textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0306.txt

  



This is your latest copy of FICTION-ONLINE.
================================================


                 FICTION-ONLINE

         An Internet Literary Magazine
               Volume 3, Number 6
              November-December 1996



EDITOR'S NOTE:
     
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                              William Ramsay, Editor
                                             
=================================================


                    CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     Verses  
          Wesley Britten

     "Sisterhood is Powerful," a short story
          Alan Vanneman

     "Konstanze," an excerpt (chapter 17, part 1) from
               the novel "In Search of  Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "Greed," a scene (#4) from the play, "Act of God"
          Otho Eskin

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



                  CONTRIBUTORS


WESLEY BRITTON teaches English at Grayson County College in
Denison, Texas and is a noted Mark Twain scholar.  His poems have
appeared in "Lynx Eye," "Cafe Belles Artes," and "Kensho," and
recently won first place for humorous verse at the first annual Texoma
Poetry Workshops.   

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.

ALAN VANNEMAN is a writer and living in Washington.  He is a
professional editor, currently working in educational research.

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



               VERSES

               by Wesley Britton


FUZZ

"You know in the sixties
     in my home township,
we had one cop, one constable for our whole county.
Judge Beamer.  Old guy, daughter in my class.
   I leaned over her huddled against the school hall wall
   in fallout drills
   as we practiced for Russian invasion.
Called him once on a dog bite.

Then, we got to junior high and they hired
     a police chief & built a cop station
     by the Skat Oil gas station
     & then hired two cops
     & put in two traffic lights
     & a new gas station opened up across
     the highway & people
started dying
crossing the highway.

"Chief was divorced, left his second wife down the street.
Step & step family new center of township
Like Stephens' jar in Tennessee.

He's gone, a series of fuzz come through now
Like football players in helmets
     whose faces you never see or know or forget.
Wish I'd married Judge Beamer's daughter."



THE UNFORTUNATE FUNERAL

In the quiet breeze through her hair
the thin wife stood over her husband's grave
framed by her girls & the camera box
aimed square on her
peculiar moment in the sun

fifteen years after
the battle of divorce
sent their children
spiralling into disconnected paths.

& she tried not to look
into the open hole
or into the camera's eye

knowing she didn't belong there
knowing how he would cringe
knowing she stood there passively

for the camera shot
by his survivors
in the green field
below the canopy

& she thoght of the other men,
man after man after him

Well, Charlie worked out o.k.
sitting at home waiting for her
dinner.

& the cameras did their work
like the smiles of her 
black and white wedding

not a pretty day like this
not a colorful day like this 
with all the flowers.

Weren't there flowers at the wedding?
She couldn't remember.

There must have been flowers.
But the pictures of gray
were what held her memory.

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


          SISTERHOOD IS POWERFUL

               by Alan Vanneman
     

      "Dad, are you going to wear your mustard pants again?"
      "They aren't mustard, Richard. Don't gulp your milk."
      "They are too! And I wasn't gulping my milk."
      "They're canary, aren't they, Dad?"
      Harding Davis put down his copy of the Post. It was 
     difficult to be too angry, because the article he was 
     reading was quite complimentary of himself, for the 
     Post, at least. But at the same time he had to try 
     consciously not to throw an angry look at his wife. He 
     hadn't seen his children in a week, and this was how 
     they were behaving.
      "I don't think we need to argue about the color of my 
     pants. It will all depend on the weather. Marie, my 
     coffee is cold. And Richard, hold your knife properly."
      "I was!"
      "Richard. You were not. Unless the little things are 
     done correctly, nothing good can happen. Please 
     remember that."
      Marie intervened to take Mr. Davis' cup, She 
     disappeared into the kitchen and then returned, placing 
     the newly filled cup exactly where it had been, as if 
     to illustrate his remark. For the moment, there was 
     quiet in the Davis family. Sunlight streamed through 
     the windows of their porch, while outside the faint hum 
     of a powerful air conditioner kept the Washington 
     summer at bay.
      "Are you going to the office today, Dad?" Barbara 
     asked.
      "Children, haven't you bothered your father enough? 
     This is the first chance he's had to be with you in a 
     week, and this is how you behave."
      Mr. Davis drank gratefully from the cup Marie had 
     brought him. Thank God it was decent coffee. He was 
     just beginning to realize how tired he was. For the 
     last three months his life had revolved entirely around 
     the fate of a handful of hostages in the Middle East. 
     There was not a day in the last three months that he 
     had not expected their release. Now, at last, they were 
     free. The President had received them, and State had 
     won a victory. The Secretary had divided the glory 
     between the President and himself -- hardly a surprise 
     -- yet within State his own stock was at an all-time 
     high. If anything, the praise for him in the Post was 
     too egregious. Thank God it was well off the front 
     page.
      A telephone rang faintly in the background. Marie 
     disappeared again and then returned.
      "It's for you, Mr. Davis," she said, uncomfortably.
      "Who is it, Marie?" 
      "Your sister, sir."
      "We're not home."
      "She says she can see you, sir. She's in a car out 
     front. She says she has a car phone."
      Harding Davis spread butter evenly on his toast. He 
     placed a spoonful of strawberry jam on his plate. 
     Looking down at his hands he remembered that they 
     always had strawberry jam because he liked it as a boy. 
     As a boy he and Susan had gathered strawberries on 
     Spring mornings in the mountains. He spread the jam on 
     his toast and took a bite. Then he drank from his 
     coffee.
      "Tell her we are at breakfast. Tell her I will call 
     her when we're finished."
      There was a dead silence at the breakfast table. Even 
     Richard knew better than to ask about crazy Aunt Mary.
      "What did the Post have to say?" asked Diane at last.
      "They were reasonably complimentary, even though half 
     their facts were wrong. Harvey won't like it, I'm 
     afraid."
      "Dad, why don't you tell them, so they get it right?"
      "Speaking with the newspapers is a difficult and 
     dubious art, dear. You must never let a reporter 
     realize how very much more you know than he does. 
     Otherwise, he will never forgive you."
      The phone rang once more and Marie dodged quickly out 
     into the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance the Davises 
     could hear the sound of a car horn.
      "It's your sister again, Mr. Davis," said Marie, 
     feeling put upon.
      "Yes, Marie. Bring me another half cup of coffee. Tell 
     Gladys she can hold the line if she wishes. Richard, 
     please sit up."
      "Dad, are you going to get away at all this summer?"
      "Your mother and I will probably do some sailing with 
     Chris and Anna. He was kind enough to offer."
      "He ought to be," Diane said, slicing the last of her 
     melon. "The Post wasn't very nice to him."
      "Perhaps not. It's a marvellous boat. Well, you must 
     excuse me."
      He rose from the table and brushed his lips with his 
     napkin. The walk from the breakfast porch to his study 
     seemed unusually long. He sat at his desk and picked up 
     the phone.
      "Good morning."
      "Good morning to you too. Hope I didn't disturb you."
      "Why have you called?"
      "To give you the good news. I'm getting married."
      "Well. Congratulations."
      "I knew you'd be thrilled. You never thought it would 
     happen, did you?"
      "Of course I did."
      "Of course you did. Of course you did. I forgot you 
     know everything. That's how dumb I am. I even forgot 
     you know everything. Well, your dumb sister's got a 
     man. Can I come inside?"
      "My family is just finishing breakfast, Gladys. It's 
     hardly time for a visit."
      "Oh right, I forgot that. I do forget things, don't I? 
     Well don't forget your sister's getting married. Are 
     you going tell Mom and Dad?"
      "I thought you would do that."
      "Harding, you're so helpful. They ought to call you 
     helpful Harding. Bye, bye."
      "Good bye, Gladys."
      
