textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0401.txt

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                 FICTION-ONLINE

         An Internet Literary Magazine
               Volume 4, Number 1
             January-February, 1997



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.
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                    ngwazi@clark.net  
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                    ftp.etext.org  
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.  They are also
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in the directory /Zines/ASCII/Fiction-Online.
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                              William Ramsay, Editor
                                             
=================================================


                    CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     "Earth," a poem   
          Diana Munson

     "Love Story," a short story
          Arlene Ang

     "Triumph," concluding excerpt (chapter 17, part 2) from
               the novel "In Search of  Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "Sloth," a scene (#5) from the play, "Act of God"
          Otho Eskin

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                  CONTRIBUTORS


ARLENE ANG is a writer and poet.  She lives in Manila, has a
German Shepherd named Ginger, and is currently studying Italian.

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.

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

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems.  He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.  "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.

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                     EARTH

                by Diana Munson


Soft clay I've churned,
kneaded and turned on wheel
under pain of strained palms,
into cooking pots and angels.

Apprenticed to stone carvers
I've studied, too, Sig. M. Buonarroti's spirits,
how to destroy first
in order to create;
learned to appreciate 
chisel, mallet, hydraulic drill
as I registered dates of death, and 
experienced the chill
of absolute hardness.

The loan in my garden of desire
once flowered too,
but is now dust.

Earth I have known,
but none lasts well
-- clay, stone, or loan,
soft, hard, or fertile --
before the Wind that blasts 
us all, born as we are,
on to infinity.
==========================================


                    LOVE STORY

                   by Arlene Ang


At first, it amused me.  She talked dirty.  
But after a year,  it didn't seem so amusing any more.
Many times, when she lay sleeping in my arms, I got the urge to shake
her.  And once or twice, I did.  
`Hey, fuck off!' she muttered, turning to her side.  
She knew what I wanted.  Why won't she say it then?  Is it so hard to
do?
Every morning I'd nagged her - almost like my mother used to do. 
She was turning me into my mother....  Good grief.
I swear that woman was driving me crazy.  

Every morning when we sat down for breakfast, I watched her.  She
liked to cook.  Said it relaxed her... prepared her for the day. 
Sometimes it was an omelette or flapjacks, other times she just made
a salad.  Nice bum.  I couldn't help watching while she moved about
the kitchen.  
I guess I'd get that funny look in my eyes.  And, as always, in that
unnerving way of hers, she would catch me with it.
`Don't start again, Daniel.'  
I would hide behind the coffee mug, mumbling my innocence,
`What?!!'
She gave me a wry look.
`But do you love me, Vera?'  I asked, setting down the mug.
`What do you think, shithead?'
With her hands on her hips, she didn't look very loving.  `It's hard to
say.'
`Oh, screw you.  I'm damn hell sick of this game!  Every morning the
same question.  What is this now - a fucking obsession??'
Well, she certainly took the words right out of my mouth.  And I
never even realized it until then.
It began as a game, I suppose.  A challenge.  I have to admit it
wounded my ego.  It still does in a way.  But after a while, it just
continued to gnaw at me.  Why won't she say those three little words
like a normal girl?  She didn't even want to discuss it.
I found myself dwelling on this more often - in the office, at lunch
hour, the moment I stepped in or out of the apartment.  I was even
keeping me awake at night.
I just didn't get it.
But as a man of action, I devised a plan.  I would make her spit it out
even if it's the last thing I ever do.  

Vera worked in an advertising agency.  Flanked with people day in
and day out.  It was always a full and stressful schedule.  No time to
relax or enjoy the work.  Compared to her, I had it pretty good.  I
liked my accountancy job.
So, one day I sent her a large basket of roses.  Women like that sort of
stuff, but I never got around to giving her any.  Thought it was a nice
gesture from my part.  Sweetening up the kill.   
She returned home from work that day -- furious.  It was really
incredible.   
`What you did today,' she said through clenched teeth, `was fucking
embarrassing.  If you do anything like that again, I'll kill you.'
`You didn't even bring home them home,' I said, disappointed to the
point to annoyance.  `Do you know how much they cost me?'
`Daniel, go screw yourself.'  
She strode into the bedroom and locked the door.  I had to sleep on
the couch for the night.  
Back to square one, I thought.  Maybe even negative one.  
But I still had more tricks up my sleeve.

