what else I can do," he said, his voice trembling.
"I'll leave it up to you, Kapellmeister. But I wouldn't want to
see anything disturb the long relationship we've had with your
family."
"No, Your Grace," he said, biting his lip.
"I wouldn't want your son's misbehavior to be a burden on you
in your own work here."
He kept silent. His cheeks began to burn. That disgrace to his
cloth, threatening me as if I were some lazy tradesman!
"You take my meaning, Kapellmeister."
"Yes, Your Grace," he said. He stood there a minute, his
stomach hurting, and then he repeated in a very loud voice: "Yes,
Your Grace!" Firmian's head shot up. The Archbishop stared at him.
He bowed and left abruptly. He would have to write to Wolferl.
There was no help for it. He walked swiftly home, waving at the
Abbe Bullinger in the street but not stopping to talk to him.
That Beelzebub! Threatening Leopold Mozart like a common
lackey! Well, he'd have to write to Wolferl -- but he felt more like
spilling blood than ink!
***
The room was like a dungeon. It was small, with a high
ceiling. The windows were high and narrow, and the sunlight shone
in little splotches over the head of Count Karl Arco, as he stood
beside a narrow dark wood table. Like his father, Count Felix Arco,
he was a big man, with a large round face and a giant nose. But he
hadn't inherited much else from his intelligent, charming father,
thought Wolfgang. My God, he was still wearing a wig, in 1781!
And not a very clean one, at that.
"Sit down, Mozart."
"Your Excellency."
"See here, Mozart, the Archbishop doesn't want to be
unreasonable." He scratched his nose, thought a minute, then took
out a snuffbox and applied some to his left nostril. Little bits of
snuff stuck to his long nostril hairs.
Wolfgang stood silently. He shifted his feet.
"We know that life in Vienna can be tempting, and that all the
amusements here can make you reluctant to go back to Salzburg."
"Count Arco, when the Archbishop's household here broke up,
I had to take a room with my friend Frau Weber and live at my own
expense, so I can't leave until I've collected some money due me for
lessons and concerts and pay my debts."
Arco sniffed. "The Archbishop is paying you a salary, that
should be your first priority."
"Nobody can live on 400 gulden."
"That depends on the way you live, doesn't it?" the Count said
sarcastically. "I live like anyone else." He gritted his teeth
and glared at the Count.
"Hasn't your father written to you about this? He's written to
me, and he complains bitterly about your actions."
"Oh, he's written me, all right," Wolfgang said sadly. "His
letters have torn me apart, God knows!"
"Look, Mozart, you're letting yourself get carried away by
Vienna. The Viennese have their enthusiasms, you can make a lot of
money and get plenty of applause for a while, but then they turn to
other things. Don't give up something steady with His Grace to risk
everything here."
"'Steady'! The salary is laughable, and I can't get permission
to do outside commissions. And besides that," he said, raising his
voice, "the Archbishop thinks he can treat me like dirt, call me
names, go to my father with tales about the so-called disgraceful life
I'm leading here."
Arco smiled. "Well," he said softly, "you know how the
Archbishop is. Don't you think I've had to take some abuse from him
too?" He raised his eyebrows, comically.
"I suppose you have your reasons for taking the abuse, Count.
I also have my reasons for not taking it!"
The Count bristled. "Your reasons! _Your_ _reasons_!"
"Yes, my reasons."
"We know what your reasons are, Herr Mozart," he said in an
unctuous voice. "They usually involve chambermaids or tavern girls!
Can you really reconcile serving a prelate of the stature of the
Archbishop with leading a life of such blatant immorality?"
"What do you mean, immorality?" he shouted.
"Who are you to raise your voice to me, little Mozart!
Everybody in Vienna knows what I mean," he said loudly. "To the
Viennese the name 'Mozart' means everything that's dissolute and
disgraceful. Drinking, gambling, and whoring. Your father must be
dying with shame!"
"Leave my father out of this."
"You don't think about fathers at the billiard table, or when
you've got some tart in your lap down at the Altkaterkeller, do you?"
he said sneeringly. "You forget Salzburg, your family, your patron,
your religion. Then there's just little Wolferl and whatever filthy
pleasure he happens to be indulging in at the moment."
"I don't go to whores!"
The Count looked at him disdainfully. "Spare me your lies,
please."
"Lies! Lies! You bastard!"
The Count took a step toward him. "What did you call me?"
You bastard, you son of a bitch, you can take the Archbishop's
job and shove it up your ass!"
The Count's face turned red. Wolfgang suddenly realized how
large Arco was -- the Count towered over him.
"Get out of here," the Count shouted, seizing him by the arm
with his giant hand. "Get out, get out.." And he shoved him toward
the door. Wolfgang stumbled and almost fell. He righted himself,
facing Arco. The Count raised his fist over his head and shouted,
"Get out of_here_! AND NEVER COME BACK!" Then Arco lifted
his foot, with its long, shiny black boot. Wolfgang turned to escape,
but all of a sudden he felt the impact of the boot on his backside.
He flew through the door and landed on his hands and knees in the hall.