      "There's a crushed rat by the entrance. Can we have 
     that disposed of?"
      "I'll have that done immediately, Mr. Davis. The 
     Secretary would like to see you at 9:30 to discuss the 
     White House reception. Here are the morning 
     dispatches."
      Davis took the stiff, white paper folder from his 
     secretary and walked into his office. He sat behind his 
     desk and drank the coffee that waited for him. He 
     placed the dispatch folder on his desk, the white 
     rectangle brilliant against the dark, polished wood.
      The afterglow of the hostage release shone through the 
     reports. Mentally, Davis compared himself against the 
     prose of each ambassador. Since they, or their staffs, 
     all strove to achieve the same style -- understated, 
     yet authoritative -- the overall effect was exhausting. 
     There was not an individualist in the lot. As he read 
     he marked an occasional passage with a red pen. He had 
     not finished the last report when the intercom buzzed 
     softly.
      "Five minutes to your appointment with the Secretary, 
     Mr. Davis."
      Harding Davis squared himself before the mirror in his 
     office. This was very good. He took the stairs up to 
     the Secretary's floor, preferring not to wait for an 
     elevator, and was ushered in directly as he arrived.
      "Harding!" The Secretary rose from his chair, 
     grinning. "The man of the hour."
      "Your flattery is too much, Mr. Secretary," Harding 
     began. He could not remember when he had been caught so 
     off guard.
      "Nonsense! This was a big win for State, and I love a 
     big win. That's what this game's all about."
      Harding half expected the man to light up a victory 
     cigar. Instead, he sat on his desk and motioned Harding 
     to a chair.
      "Harding, I'm putting you up for a medal, and you're 
     going to get it. I can't give myself one, and I want 
     State to be out in front on this. The White House is 
     scheduling a show for the hostages -- you know how they 
     are. It's their show. But damn it, you're going to get 
     a medal, and the President is going to give it to you. 
     I've got it right here."
      The Secretary went around his desk, opened a drawer 
     and took out a flat leather case. He clicked the case 
     open and handed it to Harding. Inside was a highly 
     polished bronze medal with the State Department's seal. 
     A glossy red, white and blue ribbon curled round it. 
     Embedded in the case itself was a small bronze plaque. 
     Harding's name and title were engraved in the plaque.
      "Had it done when I heard we had a liftoff in Beruit. 
     I had been thinking, God damn it, let's not let some 
     Marine walk off with the credit for this one."
      "I certainly appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. 
     Secretary."
      "Call me Bill. I get so damn tired of the military 
     grabbing all the glory. And I liked the way you handled 
     our friends in the press. There are plenty of people 
     around here who know when to keep their mouths shut, 
     and a few who don't. But there are damn few who know 
     when to shut up and when to talk. It was nice all 
     around."
      "Thank you, sir. There are times when the press 
     requires guidance."
      "There are indeed. Listen, Harding. Join me for lunch. 
     There's a fellow I want you to meet, and who I want to 
     meet you. I won't keep you in suspense -- it's Milos 
     Layton. Meet us at the Cosmos Club at 12:30."
      "My pleasure, sir."
      "Excellent. We'll see you then."
      Harding shook hands with the Secretary and departed, 
     trying just a little to relax. The Old Man was 
     certainly piling it on. He couldn't say what it was all 
     for. Harding was certainly in the top half of the 
     assistant secretaries, but no more than that. He had no 
     particular friends in high places, at least not in very 
     high places. As he rode down the elevator the blood 
     buzzed softly in his ears. A gentleman, he thought, can 
     never be afraid of luck.
     
      His cab pulled up along the club's curving drive at 
     12:20. Harding found the Secretary in a large easy 
     chair, deep in conversation with Milos Layton.
      Harding's father would have referred to Milos Layton 
     as a typical businessman, though in fact there was 
     nothing typical about him at all. He was in his early 
     fifties, stocky, but enormously fit. Seated or 
     standing, he gave off an air of elemental vitality. He 
     had a yachtsman's tan and brilliantly blue eyes. As 
     Harding approached he sprang to his feet and grasped 
     Harding by the hand, fixing him with his gaze. Harding 
     had had such an experience only twice before in his 
     life, and both men had been presidents.
      "Mr. Davis, I like what I hear about you. I like it a 
     lot."
      Harding was not able to be quite as polished as he 
     wished. Mr. Layton was worth considerably more than $3 
     billion. Before joining the current administration, the 
     Secretary had been a president -- one of three -- at 
     Layton Enterprises.
      "I'm pleased to hear it, Mr. Layton. It's quite an 
     honor to meet you."
      "I'm just a businessman," Layton said, grinning. "The 
     more people I know the better off I am. You're someone 
     I want to know."
      The Secretary rose from his chair.
      "I think they're ready for us. I can't afford to keep 
     Harding away from his desk too long."
      "You see, Harding, that's how Bill made it to the top. 
     He knows how to delegate."
      A waiter led the three men to a private dining room. 
     Both Layton and the Secretary were drinking Scotch, but 
     Harding decided to stay with a single glass of white 
     wine. Both men were at least fifteen years his senior. 
     While ordering he was careful to moderate his French 
     accent, which was noticeably superior to that of either of the 
     other two men. Yet Layton spoke French remarkably well 
     for a man who prided himself on his simplicity. As the 
     meal progressed, Harding drank rarely from his glass of 
     wine, and let the other two men lead the conversation. 
     Eventually, his caution caught him up.
      "You know, Mr. Davis," Layton said formally, "for a 
     man who was in the thick of it you don't have much to 
     say. Just where do we stand over there now? Have we got 
     any real friends? And do we have any enemies? Or is it 
     all just talk? I say you're the one man who can give me 
     a straight answer."
      Harding managed a quick look at the Secretary -- not 
     for guidance, but to see his face while Layton was 
     talking. He paused carefully, feeling the exhilaration 
     rise inside him, and then began to speak. For the first 
     time, he had entered that realm where the walls between 
     public and private dissolved completely. For the next 
     half hour, he told Milos Layton as much about the 
     Middle East as he would tell anyone, with the two 
     exceptions of the Secretary himself and the President. 
     Layton listened as though he were hanging on every 
     word. When Harding finished the businessman slapped his 
     palm on the table.
      "Harding, you're my expert. I want you, and your wife, 
     to join me, not this weekend but the next, at my place 
     in the Carribean. I'll send you tickets. And make it a 
     four-day weekend. Tell your boss I said so!"
      Their laughter carried them out the entrance way, 
     where the Secretary's limousine was waiting ahead of 
     Forman's. Harding noticed the smile of pleasure on the 
     Secretary's lips. As the doorman opened the car door, 
     the Secretary gestured for Harding to join him.
      "Milos is a little overpowering," the Secretary said 
     once the door was safely shut and they were underway.
      "He's a remarkable man."
      "He is. He wants a great deal, and it's worth it to 
     give it to him. He's been trying to exploit me ever 
     since I got this job. Hasn't made a dime yet, but I 
     keep telling him to look for the long term."
      "Was he serious about his invitation?"
      "Sure. Go down there and stay for four days. Just 
     remember you'll be on duty every second you're there. 
     It's a shame you'll have to take vacation time."
     