As peace offering, I made dinner the next night.  It was something of
a disaster - I was never much of a cook.  But I was flattered.  She ate
everything... chewing the tasteless morsels in a thoughtful manner
while watching me.  
It was encouraging.  So, since then I made supper for both of us.  I
even bought a some cookbooks on sale.  I thought I was making
progress.  It was becoming rather fun even. 
`Why do have to cook every night?' she asked me one time.
`So you can relax, darling.  I know you're tired from work and
everything,' I replied absent-mindedly, stirring the broth.  The chicken
and vegetables seemed to be coagulating.    
`So, what shall we do tonight?' I grinned at her devilishly when she
remained silent.
`I think I'll sleep early.  I'm dead tired... as always.'  

A week after I gave her this silver brooch which I knew she wanted.  
`That was 10 years ago, moron,' she smiled, shaking her head.  
`Well, now you have it,' I smiled back.  
She shrugged.  `Thanks.'    
`Still sleeping early tonight?' I asked, tugging her dark hair.
`Yeah.  I think I'm coming down with something,' she sighed, turning
off the her bedside lamp.  `Night, Danny.'
`Night, honey.'  How disappointing.  Well, there were still other
nights around the corner.   

And then it was a poem.  I'm not really good with words, but I think
what I've written was pretty good. She looked at me strangely after
that, but remained silent.  She must have been deeply touched.  Were
those tears in her eyes??  
`Hey... why so sad?'  I touched the side of her face.
`It's just this headache.  Don't worry about it.  Think I'll make an early
night of it again.'  She pecked me on the cheek.  `Thanks, Danny.  It
was really... nice.  Let's go out and do something tomorrow night, ok?' 

I was making progress, after all.  At any rate, I seemed to be curing
her of those obscenities. 

She came home late the night after.
`Daniel,' she called from the hallway, `there's something I've been
wanting to tell you.'
I emerged from the bedroom - this was as I had anticipated.
We entered the kitchen in silence.   She leaned against me on the
counter.
Looking down on her at that moment, I knew I've caught the beast. 
She touched my cheek gently, `You know I love you, don't you?'
Finally, there it was.  What a triumph.  I bent down for a soul-kiss....
She pushed me away.  `I didn't mean it that way.'
`Hmm?' 
`That was not what I meant.  I love you....'
Ah, another one!  She was getting better with practice.  She was really
spoiling me.
`I'm leaving.'
`Hmm?  Where are you going now?'  It must be that damned work of
hers again.  
`No, you don't get it.  I'M LEAVING YOU.'
`What?!!' I backed off.  I didn't get it.
`You've just become impossible to live with these past few weeks,
that's all.'
`Impossible?'
`I don't know what the fuck's gotten into you.  You're suffocating me!'
`Suffocating you?' What can I say, I was shocked.  I could only echo
her words.
`Yes, you moron!  In every little thing I do you're right there... waiting
to stop me!  If you could brush my teeth, I believe you would have
done it, too.  I'm just sick of this sick game, that's all,' she jabbed
angrily.  `I'll pack my stuff.'
I followed her to the bedroom.  
It was really fantastic.  Her words finally sank in as I watched her
empty the drawers one by one.  What a bitch.
`Hey,' I said, putting wrapping my arms around her waist.  `What
about one last fast-fuck?  It's been quite a long time....'
`Fuck you,' she said struggling against me - then stopped.  `Leave me
alone, Daniel.  It's over.  Someone's picking me up in an hour.'
`C'mon, just a quick one,' I continued, `you bitch.'  It was becoming a
turn-on. `You did say you love me, didn't you?'
`You motherfucker!  I said let go of me!' she broke off when I tossed
her onto the bed.  

Well, some guy did come an hour or two later.  So, it was officially
over even then.  
Bitch.  Saying she loved me and then pressing charges....

Since then I've been doing some thinking in prison.  I guess those
three little words don't mean that much, after all, do they?  
==========================================  

        
                    TRIUMPH
                 by William Ramsay

[Note: This is an excerpt, part two of chapter 17, the final chapter of
the novel "In Search of Mozart"]
 