The door to the room slammed behind him. His hand had landed on a
small brown cockroach. He rubbed the gooey jelly from the crushed
thorax of the dying insect off on his stocking. He stood up, slowly,
pulled up his breeches, took a step, stumbled, and then continued on
down the hall to the landing. When he had descended halfway down
the first flight of stairs, his legs started to shake. He sat down on
the stairs, under a portrait of the Archbishop Sigismund against the
background of St. Peter's in Rome, put his head down in his arms, and
began to cry.
After a moment, he pulled out his lace handkerchief, blew his
nose with a loud snort, and stood up. He wiped his cheeks. He
wouldn't have wanted his mother to see him like this.
Damned bully!
The cobblestones on the Graben seemed rougher than usual as
he jostled his way through the heavy foot traffic toward his room on
the Am Hof. He could smell the aroma of numerous "grosse Brauner"
and "kleine Schwartzer" from the coffeehouse on the corner of the
Kaertnerstrasse. A birdseller was hawking two yellow-flecked black
mynah birds from the jungles of South America.
He wasn't about to give up Vienna without a fight. He blew
his nose loudly. A tremolo in the lower basso range. Take that, all
you aristocratic assholes -- a blast from the common man -- the
uncommon common man!
He raised his fist at the Plague Monument and its celebration
of the power of man over nature -- take that!
=================================================
GLUTTONY
by Otho Eskin
(Note: This is scene 3 from the full-length play "Act of God")
Cast of Characters
JOHN An unemployed actor weak, shallow
and self-absorbed.
SATAN
TODD A middle-class, yuppie twit.
Scene
The action takes place in the living room of Martin's apartment.
Time
The time is the present.
=================================================
SCENE 3
AT RISE: The stage lights are down and most of the room
is in shadow. A spotlight is on JOHN, alone on
stage.
JOHN
Sometimes I think life's like high school except you never
graduate. God is home room teacher and His favorite teaching aids
seem to be plagues and other disasters. A few months ago, the roof of
a church somewhere in Texas collapsed killing most of the
congregation. This, we're told, was a test of faith. I suppose these
things can be seen as a divine pop quiz. "You down there. That's right
the one with the girder in your chest. Tell me honestly, when you
saw your family destroyed, did you have just a moment's fleeting
doubt about God's mercy? I thought so. You'll have to repeat a year."
Some people see a divine plan in existence but the ultimate purpose
has certainly escaped me. Personally, I think God makes it up as He
goes along. You think I'm being paranoid about God? That's what my
friend Todd says. He tells me these spiritual obsessions are irrational.
Todd's very sensible and practical. Todd will tell me what to do. He'll
know the answer.
(The door bell rings, lights up, and
JOHN opens the door. TODD stands in
the doorway.)
JOHN
(Whispering)
Thank heavens you've come, Todd.
(TODD enters)
TODD
(Also whispering)
What's the matter, John? You sounded terrible on the phone.
JOHN
Todd, you're my oldest friend. We've always helped one another...
TODD
I'm here for you, John. Why are we whispering?
JOHN
I've had an experience like nothing I've ever had before a kind of
revelation of evil.
TODD
I've told you a hundred times, there's too much sugar in your diet.
(JOHN looks around the room, sees no
one.)
JOHN
I think I may be possessed by the Devil.
TODD
You must learn to let go of these negative feelings, John. Let go of
your anger.
JOHN
The Devil has appeared to me. He talks to me. He drinks my beer. He
eats my pretzels. And he wears really tasteless clothes.
TODD
You say the Devil's here now?
JOHN
Somewhere in the apartment.
(TODD looks around the room with
exaggerated care.)
TODD
I don't see a thing, John. There's no one here.
JOHN
Maybe he's in the bathroom. He seems to spend a lot of time there.
TODD
Honestly, John, don't you know the Devil's a myth?
JOHN
If there's no Devil, how do you explain misery and suffering in the
world?
TODD
Too much animal protein in our diet.
JOHN
Animal protein? That's it?
TODD
The Devil is an illusion. Probably no more than a piece of undigested
food from last night's supper.
JOHN
He seemed awfully real to me.
TODD
Get in touch with who you are. Political activism will take your mind
off your problems. There's a meeting this Saturday of Gays for
Whales. Why don't you come? Next Tuesday, Jennifer and I are
having a fund raiser for Concerned Chicano Women Against Toxic
Dumping in Southern Africa. It will do you a world of good to take
part. Do you think you could bring a pasta salad?
JOHN
I wouldn't be good company.
TODD
You've got to change your life style. Take up jogging.
JOHN
This is more than a bit of depression. I swear, the Devil is as real as
you are. He sleeps there on the couch. He sends out for pizzas. What
am I going to do?
TODD
I can give you the number of a support group for people involved in
devil worship.
JOHN
(Angry)
I'm not into devil worship!
(There is the sound of martial music
which slowly rises in volume.)
TODD
Do you have a radio on?
JOHN
No.
TODD
Don't you hear it? That music? It's awful!
JOHN
I don't hear a thing.
(The music subsides.)