      Harding returned to his office with a distinct sense 
     of anticlimax. He wanted to play tennis or swim, or 
     have a gin and tonic and a cigar at a really first-rate 
     country club, not read memos. His secretary gave him a 
     worried look when he arrived.
      "Mr. Davis, your sister has been calling. She won't 
     leave a message."
      "I see. If she calls again put her through."
      "Of course, Mr. Davis."
      Harding picked up the latest copy of Foreign Affairs 
     and sat at his desk. He thought he would not have to 
     wait long to hear from Gladys and he was correct.
      "Back from lunch, huh? You must have enjoyed yourself. 
     You big shots have it easy. Did I tell you I'm getting 
     married?"
      "Yes, you did. Earlier today."
      "Yeah, I did, didn't I? I guess I forgot. Are you 
     excited for me, Harding? Mom and Dad are excited for 
     me. Well, are you?"
      "I'd like to meet the man, Gladys. Next week sometime, 
     perhaps."
      "I wish I could arrange it, Harding, but there's this 
     problem, see. My fiance's in jail."
      "I see. Do you expect us to get him out?"
      "Yes I do, Harding, but it's kind of difficult because 
     he was convicted of armed robbery and second-degree 
     murder. Also it was his second conviction, just for 
     armed robbery. Of course he's innocent. Does Dad know 
     anyone on the Supreme Court?"
      "No."
      "Do you?"
      "No."
      "You're not much help, are you, Harding? Were getting 
     married in two weeks -- Bowling Green, Kentucky. It's 
     real pretty out there. Of course the prison's not so 
     nice."
      "The prison's in Kentucky?"
      "That's what I just said. I think he comes from an old 
     Kentucky family, you know, like Helen."
      "I see. I don't think my schedule will permit me to 
     attend."
      "You don't think your schedule will permit you to 
     attend. I think you said that the last time I got 
     married. When are you going to come see me, Harding? 
     You know, I can come see you now that I got my car."
      "I'll come see you soon, Gladys. If you've been 
     reading the papers you know how busy I've been."
      "Oh, you're famous now! No, Harding, I haven't been 
     reading the papers. I've been writing letters to the 
     most wonderful man in the world, and now I'm going to 
     marry him. Goodbye, Harding."
      "Goodbye, Gladys."
      Harding took out his telephone credit card and dialed 
     a number.
      "Dad? This is Harding. Has Gladys been talking to 
     you?"
      "Yes she has. I gather she's been talking to you."
      "Well, is she making all this up?"
      "No. Herb Willer is a member in good standing of the 
     Kentucky State Penal System and will be for a minimum 
     of another twenty years, even with good behavior. And 
     he has applied for and received a marriage license."
      "And he's really a murderer."
      "I'm afraid so. A young woman in her thirties. He says 
     it was an accident, and apparently it was. He was 
     shooting at a security guard."
      "Have you met him?"
      "No, but I've read the court records. Haven't you 
     known about this?"
      "No, I haven't. I've been busy. We did have a crisis 
     down here, Dad. Why didn't you tell me last week?"
      "I was probably hoping that it would go away. I 
     thought Gladys had told you, and thought maybe you 
     didn't want to talk about it."
      "I don't want to talk about it, but we have to. This 
     would kill Helen, Dad. We've got to stop it."
      "I don't think we can, Harding. I've talked to a few 
     people down there, and the Kentucky State Prison Board 
     appears to be a relatively free-standing bureaucracy. 
     You could talk to Helen's family if you like, but they 
     really aren't that well connected, you know. Maybe you 
     better talk with Helen, and let her decide."
      "Dad, there's got to be something we can do."
      "I don't think so, Harding. I think they like to have 
     their prisoners get married. It sort of calms them 
     down."
      "Dad, I'm scheduled to get a medal from the President 
     in two weeks' time. I don't want my sister marrying a 
     murderer."
      "I know you don't, Harding. I'm sorry. But it's making 
     her happier than she's been for a long time."
      "I don't think that's adequate! She's down here, you 
     know. I have to put up with her. I bailed her out when 
     she was selling prescription drugs. Do you remember 
     that?"
      "I do, Harding, and I'm sorry."
      "She didn't want to live at home. She insisted on 
     coming down here, God knows why. I've accepted that. I 
     can't accept this. Where is she getting the money for 
     all this -- the car and the cellular telephone?"
      "I didn't know she had a cellular telephone."
      "Well, she does."
      "She does have a trust fund, Harding."
      "I see. That's your decision, of course. Dad, I think 
     it's time we had her declared incompetent."
      "Your mother would never go along with that. I don't 
     think I would. Harding, don't you think she would 
     contest it? Wouldn't it be worse than what we have?"
     
          "Worse than marrying a murderer. Suppose he gets 
     pardoned. Weren't they selling pardons down there?"
      "I don't think it will come to that."
      "Yes, one can hope."
      "The wedding isn't for three weeks. Harding, no one is 
     going to crucify you for having a crazy sister."
      "So that's your decision."
      "I don't know what else to do. Which means that that's 
     my decision."
      "All right. I suppose I have to live with that."
      "It's the best way."
      "I don't agree."
      "Harding, don't wear yourself out trying to turn this 
     around. It's not salvagable."
      "Dad, you're up in Boston. I do have a family."
      "I think we've discussed this long enough."
      "All right, we have."
      "Congratulations on your medal."
      "Of course. I don't know what the ceremony is going to 
     be like. It's all for the hostages. I'll see if I can 
     get you in. This is the Secretary's idea. We haven't 
     heard from the White House."
      "You deserve it, son."
      "Thanks. I hope everyone is well."
      "Reasonably well."
      "Good. We're fine here."
      "Goodbye, son. We're proud of you."
      "Yes, of course. Goodbye, Dad."
     