 
  It had been a cold winter, and the warm yellow-orange flames
filled the fireplaces in all the salons in the east wing of the Hofburg. 
What a waste, he thought, as he strode through the corridors.  The
Emperor should be setting an example.  He was asking his nobles to
make some sacrifices, it would cost them large sums of money to free
their serfs.  He should try to do more about the money wasted by the
hangers-on around the palace.
  He hurried down the long corridor, past portraits of his
ancestors -- dark, grim faces.  Count Harnack scurried along by his
side, his short legs pumping fast to keep up. 
  Count Rosenberg, a black scarecrow, stood in their path.  "If I
might, Your Majesty?"
  "Well, just for a minute, Count, I'm busy.  I have a stack of
police reports to go through."  Rosenberg blanched still whiter than
normal -- Lord, thought Joseph, is he wondering if he's in the reports? 
What has he been up to?  If I find out he's been keeping a whore
somewhere, I'm going to have his hair cut off and send him out to
sweep the streets -- like all the other fornicators!
  "Your Imperial Majesty, about the timing of the operas."
  "Yes, yes."  He tapped his foot impatiently.
  "I suggest we schedule the remaining Gluck performances
next and have the Mozart last.  I also would like at some time to
discuss with Your Majesty Court Composer Salieri's ideas for his own
opera."
  "Why so many Gluck pieces in a row?  Oh, that reminds me,
there's something I did want to speak to you about."  He turned to his
aide. "Harnack," he said, motioning, and Harnack and the other aides
and servants withdrew down the hall, leaving him alone with
Rosenberg.
  "Count, you know Gluck has had two strokes, and the Lord
only knows how long he's got to live.  I was thinking, when my dear
old friend goes, maybe we should offer his Chamber Composer post
to Mozart."
  "Mozart, Your Majesty?"
  "Yes, Mozart.  I know, I know.  I've never been such an
advocate of his.  But the Archduke Maximilian and Herr Haydn tell
me he's a national treasure, and all that.  And I must say I was
impressed how well he did in that little piano contest we just had
between him and Clementi."
  "I don't know, Your Majesty."
  "It's not a big post, you know.  But it would be something to
keep him here in Vienna."
  "If Your Majesty wishes, of course."
  "No, not 'of course'," he said, waggling his finger, "I want your
advice.  Ask Salieri too."
  "I think I know what the Court Composer's opinion will be,
Sire.  "Count Rosenberg!  Please listen to me and understand me.  I
want you and Salieri to consider this carefully, together, and give me
your well-reasoned opinion.  Get back to me on this, Count!" 
Rosenberg bowed low.  He waved him away and hurried, Harnack
trailing behind him, down to his official study.  He sat down at the
small rosewood table in the small mahogany-paneled room and had
the door closed.
  "Here are the reports, Your Majesty.  You might be interested
in reading this one first," said Count Harnack, smiling oddly.
  Joseph picked up the pages, detached the pin holding them
together, and read the first page:

       In accordance with the Imperial instructions, a
  surveillance has been carried out on several persons believed
  to be agents of foreign powers.  On the night of January 6, the
  house known as "Am Auge Gottes" on Am Peter was watched
  by a team of two Imperial agents, on advice received from
  confidential sources.  The  house is located in a busy section
  of Vienna, but nothing untoward was noticed during the early
  evening.  However, at half-past twelve in the early morning, 
  when the street was dark and empty, a person was seen
  emerging from an upper-story window.  The person, acting
  without hesitation, grasped a drainpipe passing close by the
  window and pulled himself over to it, then slid gracefully
  down to the street.

"Gracefully"! he thought.  Policemen as poets!

  Our agents moved to apprehend him.  He attempted to escape,
  but our agents caught him before he had gone ten feet.  The
  person was somewhat hindered in his flight by the fact that he
  was carrying his shoes tied by a cord around his neck and his
  breeches knotted about his waist.  Our agents started to
  question him.  He asked first for a chance to put on his
  clothes.  The agents proceeded to question him while he was
  donning his breeches.  He said that his name was Mozart,
  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and that he was a musician.  He
  offered to prove that to the agents by playing a violin or other
  instrument.  However, there was no instrument available for
  this test.  He said that he used to live in the house, and that he
  was visiting a friend there.  Just then, a head was extended
  from the window, and a loud female voice cried, "Herr
  Mozart, is that you? Herr Mozart!"  The man then tried again
  to escape.  On being prevented, he begged the agents to take
  him away with them.  However, they declined and continued
  the questioning.  While they were talking with him, the door
  to the house opened, and a middle-aged lady appeared,
  carrying a long object, perhaps a broom.  Our agents, having
  satisfied themselves by the fact of his small stature and fair
  complexion that he was not the person they were watching
  for, withdrew at this point in order to prevent compromising
  their investigation.  Herr Mozart was observed to shrug his
  shoulders.  He then walked slowly back to the house, where he
  said a word to the woman and went inside.    
  For the sake of completeness, we are checking on whether
  Herr Mozart is indeed a musician and a friend of the Webers.
  The surveillance will continue in an attempt to intercept the
  suspected Bavarian agent Braun if he should try to meet his
  known Vienna contact, Fraeulein Josefa Weber.