TODD
Has anybody else seen this Devil?
JOHN
Not exactly. Maggie said she couldn't see him.
TODD
There you are! You're the only one who's had this experience. It's a
fantasy. Are you still seeing your psychiatrist?
(The lights begin to brighten revealing
the figure of a man, his back to the
audience.)
JOHN
You think I'm going crazy, Todd?
TODD
You worry me, John. I think you'd better get medical attention.
(TODD senses that someone else is in
the room and becomes uneasy. Once
again the music is heard.)
TODD
Is there someone there?
JOHN
Who are you talking to?
(TODD sees the figure and is
transfixed.)
TODD
What are you?
(The figure turns and faces TODD. It is
SATAN, in the uniform of a Nazi SS
Officer. HE wears a red Nazi arm band,
with swastika. HIS appearance is
military and smart, even elegant.
SATAN touches the visor of his cap
with a gloved hand in a salute.)
SATAN
Good evening, Todd.
TODD
You know me?
SATAN
Of course. We have the same friends. We go to the same parties. We
sit on the same steering groups.
TODD
That's impossible. You are the incarnation of everything abominable,
loathsome and detestable in the world.
JOHN
I see you two have met. (To TODD in a loud whisper.) I told you. I
told you.
TODD
Get out of my sight. I can't bear to look at you.
SATAN
I'm disappointed in you, Todd. We used to be so close.
TODD
Never!
JOHN
Why are you arguing with an illusion? It is an illusion, isn't it?
SATAN
Listen to the voice inside you, Todd. You're still attracted to me.
TODD
I hate you.
JOHN
(To SATAN)
I think you got the wrong guy. Todd here is not that kind of person.
TODD
(To SATAN)
I reject you.
JOHN
(To TODD)
Tell him about your activities on behalf of the snail darter. (To
SATAN) You wouldn't believe this guy. He's always out there
demonstrating on behalf of lesbians from El Salvador.
TODD
I work to defeat everything you stand for.
SATAN
Don't be afraid, old friend.
JOHN
You tell'm, Todd. (To SATAN) He and Jennifer are always protesting
against the destruction of the rain forests. You'll never get anywhere
with Todd. He's incorruptible.
TODD
I struggle for good causes. I give to the homeless.
SATAN
Do you give them love? Do they eat at your table? Do you comfort
them when they weep?
JOHN
Tell him how Jennifer is going to learn Spanish so she can speak with
their cleaning woman.
SATAN
Remember how you felt when someone broke into your car and stole
your tennis rackets? You assumed it was some black kid. And you
wanted to kill him. As you stood by your car you were filled with
rage and hatred. If the kid had been there if you had had a gun
you would have killed him, wouldn't you, Todd?
TODD
No! No!
SATAN
Every time you see a black man on the street you feel fear. You feel
hatred.
JOHN
Tell him what you've told me about how noble the poor and
homeless are. Go ahead and tell him.
SATAN
You love the idea of the poor. But you are disgusted by their filth.
You are bitter when they show no gratitude to you. Don't deny
yourself, dear friend. Don't deny the real Todd the real you.
TODD
I am Todd!
SATAN
No you're not. You're an invention you made up. The real Todd has
been locked in a secret room for years. Set him free.
TODD
No!
JOHN
Tell him he's got you mixed up with some other guy. Tell him these
things he's saying are lies. Please tell him.
SATAN
Think back to when you were a child. Remember the games you
played? The movies you loved? The guns? The flags? The uniforms?
TODD
I was a child.
SATAN
You still are. Remember the jack boots? The Death's Heads?
TODD
No!
(SATAN reaches out to TODD who
becomes panicky and backs toward the
door.)
SATAN
Remember your fantasies of the beauty of force, the music of
authority, the poetry of violence? Let me give you the power you
hunger for, Todd. I can make you strong. I can give you the
instruments of domination. You will grind your enemies beneath
your heel.
TODD
Stay away.
JOHN
This isn't you he's talking about, is it, Todd? This can't be you.
SATAN
Do not be afraid of your midnight thoughts. Face them and grow
strong. Think of women, helpless and submissive before your
brutality. Do not forget your whip.
TODD
Please don't.
SATAN
Take my hand, dear friend, follow me into the recesses of your soul
where no others may follow.
TODD
No! Never!
SATAN
Come to me, Todd. Embrace me.
(TODD bolts out the door.)
JOHN
I don't know what happened. Todd just wasn't himself today.
SATAN
He never was himself. Someday he'll belong to me. He's not ready yet.
But he will be one day.
JOHN
You've got to stop this! You can't go around corrupting people like
that.
SATAN
I can't?
(SATAN cracks his knuckles.)
JOHN
And would you stop that! I hate it when you do that!
SATAN
Got any more friends we can have over?
JOHN
I don't want them to meet you.
SATAN
Who are you to talk? You'll do anything to get out of this situation.
You'll sacrifice anybody to save yourself.
(SATAN goes to the kitchen door.)
JOHN
That's not true.
SATAN
We'll see, John. We'll see.
BLACKOUT
==================================================================================================
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