===============================================


                   KONSTANZE

                by William Ramsay

[Note: This is an excerpt, part one of chapter 17 of the novel "In
Search of Mozart"]
 

     A glass of wine -- well, two -- and a nap had made him feel
steady again after the run-in with Asshole-Arco.  He awakened to a
chirping.  A thrush, chirping in E-flat, twittered nervously on the 
sill of the window of his new room in the Weber house.  He got up 
carefully, but as he approached the window, the bird flapped off.  
Just like a woman, her thought.  To hell with archbishops and their 
toadies.  
        He sloshed some water on his face and dressed himself.  As he 
came out onto the landing, he heard the sounds of the piano downstairs.  
It must be Josefa or Konstanze.  The sound was interrupted as the player 
hit a wrong note.  Then she started up again.  The rhythm of the Johann
Christian Bach piece was ragged -- it had to be Konstanze.  He started
down the stairs,  the ancient banister rail creaking under his hand, still
seething over Count Arco and his big boots.
     He was on edge and anxious to go out, but he could still spare a
few minutes.  The gold clock on the white and gilt mantel said it was
only half past five.  Konstanze, sitting at the piano, looked particularly
charming in her blue frock -- hoopless, in the latest Parisian style 
-- with matching ribbons in her dark hair.  He was glad that he had 
decided to wear his stylish new puce-colored plush breeches.  He should 
have put on his silk stockings.  He backed up a few steps and took a look 
at himself in the hall mirror.  He smiled and felt confident, looking back
at the sparkling blue eyes of the slim, elegant young man in the mirror. 
He stuck out his tongue at the image.  Shit on you, 'Cunt' Arco!  Then he
walked into the parlor.  "Good Evening, Fraeulein Konstanze, have you
been down here long?"
     She lifted up her pale, triangular face to look at him. She was not
powdered, and her short brown hair gathered in little curls around her
forehead.  "Not long enough, I'm afraid, I'm having difficulties with this
piece.  We can't all be so clever at this instrument."  She waved her hand
airily at the white spinet, a little battered now after its sojourns in
Mannheim, Munich, and Vienna.
     "Oh, well, you know the advantage of being a composer is that
no one knows whether you're improvising or not.  If I make a mistake,
I can always claim I was making it up as I was going along."  He laughed
nervously.  So many people resented his talent.  Oh, who cared what she
thought!  He had enough problems today without worrying about her.
     "Oh, I wish it were that simple for me," she said with an
exaggerated sigh.  And then, head lowered, looking up at him from
under her eyebrows, she added, "You seem upset tonight, Herr Mozart."
     "Yes, yes, you're right," said Wolfgang, putting on a smile.
"Nothing much, just some more trouble at Deutsches Ordenshaus.  The
usual nonsense."    
     "Too bad."  She pressed her thin lips together.  "I'm not sure that
the Ordenshaus is the right place for you, if you don't mind my saying
so." 
     "I don't mind at all."
     "I think the Emperor should find a special place for you.  It isn't
right that you should have to compete with ordinary musicians."  She
laid aside the sheets of music on the stand.
     "I don't know if the Emperor would agree.  As it is, I'm just one
musician among hundreds."
     "No, indeed you're not, Herr Mozart."
     "Well."  He made a face.  "Let's talk about something else.  I
don't want to burden you with my problems, when you and your family
have been so kind to me.  And don't apologize for your playing," he said, 
"the piano sounded good, go on playing.  Was that Bach?"  A little tact
Wolferl, he told himself, a little tact!
     "Yes, it's hard, but I'm working on it -- vigorously," she said,
replacing the sheet music, shuffling the pages, and then starting to play. 
She missed several notes and then lost the tempo.  She started up again
and again faltered.  He sat back on the overstuffed silk-covered ottoman
and resisted the temptation to tell her to count more carefully: eins, zwo,
drei, vier; eins, zwo, drei, vier.  He looked at the portrait in the gilt
frame on the wall over the piano.  He hoped that the old man in the wig
cap was tone deaf.  After a minute or two, she stopped playing.  
     "Mother's odd, she seems to think that since your mother is dead,
she has to come in and mother you.  I hope you don't mind that too
much," she said seriously.  He felt his face become warmish.  She
looked into his eyes, smiled, and then laughed.  
     "Not at all, I love being taken care of," he said, smiling.  "But
please, don't you start too."
     "Don't worry, I'm not the type."
     "What type are you?"  At least you're not the stupid type, he
thought.       
     "Never mind." she said smiling.  "I don't think you want to
know."    "Oh, but I do want to know, I do."
     Konstanze, playing arpeggios, smiled tentatively.  "By the way,
Aloysia called at the house yesterday.  She sends her regards to you," 
she said.  "She hopes you will call on her and Herr Lange soon." 
     "Thank her for me.  And tell her I'm happy that she's doing so
well at the Opera."   Today, of all days -- Aloysia!  
     "I hope you're not still angry with her."
     "No, _Al_oysia is _all_owed to do _all_ she pleases," he said.  He 
could see her thinking.  Then she said, with the merest trace
of hesitation: "While wistful Wolfgang wildly wonders why."
     He managed a subdued laugh, looking away from her, staring at
the gold fleur- de-lis design in the worn tan carpet.  "You're too sharp 
for me -- especially today," he said, raising his head.  "Why don't you 
tell me what's new with you, while I play something.  It will be good for 
my nerves."
     "Play something soothing, please.  I feel a headache coming on." 
She mimicked a distressed look, and put her hand to her forehead with
a dramatic gesture.
     He sat down to the keyboard.  "I've got just the thing.  A soothing
'Evening Serenade' by a struggling young composer.  In a premiere
performance of a new piano transcription!"  And, improvising from his
memory of the orchestral score, he launched into the march-like first
movement of his "Serenata notturna."
     Konstanze listened silently to him.  She sat staring toward where
the late afternoon light fell on the tattered damask pillows on the green
silk chair.  Aloysia had bought the pillows for her family when she had
landed her new job in the Vienna German Opera.
     "I love the rondo in that one," she said after he finished.  "I
remember it well.  You used to play it in Mannheim."  She smiled.  "I'm
sorry you need so much cheering up today."
     "Oh, I'll be all right."  She didn't look much like Aloysia.  The
nose was sharper.  And Aloysia had been so petite.  Konstanze wasn't
really large, but she was no Dresden doll, she had breasts -- nice ones. 
He sat there for a minute brooding over the past.  Then he said, "Well,
I'm off."      "Out with your friends?" 
     "Yes," he said, thinking of the "Altkaterkeller' and the redhead
he's met there the previous week. 
     "I wish I could go too.  It's so dull, being a 'lady'!"
     "I know what you mean," he said, looking at the smooth skin on
her neck and thinking how he'd like to be able to pull up _her_ skirts. 
Finally he added,  "Well, sometime!"
     "Yes, after I'm married.  A married lady would be allowed to go
out with you and your friends."
     "Yes, after you're married."  He kept his tone absolutely
expressionless.  Yes, married, and respectable, and probably dull and
boring, he thought.  And in the meantime, she was a hell of a tease. God,
"nice" girls were a pain sometimes!  He'd settle for the not-so-nice.  
And making an exaggeratedly low bow with a sweep of his hat in his
outstretched hand, he took his leave, walked down into the tiny square
of Am Peter, and headed out for a glass or two of wine at the "Old
Tomcat's Cellar."  And maybe a redhead or two, he thought.       
     There hadn't been much rain lately, so when he turned off the
Graben onto the  unpaved Dorotheergasse, he didn't have to worry about
soiling his shoes, with their carefully polished silver buckles.  He swung
his malacca walking stick, pushed his coat aside to display Archduke
Ferdinand's gold watch and chain across his belly, and gripped his
three-cornered hat proudly under his arm -- no person of fashion actually
wore his hat anymore, for fear of disturbing carefully powdered hairdos. 
He grunted as he jostled against a water carrier in the place where the
street angled and narrowed abruptly.  As he turned left at the next corner
into Plankengasse, the bells of St. Stephen's were ringing for evening
mass.  No thanks, he thought.  Drinking tonight, mass tomorrow.   Going
down the second stairway off Plankengasse, he entered the
Altkaterkeller.     
     The Old Tomcat's Cellar stank of pipe smoke and urine. He was
temporarily blinded as he picked his way into the darkness from the
outside glare.  But in the far corner, under a tiny window, some daylight
did make its way in, and he could see Damian and some of the other
boys on benches set at a long table.  He made his way over some old
bottles and rags and broken chairs.     
     "Wolferl, you look as if you'd lost your last friend!" said Damian,
in his Salzburg accent and his singer's resonant voice.
     "Yes, he sure looks sad," said Sepp.  "What's up, Wolferl?"
     "Nothing.  How's the printing business, Sepp?"
     "Terrible, but not as bad as you look."
     "Tell us about it, Wolferl," said his friend Egon, a coal dealer
and a big stock market speculator.  
     So he told them the story about Count Karl Arco and getting
fired, complete with kick.
     "I'd have smashed his face," said Sepp.
     "He's a big bastard," said Wolfgang.
     "We ought to teach him a lesson," said Damian.
     "What will you do for money?" said Egon.  "If you need a loan,
let me know."  
     "Right now I could use a drink."
     "Wine!" shouted Egon.  "And beer!"
     "How about the opera for the Emperor?" said Damian.
     "That isn't arranged yet.  Some key people at Court are not on my
side."    
     "You're too hard to please," said Egon.  "You're spoiled, Wolferl,
spoiled!   Come on!  You'll get paid for the opera, won't you?"
     A short, fat young man with a dirty leather apron brought them
more wine and some steins of beer.  Wolfgang drank greedily, the raw
white wine biting his lips.  "Yes, I'll get paid -- if it happens."
     "Then here's to the Emperor."  Sepp's small brown eyes wrinkled
up as he raised his stein.  "May he appreciate our friend Wolferl Mozart
as much as we all do!"
     "Hey, hey!" said Egon.
     "I feel a song coming on," said Damian.  And he stood up and
started to sing an aria from "Idomeneo."  