  How absurd and disgusting!  He put down the paper and
frowned.    
  "Regrettable, Your Majesty," said Harnack.
  He took a pinch of snuff.  "People who should be concerned
with the higher things in life, and look at what happens.  Well, it's just
as Salieri warned me about Mozart. Disgusting.  Don't mention his
name to me again."    
  Harnack bowed and handed him another report.  What more
was he going to find out about what he didn't know -- and maybe
didn't want to find out?  He sneezed and rubbed his nose with a
handkerchief.  He dropped the handkerchief on the floor.  A
periwigged servant handed him a new one, another servant picked the
brown-stained one up off the floor and handed it to a third, who ran
quickly out of the room.
  Joseph sighed.  A lonely, lonely life -- overburdened with
responsibilities.  And no children.  He often tried to remember his
own childhood -- but very little came back to him.  Now he did
remember the "musician's brat."  Disgusting, disgusting!
                      ***
  Wolfgang put down the score for the "Ich moechte doch der
Kaiser sein" aria.  He looked at the bottle of wine on his writing desk
but decided he had had enough. 
  This opera would be the most modern piece ever seen in a
theater.  If the production went successfully, he would be independent
even of the Emperor.  And even if that damned Karl Arco had been
right about the fickleness of the Viennese, it didn't matter, there were
always other cities in the Empire, Prague and Pressburg, Milan -- not
to mention in the rest of Europe, Paris, London, even St. Petersburg. 
Sooner or later, the rest of the world would see what people like
Joseph Haydn saw in his work.
  And now he could risk having a woman of his own.  He would
take the final step to having what other people have -- a wife and
family.
                      ***
  The Emperor heard them talking.
  "His father won't approve, I'm sure, it's not a brilliant marriage
for him," said the stranger.
  "Parents rarely do, in my experience," said von Strack.  "For
instance...oh, Your Majesty!"
  Von Strack bowed low as Joseph came around the corner from
his hideaway entrance to the library.  The other person, a lean dark
man dressed in plain brown stuff, bowed very low and backed away
quickly and then hurried out of sight around the next corner into the
long corridor beyond.  Outside, the gloriette on the hill was bathed in
the late morning light.    
  "Hello, Strack, who was that you were talking with?"
  "If it please Your Majesty, one of my oldest friends, Joseph
Leutgeb, a cheese merchant here in Vienna."  Von Strack smiled with
a self-possessed grin.   Joseph thought that his valet was the one who
looked like a cheese merchant ought to look, blonde, beefy and
solid-looking.   
  "And whose marriage are they talking about?"
  "Young Mozart's.  Leutgeb is a great friend of his family.  The
old man Mozart helped Leutgeb get started in business here."
  "Oh, so Mozart's getting married?  To whom, do I know the
girl?"      
  Von Strack scratched his head.  Then he rearranged his wig. 
"I don't know,  Your Majesty, her name is Konstanze Weber."
  "Well, I do know _of_ her.  I certainly do."  He thought a
moment.  "I'm very glad to learn of this."
  He thought von Strack looked puzzled.  Well, let him puzzle,
he knew much too much already.  Valets were always snoops.
  It's nice to see young people married, isn't it, Strack?"   
  "Yes, Your Majesty, indeed it is.  Why, I remember myself
when I was getting ready..."
  "Do you remember the day I married the Princess Isabella,
back in '63?"    
  "Yes, indeed I do, Your Majesty.  It's lonely, sometimes."  
  "Your Majesty has his family."  Von Strack looked concerned.     
  "Yes, my brothers and sisters and their children, yes.  And my work. 
Now that I've promulgated the decree of religious toleration, and