        Bell' alme al ciel dilette
        Si, ah! respirate ormai
        Gia palpitaste assai
        E tempo di goder.

The noises in the tavern hushed as Damian's tenor sang out the
optimistic  words.  As he finished and sat down, Wolfgang hugged him. 
His eyes teared up.      
     "You can do it again, Wolferl," said Sepp.
     "Right you are!" said Egon.
     "Thanks, all of you."  They all embraced.  "I'll thin about the new
opera tomorrow.  Tonight, let's drink."
     "And how about a woman?" said Egon.
     "I wouldn't say no," said Wolfgang.  Then he felt a sudden
coldness on his bottom.  He had sat down in a small pool of spilled beer. 
He moved quickly aside on the wooden bench and felt his behind.
     His new breeches!
     Today just wasn't his day.
                      *** 
     The sun shone brightly on the off-white far wall of his top-floor
bedroom.  He struggled to pull the comforter up over his eyes.  It didn't
help much.  Then the clock in the hallway began to chime, and the bells
of St. Stephen's rang.  Then St. Peter's and several other churches also
joined in.  It was eleven A.M.  He reluctantly opened his eyes.  The
room still had a slight tendency to spin.  He closed his eyes again, and
lay there, his head throbbing.  
     Oh, God.
     He writhed briefly, then he turned over on his side, to face away
from the light.  His throat was parched.  
     Oh God.
     His bladder was painfully full.  His headache let up for a
moment, he raised his head, and then the ache hit him again.
     How much did I drink?  Jesus.  Ohhhh.  
     Won't I ever learn?  Why did I do that?
     Then he remembered why.  
     Still, I didn't have to drink _that_ much!  Oh, Jesus.  Do I have
to destroy myself, why couldn't I leave it to people like Arco to do it 
for me?  Bastard.   
     God, the Viennese called a hangover a "tomcat."  What a name
for a drinking place!
     I'm never going to get up.
     He reached for the chamber pot and leaned over the side of the
bed to use it.  Oh, God.  That was better!  There was a knock on the
door.  Who the hell?
     "Coming!"
     He raised himself up carefully, feeling slightly faint as he pulled
himself upright.  He grabbed his breeches, which he had evidently left
on top of the comforter.  They still smelled slightly of beer.  The smell
made him gag. There was a ring on the fabric where he'd sat in the beer
spill the night before.       
     He got himself over to the door and opened it a crack.  There
stood Frau Weber herself.  Astonished, he opened the door wider.  She
had on a light yellow dress, with a white house bonnet, yellow ribbons
dangling from it.  He smelled the coffee on the tray she was carrying. 
It smelled good, but still he thought he was going to throw up.   
     "Good morning, Herr Mozart."
     He tried to say good morning, it took two tries before he could
clear his throat enough to get the words out.
     "You didn't come down to breakfast, so I thought you might like
some coffee."       
     "Oh, thank you.  That's very nice of you.  I'm sorry you had to
trouble yourself."  He felt dizzy again and grabbed onto the doorjamb to
steady himself.
     "I hope you're feeling all right."
     "Oh, yes.  Just a little headache."
     "You've been keeping very late hours, Herr Mozart.  I know
young men must have their fun.  Friedolin was just like that in his
younger days.  But don't  injure your health, now.  You have to guard
your talent."
     The thought of that poor old fart Friedolin Weber -- God rest his
soul -- as a rollicking youth startled him.  This whole conversation was
becoming like a dream.  His headache suddenly intensified.  If she
doesn't stop talking, I'm going to puke all over her, he thought.
     "I know, I know, " he said desperately.
     "Of course I wouldn't dream of interfering.  But I'm concerned. 
And Konstanze is concerned too."
     "Oh, I'm sorry."
     "She's a very sensitive girl, you know."
     "Yes, yes."
     "I haven't discouraged her friendship with you.  After all, you are
a man of honor."
     "Yes, of course."
     "I know I can rely on your high principles."      
     Oh God!  "Certainly."  God, please leave.
     "I hope everything's all right with your job."
     "Sure, sure."  So Konstanze may have talked to her already. 
"Excuse me, Frau Weber, but I have to go and lie down now."
     "Of course, please call if you need anything, and I'll send Katherl
up with it."   
     "Thanks," he said, taking the tray and closing the door.  He felt
better once he sat down on the bed.  He put lots of sugar and milk into
the coffee and took a few sips.  Then he suddenly felt nauseated,
grabbed the chamber pot and vomited into it, repeatedly.  The vomitus
was scaldingly hot in his throat.  Then he lay down on the bed, still a
little nauseated, but feeling relieved.   His head still spinning 
slightly, he sank gratefully into sleep.   
     When he awoke, the sun had move over across to the other wall. 
He got up, feeling better, and looked out the window at the court and the
windows opposite.  A beautiful day, for a change, what there was left of
it.  One thing -- he was free.  It might take some getting used to, but
there he was, a free man.  No more Salzburg.  And he sang, hoarsely, a
little ditty he had made up in Munich a few months back when he had
learned he was going to Vienna:
 
        "No mooore Salzburg..."

No more money, either.  He'd see how cordial dear Frau Weber was
when she found out he was unemployed.  Maybe she'd stop trying to
marry Konstanze off to him.
      Oh, God, how was he going to explain this to his father?  Maybe
he didn't have to explain things to fathers any more.  What an 
interesting thought.   Anyway, Papa wouldn't be surprised, that much 
was sure.
     He would have to struggle.  Every commission, every lesson, he'd
need every kreutzer he could get his hands on.  But he _was_ free.  It
was all up to him.   It was up to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Knight of
the Golden Spur, member of the Accademia Filarmonica di Bologna --
nobody else.  
     Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart -- best opera composer in the world! 
                      *** 
     "What's wrong, Father?  Why aren't you shooting?"  Nannerl
moved over to him, put down her air  rifle and squatted down beside
him.  The day was gray but warm, and the shooting meet in the meadow
at the base of the slopes of the Kapuzinerberg was crowded.   At first 
she hadn't noticed him sitting there by himself behind a knot of 
spectators.
     "Nannerl, I'm beaten."
     "What, Papa?  Do you mean about Wolferl?"
     "He won't apologize.  He says that Count Arco has to apologize
to him first."
     Nannerl laughed, her light cotton shawl shaking on her
shoulders.     
     He frowned.  "You may think it's amusing, I don't."
     "I'm sorry, Father, I was just picturing that big ape bowing and
scraping to my tiny little brother."
     "He isn't so tiny!"
     "But Papa, what can you do?  You can't keep on trying to live his
life."    Her father looked uncomfortable.
     "You know, Papa, we've talked about this," she said, taking his
hand.  "You can't hold on forever."
                      ***
     Leopold Mozart felt the hot tears forming.  "I'm just trying to
help.  Just to help him."  He looked into her blue eyes.  "You know, don't
you?"     
     "Sure, Papa."  She hugged him.  "Pick up a gun, Papa, and come
shoot!"   
     "No, I'm not in the mood."
     "Pick up a gun.  We've got Voltaire as a target today, you can get
it all out of your system."
     He stood up and followed her over to the haystacks which
marked the shooters' line.  Julius Hagenauer greeted him with a smile,
and his boy Heinz handed him an air rifle.  He looked at the target and
took aim.  The first shot missed.  
     "If Voltaire doesn't inspire you," said Julius, "pick someone
else."    
     He imagined a tall, pot-bellied man with a thin, wrinkled face --
dressed in a black cassock.  He took aim and fired.
     Bulls-eye!
     That night, after tossing and turning for an hour, he drifted into
a light sleep and dreamed of three white horses.  They were galloping in
place and snorting.  One of the white horses said to Leopold, "He's with
us."  Then the horses were clergymen, in black, and one was Cardinal
Pallavicini, wearing a bright yellow biretta.  Pallavicini looked at him
and then covered his head with his cloak and fell down in a heap,
disappearing into the clump of his clothing.
     He awoke and thought about the dream.  He thought about how
short life was.   About Wolfgang's talent.  He lit a candle and went
downstairs.  He leafed through his papers and pulled out one of
Wolfgang's recent letters.  He searched for one particular passage that
had stuck in his mind: 
    
...Arco asked me whether I didn't imagine that he too had had to swallow
some very disagreeable words from the Archbishop.  I shrugged my
shoulders and said: "You must have your reasons for putting up with it
-- and I have my reasons for not putting up with it."
 
He wondered whether he himself could have written those lines.  His
own father never could have, he would have been another Arco.  But his
father-in-law, old Max.  And his wife, Max's daughter, she had had some
of the fire, she wouldn't stand for being crossed when something was
really important to her.  Wolfgang was like her.  Lord, he missed
Marianne.  May she rest with the angels in heaven!
     His son had had such a hard time trying to discover who he was
-- and that was largely his, Leopold's fault.  He felt warmed by the
realization that Wolferl was apparently finding out something of who he
was -- he was someone who would finally, eventually stand up to the
high-ranking bullies of this world.     
     Who was young Arco to behave so arrogantly to a Mozart,
anyway?  Who was the Archbishop for that matter?  Why had he himself
had to knuckle under to them all these years?  Well, it was a price that
had to be paid -- but a high price.  And for a modest enough return --
"Deputy Music Director"!      
     In the morning, he sat down and wrote a letter to his son: 

     Salzburg, July 7, 1781

     Mon tres cher fils
          I have been thinking over the situation with the court      
     here.  I'd like very much to see a rapprochement between you
     and them.  But I recognize that it may not be possible any more.

He switched to the cipher they sometimes used to guard their privacy
from prying eyes in the Archbishop's postal service:

     The Archbishop doesn't like music and he doesn't understand
     music or musicians.  That's not his fault, but it makes him
     incompetent to judge people like you -- or me, for that matter.

Then, reverting to plaintext:

     Whatever happens, _I'll always back you_ in _whatever_ you
     decide you _truly_ want to do.