abolished the Leibeigenschaft in Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia, I
feel I've made a good start."
  "Yes, Your Majesty."
  He sat down and motioned von Strack to stand next to
him."Tell me, Strack, what are the people you know, like Leutgeb, for
instance, saying about my measures, do you know?"
  His valet made a face, squeezing his broad cheeks up and
pouting his lips.  "Well, I don't know about religious toleration, most
people are good Catholics and they don't like Protestants or Jews. 
And I myself don't know about freeing the serfs in Bohemia, because
I'm from the Tyrol, where we've never had that kind of thing.  But I
know people think that Your Majesty means to do right by them."
  "Oh," he said.
  "And Your Majesty has closed the monasteries and gotten rid
of those lazy monks, that's one thing most people will like."
  "That wasn't exactly my intention...  Well, anyway."  He took
out his snuffbox and fondled it.
  Von Strack furrowed his brow.  "Your Majesty has many
worries.  He should rest more."
  "There isn't time.  No time, Strack.  Life is too short."  He put
his hands on his hips.  "You know, ever since I can remember, I've
known that my business in life would be to rule people.  Think of
that, always knowing that you would be different from other people. 
It's not a life like everyone else's."    
  "Ah well, Sire."
  "I know, as Christians, we should be thinking not of this life
and its difficulties, but of the next world.  But I hope I've tried my
best to do my duty in this earthly life."
  "I'm sure you have, Your Majesty."
  "Sometimes one has to be alone to accomplish one's work,
Strack.  Some occupations are lonely.  Rulers, artists, we must all be
alone.  But still, I wish that Isabella had been spared to me."
  "And your second Empress, too, taken away like that."  Von
Strack bowed slightly.
  "Yes, of course.  Her."  That woman! 
  He looked at the seal of Parma on the snuffbox, remembering
his beloved Italian princess.  "Sometimes one has to be alone.  But
people who are not alone are lucky.  Like you, Strack."
  "Thank you, Your Majesty, Frau von Strack and I have been
very grateful to Your Majesty for all your kindness to us."
  "Aside from my affection for you Strack, I want to encourage
Christian marriage."
  Von Strack stood attentive, not saying anything.
  "All right, Strack, you may go.  Thank you for listening to
me."   "Your Majesty is too kind," von Strack said, bowing and
turning to go.   
  "Oh, Strack, one thing."
  "Yes, Sire."
  "The next time you see your cheese merchant friend, tell him
he may mention to Herr Mozart that even if his father doesn't approve
of his marriage, the Emperor does."
  "Gladly, Your Majesty."  He bowed again and left.
  In this very room, young Mozart had dared to sit on his
mother's lap.  He remembered how he had resented it.  Why?  Any
little boy might want to do that - - especially a little boy that didn't see
his mother much, one that didn't have many friends.  His mother the
Empress had had a nice, comfortable lap.  He walked to the window
and looked out on the gloriette that his mother had built.  The
noontime shadows were harsh, hiding the details of the colonnaded
portico.  The sun's gleam on the waters of the fountain were too bright
to look at, and he turned away.
                      ***
  The tall, beautiful slave girl Constanze said, in a sweet,
thrilling soprano voice, "Then forgive me!"  Her graceful figure,
dressed in a long tunic and a small, chic turban, turned away from the
husky figure of the Pasha and faced the audience again.  She waited,
standing in front of the star-decorated facade of the seraglio, turning
her face to look directly at him in his seat in the Imperial box. 
Hundreds of candles gleamed in the sconces around the walls of the
Burgtheater.
  The oboe began alone.  The soprano opened her mouth and a
bright sweet voice cut into the silence:

  Ah, I loved and was so happy...

The strings and the rest of the woodwinds began to come in.  To the
Emperor,  Mozart's hands, moving against the glare from the
footlights, were the only constant factor, steadily marking out the
rhythm.

  I knew nothing of the pain of love
  I swore faithfulness to my beloved
  And I gave him my heart.

The music shifted, became stormier:

  But how quickly my joy vanished
  Separation was my dreadful fate
  And now my eyes swim with tears
  Care dwells in my breast.

  The last note tore into Joseph's soul.  He repressed a gasp. 
Isabella,  Isabella.
  The applause welled up, was sustained, and then began to die
away.  Then the hisses began and grew louder and louder.  Joseph put
his hands to his ears.  He looked around and saw where the claque
was, in the right middle seats.  He recognized one of the musical
copyists from the Court staff.  A few "bravo's" were heard.  He
motioned to Harnack, mouthing a word, and the Baron said, 
tentatively, "Bravo."  He motioned 'up' with his hand, and Harnack
said, more loudly, "_Bravo_."  His brother Maximilian and Baron van
Swieten joined in.  The Burgtheater walls echoed back the mixed
clamor of hisses, applause, and "bravos."
  A voice from the stage: "Ungrateful!" said the Pasha.
  "I knew that you would hate me...," began the soprano,
Constanze.
  The singers tried to continue the dialog on the stage, but it was
almost impossible to hear what they were saying.  Finally Mozart
motioned "stop" with his hands, and then the oboe lead-in was heard
again.  The hisses began immediately, but not as loud, as the aria was
repeated, and they were drowned out by the applause when the
soprano finished singing the last word, "breassst."
  After a long minute, the noise died down and the opera
peacefully resumed with more spoken dialog.  Then a trio with the
Pasha's steward, the hero, and Pedrillo, his faithful right-hand man,
was applauded -- and hissed.  The applause continued, louder.  The
short, slight figure of Mozart stopped again and motioned and the trio
was repeated.  And then the curtain came down on the first act.  More
applause, more bravos.  And more hisses.
  How ugly the hisses sounded! thought the Emperor.  Like
angry geese.  The opera.  He had never seen anything like it.  He was
numb.  So complex, so many melodic lines, too many, perhaps.  He
looked around.  Swieten looked at him inquiringly. 
  "Remarkable, don't you think, Your Majesty."
  "Yes," he said.  He thought a moment.  "Salieri."
Harnack leaned over the seats to those in back of him and said loudly, 
"Salieri!"  The dark, dour Italian jumped up and came quickly over.                                                            
  "Your Imperial Majesty?"
  "Herr Hofkomponist, the noise of the hissing disturbs my
ears."      
  Salieri's face fell.  "Yes, Your Majesty, but what can I do
about it, with all respect..."
  "See what you can do, there's a good fellow.  You're very
influential."  Salieri's face became more composed.
  "Yes, your Majesty, of course."  He went off toward the group
in the right middle seats.
  He took out the snuffbox with the Parma coat of arms on it. 
He rubbed it.   "Harnack."
  "Yes, your Majesty."
  "The opera's very nice.  But complicated.  Perhaps slightly too
much so.  What do you think?"
  "I agree, Your Majesty, my thoughts precisely."
  "But still very nice, you know."
  "Yes, your Majesty, very nice indeed," Harnack said hurriedly.
  
  "Which of you saw that opera he did for that man in Munich?" 
He looked around, examining the watchful faces.
  "I did," said Count Rosenberg.          
  "I'll bet that this one is better than Karl Theodor's.  Am I right,
Count?"
  Rosenberg hesitated and then said, "Yes, Your Majesty, this
opera is decidedly superior to 'Idomeneo.'  Although I do think it has
too many notes."      
  "I thought it must be better than his.  I was sure of it.  Much
better!"  He tapped his hands excitedly in his lap.
  "Your Majesty," said van Swieten, leaning over toward him,
"if 'Idomeneo' is half as good as the 'Abduction' is so far, we should
have it staged in Vienna immediately."
  He smiled.  Then he motioned to Harnack and the way was
cleared for him to walk outside during the intermission.  They walked
up the aisle, two grenadiers in red-plumed helmets preceding them. 
Harnack indicated two people carrying scrolls, but he waggled his
finger sideways, meaning that he was not in the mood for petitions. 
His work was never done. 
  Nice opera, very moving.  If a bit too much, too many notes,
perhaps.
                       ***
  One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four,
one-two-three- four, measure 160, one-two-three-four...
  The tiny pink-cheeked English slave girl raised her
violet-sleeved arms to the audience.  Blonde's voice rose, fell, and
then ended:

  ...love and faithfulnehhhhhhhhsss.

  The second act had just begun, but Wolfgang felt sweat
running down his cheeks already.  He tensed, waiting for the reaction
to the first aria.  A roar.  The applause was deafening.  "Bravo!"
"bravo!" he heard.  "Bravo!"  More applause.  And no hisses!  After a
minute, he motioned for the action to go on, and while the spoken
dialog got under way, he sat down behind the music stand, put his
arms over the top of his head, cradling it, and rocked back and forth. 
He had done it!  This was it!
  Onstage, Blonde shouted, "So get out!"  It was the cue for the
next aria.  He stood up for a second, looking for Schiefer's tiny figure
in his bright blue coat, taking over the conducting.  It was all right,
the concertmaster had his violin under his arm and his bow out and
was marking time for the introduction to the "Ich gehe, doch rat' ich
dir" duet.  He sat down again, next to the keyboard bench, and
listened, captivated with what he had done.  Constantinople!  Would
he ever see Turkey?  Why not, after tonight?  Nothing was certain. 
Nothing would ever be certain for him.  Why should it be?
  Nothing was impossible either!
  He felt a hand on his shoulder.  He looked around and into the
broad, smiling face of Haydn.  He started to say something, but Haydn
put his finger to his lips and backed away, clasping his hands together
in front of him, shaking them up and down.  Wolfgang felt a warmth
passing through behind his eyes.  
  Constantinople.  Why not St. Petersburg, Philadelphia, Pekin? 
Anywhere in the world where he could put on an opera.
  Onstage, a cowering Osmin was beginning to back away from
the furious Blonde.  He placed himself in front of the orchestra again.
  One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four... Constanze's
recitative and aria.  He had his own Konstanze now, she would be a
part of his destiny.  He looked over toward her seat in the side box. 
Not a goddess, not like he remembered her sister.  But she was a
_woman_.  She looked very elegant in her white silk gown.  She was
poking her mother, whose chin had dropped onto her chest.  Her face,
in profile, appeared very small and delicate under the gigantic new
wig she was wearing.  One-two-three-four, one-two...  He would carry
her along with him -- everywhere.  He would go everywhere and do
everything.  For as long as God would spare him on this earth. 
One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four...  More applause.  He
signaled for a repeat and motioned to Schiefer to take over again.  He
gave himself over to listening as Mlle. Cavalieri opened her red-
rouged lips and sang:

  O Belmonte, those joys have gone
  That I once knew at your side

Mama.  If she could have been here.  And his father.  He would have
him come from Salzburg to hear one of the next performances. 
Everything had turned out for the best. 

  My soul's bitter sorrow

What happiness!  It was orgasmic, a gush of joy.  He was together
with the rest of the world.  He was back home at last.  His Grand Tour
was over.  
  He wondered how the Emperor had liked it. 
  He thought of Osmin's aria, which was coming up, "If I were
only Emperor."  He remembered the friendless little boy who wanted
to be a prince, and then the youth struggling for recognition -- love. 
Love from women -- and love from the world.  "Ich moechte doch der
Kaiser sein" -- in former days he had spent his energies lusting after
the power to control his destiny.  But now he felt as if he had
succeeded, as if he were the emperor of his own life -- a life different 
from all others, his own.  His empire was a fantasy, perhaps an
empire in the stars, not on solid ground.  Not there on earth at all, but
in one of the spheres, where it resonated in tune with the harmonies
that Padre Martini had believed ruled even the trumpet of the Angel
Gabriel. 
  But his empire was real, as real as flesh and blood. It was
there, all around him, he could feel it.  It vibrated throughout his
being!


                    THE END
========================================


                     SLOTH

                 by Otho Eskin

(Note: This is scene 5 from the full-length play "Act of God")


Cast of Characters

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

SATAN

TOWNSEND         An attorney -- arrogant, pompous.



                     Scene

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

                      Time

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


AT RISE: JOHN is alone in his apartment.


                      JOHN
Now I've no choice but to accept the fact I'm living with the source of
death, destruction and misery on earth.  My roommate is Evil
Incarnate. Actually it isn't that much different than my sophomore
year at college.  But I can't go on like this forever. It's ruining my
career.  Satan keeps telling me the key's in my pocket. All I have to
do is deliver Maggie. I can't say I'm not tempted.  I want her very
much and I certainly want out of the contract. But there must be a
better way of getting out of my commitment. The time has come to
play hardball.

       (The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the
       door. Standing at the door is
       TOWNSEND dressed in a conservative
       suit and carrying a briefcase.  His
       manner is pompous and disdainful.)

                      JOHN
Thank you for coming, Mr. Townsend.  Please come in.

       (TOWNSEND enters, glances with
       distaste around the apartment.)

                    TOWNSEND
My secretary told me you needed to see me urgently.

                      JOHN
I've got a real serious legal problem.

                    TOWNSEND
I don't see why you didn't make an appointment at the office.

                      JOHN
I couldn't get away. I seem to have this contract...  

                    TOWNSEND
Have you signed another second mortgage on your co-op?

                      JOHN
This time it's an agreement with the Devil.

                    TOWNSEND                   
I've warned you about making these business arrangements without
consulting me first.

                      JOHN
I want you to get me out of the agreement.

       (The door to the kitchen opens and
       SATAN enters. He is dressed in a suit,
       identical to that worn by TOWNSEND,
       except that he wears a red tie. 
       SATAN's manner is the mirror image of
       TOWNSEND's.)

                     SATAN
Good afternoon, Counselor.

                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Would you get out of here? I'm having a private conversation.

                    TOWNSEND
Who are you?

                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Can he see you?

                     SATAN
Of course.  He's a member of the bar.

       (SATAN takes a business card from his
       pocket and gives it to TOWNSEND.
       TOWNSEND studies the card carefully,
       then looks at SATAN.)