               Your sincere old father
               MZT

     P.S.  I hope you have made arrangements for new lodgings.  This
     is an important matter!
                      *** 
     It was late at night in Vienna, the heat of the day had abated
somewhat.  But it was still uncomfortable on the top floor of the Weber
house on Am Peter.   Shirtless, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart read the
letter from his father for what must have been the tenth time.  Then he
locked it away in his strongbox, humming Dolly Wendling's second-act
aria from "Idomeneo."
     Poor Papa and his anxious P.S.  His father was insisting on his
moving out of the Weber house -- it was not "respectable," since
Wolfgang had taken up with Konstanze.  Poor conventional Papa. 
Moving would an inconvenience -- but maybe it would be look better. 
If he wanted to write that new opera, he would have to watch his image
with the Hofburg.
                      *** 
     "Mozart!  We're glad you were able to join us tonight.  I hear
you've been very busy on your opera."
     "Yes, Herr Baron, I have been."  He had decided to come to
Baron van Swieten's soiree, despite the pressure he felt to finish the
opera, because van Swieten's parties attracted the elite of the Vienna
musical world.  The Baron's father must have made a good thing out of
being the Kaiserin Maria Theresa's physician, he thought, looking
around at the large paintings in their gilded frames and the immense
library of books in expensive bindings.      
     Baron van Swieten looked at him kindly out of his small gray
eyes.  "When shall we have the pleasure of seeing this -- what is the 
title again?"
     "'The Abduction from the Seraglio,' Herr Baron.  In December,
I hope."  
     "Well, we'll have to see about that," broke in Count Rosenberg. 
     He shook hands with the Count, thin and elegant, but looking
sickly, dressed all in black.  "Yes, Baron, the Count has been in charge
of the production for the Emperor, so you really should ask him."
     "You know, Swieten, we have a long season this year.  Herr
Mozart's opera will not be the only one in the vernacular, the Chevalier
de Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris' will also be given in German. 
Scheduling may be difficult."      
     "You have Fischer, I hear, for your baritone," said van Swieten.      
     "You know, his voice is so impressive that I'm busy getting the
villainous but lovable Osmin's part enlarged for him." 
     "I wish you success," said van Swieten.
     "Thank you, Herr Baron.  Since I've left the Archbishop's service,
I can't afford anything but success!"
     Van Swieten smiled and shrugged.  Rosenberg looked down at
his fingers, idly spreading them in and out.
     Wolfgang heard the piano being played in the next room.  He
excused himself and walked through the doorway, found a chair in the
corner, and sat down to listen.  It was a piece he had never heard before
-- and different from anything he knew.  When it was finished, the music
stopped and a buzz of congratulations started up.  He could hear the
phrase, "...second time I've played it."  The knot of people around the
piano parted as Wolfgang walked up.   "Herr Haydn," he said, "we've
met before, this spring at Prince Galitzin's, I believe."
     Haydn's broad, grave face, looking something like his brother
Michael's, was smiling.  "Herr Mozart!  I know your wonderful music
much better than I do you."  
     He felt the blood rush to his cheeks.  "I'm extremely
complimented.  And I was bowled over by the piece you just played."
     "You are too gracious, Herr Mozart."
     Rosenberg was whispering something to Salieri.  The short, dark,
Mediterranean- looking Court Composer and Director of the Opera was
frowning as he bent over to listen to the Count.  Wolfgang could hear "...
never says that... two of them..."  Then Salieri whispered something
back that he could not hear.  
     "Play us something from your new opera," said van Swieten.  Haydn 
said, "Please!"
     He sat down and played the first act aria of Osmin's, "Solche
hergelaufne Laffen."  As he played, he tried to give some impression of
the vocal line with his true but small baritone voice.  Then he played the
tenor Belmonte's second aria, about separation and reunion from his
sweetheart, the Christian slave Constanze:

     O wie aengstlich, o wie feurig
     Klopft mein liebevolles Herz!
     Und des Wiedersehens Zaehre
     Lohnt der Trennung bangen Schmerz

After he finished, he felt an arm around his shoulder.  He looked up
from the keyboard.  It was Haydn.  He stood up, squeezing Haydn's arms
with his hands.   Glancing across the room, he saw the Kaiser's youngest
brother, Archduke Maximilian, smiling and clapping.  Then he noticed
Hofkomponist Salieri, one elbow propped up by the other hand, looking
at them, frowning.  
     Let his enemies glower.  They could only touch him when and
where he didn't know who he was.  And tonight he had discovered one
more thing that he knew himself to be: a friend of Franz Joseph Haydn.

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


                     ANGER

                 by Otho Eskin

(Note: This is scene 4 from the full-length play "Act of God")


Cast of Characters

JOHN                An unemployed actor   weak, shallow
                    and self-absorbed.

SATAN

Dr. CHILDRESS       A psychiatrist   bordering on the
                    seriously deranged.


                     Scene

The action takes place in the living room of John's apartment.

                      Time

The time is the present.
===================================


AT RISE:  JOHN is on stage   alone.



                      JOHN
I can't have seen what I thought I saw here last night.  I called Todd's
house this morning but he was out. Jennifer said he was behaving
strangely. He has cancelled his membership in the Sierra Club and was
down at the local newsstand reading Guns and Ammo. Maybe we're all
going crazy. I mean, what else could it be?  I think I need professional
help.

          (The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the
          front door. Dr. CHILDRESS is at the
          door, dressed in a tweed sports jacket.)

                      JOHN
Thank you for coming, Dr. Childress.  I know this is a big imposition
coming to my home like this...

                   CHILDRESS
This had better be important. What's the problem, John?
                        
                      JOHN
I may be having a nervous breakdown, Doctor.

                   CHILDRESS
I'll do the diagnosis, if you don't mind. God, it's hot in here.
(CHILDRESS loosens his tie.) What are your symptoms?

                      JOHN
I keep seeing the Devil here in my apartment.


                   CHILDRESS
Very common syndrome. Happens all the time.

          (CHILDRESS takes a cigarette from a
          pack, lights up and takes a deep drag.)

                      JOHN
Is it serious, Doctor? 

                   CHILDRESS
Not if treated promptly. This is just a delusion caused by unresolved
guilt.

          (SATAN enters from the kitchen.  HE
          wears a tweed sports jacket and a red tie.) 

                      JOHN
Look! There he is now. See for yourself.

          (Dr. CHILDRESS shows signs of being
          uncomfortable.)

                   CHILDRESS
Don't try and involve me in your personal delusional system, John.

                      JOHN
Talk with him. Tell me if I'm crazy.

                   CHILDRESS
I don't want to talk with him.

                     SATAN
You seem nervous, Dr. Childress.

                   CHILDRESS
                   (Agitated)
Who said that?

                     SATAN
No need to be tense.

                   CHILDRESS
Who says I'm tense? I'm not tense.  (To JOHN) Do I look tense?

          (SATAN holds out his hand to
          CHILDRESS.  CHILDRESS recoils.)
                    
                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Please! This is a private consultation.
          
                     SATAN
How do you do, Doctor. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been looking
forward to this for a long time.

                      JOHN
                 (To CHILDRESS)
Isn't there some kind of pill you could prescribe that would make all 
this go away?

                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
Who are you?

                     SATAN
I'm a great admirer of yours. Your work has been an inspiration to me.

                   CHILDRESS
Are you a psychoanalyst?

                     SATAN
I was a colleague of Dr. Freud in Vienna and I've been able to apply
many of his insights to my line of work.

                      JOHN
Please tell me I'm imagining all this.

                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
I don't have time to talk.  I'm here on an emergency. Normally I don't
make house calls.

                     SATAN
Normally, I don't either. 

                   CHILDRESS
              (Looks at his watch)
Hour's up, John. Call my secretary and make an appointment for next
week.

                     SATAN
Don't go, Doctor.  We should get to know one another better.

                   CHILDRESS
What are you?

                     SATAN
I am Satan.

          (CHILDRESS is profoundly agitated.)

                     SATAN
It's all right.  I'm not violent.

                      JOHN
What's your diagnosis now, Doctor?

          (CHILDRESS tries to get himself under
          control. He lights a cigarette.)

                   CHILDRESS
How long have you believed you're the Devil?

                     SATAN
Since the beginning of time.  

                   CHILDRESS
You have a very serious problem.

                     SATAN
Now you mention it, I do have this feeling nobody likes me.  I haven't
got any real friends   nobody I can relate to. Do you think it's
something about me?

                      JOHN
This is all very well and good...


                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
You suffer from a borderline personality disorder with depressive
features.

                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Would you mind not having your analysis done on my time.

                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
I'm certain your problems have their origin in your relationship with
your father.

                     SATAN
How do you know?

                   CHILDRESS
They always do.

                     SATAN
Maybe you've got a point.  My father's a great guy   don't get me wrong
  but he's kind of remote. Keeps to himself, if you know what I mean.
And he's very demanding and strict. You wouldn't believe the rules he
has. Clean up your room. No TV on school nights. Don't covet thy
neighbor's wife. And if you stray out of line   pow! I must tell you, He's
into wrath.

                      JOHN
                 (To CHILDRESS)
I thought you came to help with my problems.

                   CHILDRESS
           (To SATAN, ignoring JOHN)
You rebelled against him?

                     SATAN
He's kind of an authority figure and he's got this 'holier-than-thou'
attitude which really bugged me. I was young and headstrong and he
caught me trying to hot-wire the universe. I was grounded for eternity. 

                   CHILDRESS
How did that make you feel?

                     SATAN
I was angry.  He threw me out of heaven.  I was hurled headlong flaming
from the ethereal sky with hideous ruin and combustion down to
bottomless perdition, there to dwell in adamantine chains and penal fire
in a dungeon horrible, a seat of desolation, void of light but rather
darkness visible serving only to discover sights of woe, regions of
sorrow, doleful shades, where peace and rest can never dwell, hope
never comes.  Wouldn't you be pissed?

                      JOHN
Look, guys, I hate to interrupt...

                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
How have your relations with your father been recently?

                     SATAN
We stay in touch but we're not close.

                   CHILDRESS
                   (To SATAN)
Don't let pride stand in your way.  Reach out to your father.  You'll be
sorry when he goes and it's too late.

                     SATAN
Fat chance.

                   CHILDRESS
You need help.  I'd recommend drug treatment such as Nardil or Elavil.
But you're going to need psychotherapy as well, although that would
take time.

                     SATAN
I have forever. Do you think that would be long enough?

                   CHILDRESS
              (Reflects a moment)
Probably not.

                      JOHN
Can we get back to my problem?  Not only am I having hallucinations,
I'm getting the feeling no one's paying any attention to me.

                     SATAN
                 (To CHILDRESS)
Would you be prepared to undertake my therapy, Doctor?

                   CHILDRESS
Certainly not. You're sick.  I only treat well people. 

                      JOHN
Time out!  Dr. Childress, I asked you here because I think I'm losing
control of my life.  Instead of helping me, you're making me a nervous
wreck.

                   CHILDRESS
Nobody ever said psychotherapy was easy.

          (CHILDRESS lights a new cigarette.)

                     SATAN
How long have you been chain smoking, Doctor?

                   CHILDRESS
It's none of your business.

                     SATAN
Do you think we might be on to some pre-Oedipal trauma here?

                   CHILDRESS
Fuck you too, buddy.

                     SATAN
You're kind of hostile for a healer, aren't you?

                   CHILDRESS
You'd be hostile too if you spent all your time talking with fruitcakes
and weirdos. 

          (CHILDRESS paces the floor nervously.)

                     SATAN
Why don't you relax, Doctor?

                   CHILDRESS
What are you saying?  That I'm not relaxed? Of course I'm relaxed. I'm
as relaxed as you are. More relaxed. I hate it when people say "Relax."
I hate that.

          (SATAN starts to lead CHILDRESS to a
          chair.)

                   CHILDRESS
Don't touch me! I can't stand it when people touch me.

                     SATAN
I can help you, Doctor. I've had a lot of experience dealing with troubled
people.

                   CHILDRESS
I don't need help.  Least of all from you.

                      JOHN
What's going on here? Dr. Childress, I think you're just as crazy as I am.

                   CHILDRESS
I'll be the judge of that.

                     SATAN
You know what your problem is, Doctor? You don't believe in anything.

                   CHILDRESS
You're a real prick. Anybody ever tell you that?

                     SATAN
Frequently. You were upset when you first saw me. Was there
something you dared not face?

                   CHILDRESS
That's ridiculous.

                     SATAN
What came into your mind when you first saw me?

                   CHILDRESS
I'm not going to play mind games with you.

                     SATAN
What did you think of when you met me?

                   CHILDRESS
Malcolm Crosby.

                     SATAN
Tell me about Malcolm, Doctor.

          (CHILDRESS is in obvious discomfort
          and says nothing.)

                     SATAN
As I recall, Malcolm murdered five people and buried their bodies in his
basement.

                   CHILDRESS
I don't want to talk about it.

                     SATAN
You were a key witness for the defense at his trial. You diagnosed
Malcolm as a paranoid-schizophrenic.  Your testimony resulted in a
verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity.

                   CHILDRESS
I may get really and truly sick all over the rug.

                     SATAN
You made a compelling argument that Malcolm was not responsible for
his actions.  His crime was, you said, a cry for help.

                   CHILDRESS
  (Pushing his hands tightly against his ears)
I won't listen! I won't! I won't!

                     SATAN
You deny the existence of personal responsibility.  For you, therapy is
the new morality, behavior modification is grace and drugs the holy
sacrament. But when you saw me, you finally understood.  You knew
that Malcolm belonged to me.  

                   CHILDRESS
No.

                     SATAN
You remembered your doubts and questions and fears you suppressed
every time you met one of those monsters. Now you know. You have
finally come to understand.

                   CHILDRESS
Then you really are...? 

                     SATAN
Prince Lucifer.

                      JOHN
This isn't helping me at all.

                     SATAN
Please, John, we're at a very critical stage in the treatment.

                   CHILDRESS
I think my brain just crashed.

                     SATAN
Why are you so upset, Doctor?

                   CHILDRESS
For one thing, thanks to you, I've got a whole new complex I've got to
work through. I want my psychiatrist.

                     SATAN
It's too late for that now.  Not after you have met me face to face. Tell
me about Malcolm.

                   CHILDRESS
He was evil.

                     SATAN
Very good.  Now you begin to understand. There are bad people in the
world, no matter how much you deny it.

                   CHILDRESS
You're telling me everything I believe in is a lie?  Everything I've done
is a fraud?

                     SATAN
Try to be calm.  I think we may be on the verge of an important
breakthrough in dealing with your problems.  I'm sure that together we
can work this through.

                   CHILDRESS
You've trashed my profession, made a mockery of my beliefs and, not
incidentally, given me a new neurosis I don't even know the name of. 
Eleven years of analysis down the drain.  And you want me to be calm?
I'm leaving.

          (CHILDRESS stands up.)

                      JOHN
Wait a minute.  You haven't helped me at all.

                   CHILDRESS
Tough luck, buddy.  

          (CHILDRESS moves toward the door.)

                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Are you going to just let him go? Won't he do?

                     SATAN
Do for what, John?

                      JOHN
Can't we work out a deal on Childress here? I'm sure nobody would miss
him.

                     SATAN
Is that what you want? For me to take him? Tell me.

                      JOHN
                   (Eagerly)
Yes! Yes! That's what I want.

          (CHILDRESS, close to panic, bolts for
          the door.)

                   CHILDRESS
You're both crazy. Everybody in this city is crazy. The world is wacko!

          (CHILDRESS exits, slamming the door.)

                      JOHN
What about him? We could have made a deal for his soul.

                     SATAN
We can do better than Dr. Childress.  Much better.






                    BLACKOUT
=========================================
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