                    TOWNSEND
Haven't we met?

                     SATAN
Many times.

                    TOWNSEND
The ABA Convention in Chicago?

                     SATAN
Yes.

                    TOWNSEND
The Cloverdale child custody litigation.

                     SATAN
Correct.

                    TOWNSEND
Wasn't that a hoot!

                     SATAN
I still get a chuckle when I think about it.

                      JOHN
                   (To SATAN)
Would you just stay out of this.

                    TOWNSEND
I understand you claim to have a contract with my client.

                     SATAN
That's correct   a personal services agreement.

                    TOWNSEND
I've yet to see a contract I can't break.

                      JOHN
Mr. Townsend, I don't think you quite realize...

                    TOWNSEND
I'll handle this, John.

                     SATAN
Your client has an obligation which he is failing to meet.

                    TOWNSEND
You haven't got a prayer. I can tie you up in court for years.

                     SATAN
I can wait.

                    TOWNSEND
Void for lack of consideration

                     SATAN
Unjust enrichment...

                    TOWNSEND
Res ipsa loquitur...

                     SATAN
Replevin...

                    TOWNSEND
Writ of covenant...

                      JOHN
Go for it, Mr. Townsend!

                     SATAN
Your client is guilty of conjugation.

                    TOWNSEND
You're estopped from pleading that defense.

                     SATAN
So are you.

                    TOWNSEND
I'll serve a writ on you.

                     SATAN
I'll serve two right back. Stop! Enough is enough. I think we might be
able to reach an out-of-court settlement.

                    TOWNSEND
What do you propose?

                     SATAN
First a couple of questions to see if we have a basis on which to do
business. How many people have you destroyed in the courts?  How
many people have you impoverished through the legal system?

                    TOWNSEND
All of my opponents have been represented by able counsel.

                     SATAN
I wasn't talking about your opponents.  I was talking about your
clients. Do you ever care about truth?

                    TOWNSEND
Of course not.

                     SATAN
How about justice? Right and wrong?

                    TOWNSEND
We have paralegals for that.

                     SATAN
Excellent. I have a proposition which I think might interest you.

                      JOHN
                 (To TOWNSEND)
You're supposed to be helping me.  Instead you're making a deal with
the Devil.  Who's side are you on, anyway?

                    TOWNSEND
So sue me.

                     SATAN
Shut up, John!

       (SATAN opens his briefcase, removes a
       document and passes it to
       TOWNSEND, who studies it.)

                    TOWNSEND
This appears to be a contract to sell my soul.

                     SATAN
Actually, a life trust with conveyance upon death.

                    TOWNSEND
Do you think you could do something about my 1994 tax return? 
There's an audit and...

                     SATAN
An IRS audit? (SATAN snaps his fingers.)  Done! Child's play. Those
are my kind of people.

                    TOWNSEND
It's a deal.          

       (TOWNSEND signs the contract and
       passes it to SATAN.)

                    TOWNSEND
It's always a pleasure to deal with a professional.

       (They shake hands warmly.
       TOWNSEND goes to the door and
       waves cheerfully at SATAN)

                    TOWNSEND
See you in court. (To JOHN) I'll send you my bill in the morning.

       (TOWNSEND exits.)

                     SATAN
That's it!  We're free. The spell is broken.

                      JOHN
Does this mean I can leave?

                     SATAN
Absolutely.  Notice how I handled the negotiation?  You could learn a
lot from me.

                      JOHN
What about the part in the Broadway show...?

                     SATAN
Forget it. I'm outta here. Things are piling up at the office. Call me if
you want to do a deal on Maggie. I'm in the phone book.

       (SATAN opens the door.)

                     SATAN
Let's do lunch sometime.

       (SATAN tries to leave but is blocked. 
       HE tries again and becomes highly
       agitated.)

                      JOHN
What's the matter?  

                     SATAN
The way is blocked.  The spell is still functioning.

       (SATAN looks through the contract
       quickly.)

                     SATAN
Damn! Damn! Damn!

       (In a tantrum, SATAN throws the
       contract to the floor and jumps up and
       down on it.)

                     SATAN
He cheated me!  The son of a bitch cheated me.

       (SATAN kicks at the door furiously.)

                      JOHN
What happened?  Why can't we get out?

                     SATAN
He took me for a ride.  I'll get him, I swear if it's the last 
thing I do, I'll get him.

                      JOHN
You said if you made a contract for anybody else's soul, we'd be
released.

                     SATAN
There's a loophole in the contract. Lawyers don't count.


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