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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 6, Number 4
July-August, 1999
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by downloading from the website
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
at the following URL:
http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage
performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
Hellenic Songs, verses
E. James Scott
"Even Steven," a short story
Margi Grady
"The Break," an excerpt (chapter 15) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"What Do I Do?," part 6 of the play "Julie"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in
Washington.. His play, "Season in Hell," recently had sixteen
performances at the SCENA Theatre in Washington.
MARGI GRADY lives and writes in Northern Virginia. She is the
coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and playwright and his play,
"Revenge," recently received readings by the Actor's Theatre of
Washington.
E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and has taught at gourmet
cooking schools in Chicago and Mexico City. His latest researches
have been on pre-classical Greek civilization.
==================================================================
HELLENIC SONGS
by E. James Scott
Thanks to Zeus
Give thanks, give thanks,
Give thanks to the Lord God Zeus
Victory is ours
Ilium is no more.
Paris' pride is punished
Our men are crowned with laurels.
Zeus, Zeus!
Hear our song of gratitude.
Bad Girl
Helen Helen Helen!
The scarlet flames of the towers of Ilium
Flicker on the white foam of the seas,
Galled to madness by Poseidon's whip.
You gaze seasick over the taffrail of the ship;
Menelaus snores below, dreaming of the fountains of the gardens of
Sparta.
Why why why why?
Helen Helen Helen!
Why not?
My life is my life
And I am clever, slim, and beautiful.
===================================================
EVEN STEVEN
by Margi Grady
I saw Steven the other day on Dupont Circle. He was sitting on
one of the park benches with one foot up on the seat and his chin
resting on his knee, tying a knot in a piece of twine he was using as a
shoelace. His face was so grimy the whites of his eyes looked like
whole milk.
When I said hello, he looked blank like he didn't know me. At
the time, I thought maybe he didn't. After all, I'm a grown man now
and the last and only time he saw me I was just a kid. But given the
events of the last few days, I know now he recognized me.
***
The first time I saw Steven was in Mount Jackson, Virginia--my
hometown, like it or not. I was 13 and Carlene was 12. Things were
bad for us at the time. The mother had taken a trip to visit a friend in
McKeesport, Pennsylvania. She said she'd be gone for a couple days,
then she called to say a couple weeks, then called with an update:
permanent relocation. She told the father Carlene could visit in the
summers. Notice I say Carlene. She told the father to tell me I needed
to stay with him. Said I needed a male role model.
The father turned into one of the walking wounded. First, he
wouldn't talk to me, like somehow I was to blame. Naturally, I stopped
talking to him. After a few weeks, he started harassing. He'd shout. I
wouldn't answer. He'd scream. Etc.
I remember one night, Carlene came in my room and lay down
beside me on the bed with her arm curled on the pillow above my head.
She whispered how I shouldn't aggravate the father. She was starting
to get tits by then and I remember thinking how close they were to my
mouth. Inches. Even less.
Then the father sent Carlene over to stay with the aunt and
uncle. He said it would be best for her. If you ask me, it was
punishment for me.
With Carlene gone, it was just the father and me. He would
come home, make a sandwich, take it to his room, close the door and
not come out all night. Do you know what it's like for your one
remaining parent not to speak to you or feed you or eat with you or
acknowledge you?
That's how things were when I saw Steven.
***
Mount Jackson is just off Interstate 81 between Washington,
D.C., and Roanoke, so lots of strangers come and go. I always took
note of them, on the lookout for I don't know what. When I saw this
guy downtown older, maybe late twenties--with stringy blond hair to
his waist and a fake suede jacket with cowboy fringe down the arms, he
really caught my eye.
I followed him. I'd played follow-the-stranger before, but not
much had come of it unless you count that one fat bitch who scurried
into the police station to report me, but she was just a tourist worried
about her pocket book.
My stranger walked out toward the cemetery. I followed. He
didn't look back at me, but I knew he knew I was there.
As he neared the cemetery gates, he slowed down. I had to
shuffle to keep my distance. He stopped, squatted, leaned against one
of the stone pillars, and rested his arms on his knees. He kept acting as
if I wasn't there. I could either walk closer or turn tail like a chicken. I
chose to walk.
He didn't so much as look at me. As I came up to him, he
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, the
kind with mirror lenses. He made a big deal of putting them on--holding
them out, shaking them open, lifting them to the light to check for
streaks. The sunglasses still had a plastic tag dangling from the bridge
and a little foil label on one of the lenses. Obviously, he'd shoplifted
them, probably from Fritcher's Drug Store. He'd shoplifted them and
he was flaunting it.
I was a little scared, but I was also excited. Here was someone
worth my time.
As I passed, he spoke. "You following me, kid?"
I stopped.
"How would you like it if someone was followin' you?" He put
on the sunglasses, tag and all.
I shrugged.
"Gives you the creeps, in case you don't know it. You're in a
strange place and some little shit follows you down the road. You don't
know nothin' about him." His voice was soft, like he was muttering to
himself. I could see my reflection ballooned out of shape in the
sunglasses.
"So why don't you fuck off?" he said.
I walked on up the road. He got up and followed me. I could
hear him behind me, keeping pace. He was doing to me what I'd just
done to him.
"Gives you the creeps," he said just loud enough for me to hear.
I kept going. He kept going. I confess, I got more and more
scared. By the time I turned down the street to my house, I was feeling
all twisted up--scared of this guy and dreading going home where the
father was sure to be.
But then Billy Fritcher came along and offered me a ride.
Usually I would refuse--pillar of the community or not, Fritcher always
smelled slightly shitty. He kept glancing in his rear view. "Who's the
cowboy?" he asked. I said I didn't know. Afterwards, I wished I'd
said, "I don't know, but those shades he's wearing came direct from
your stinking store, cash free."
Billy said to be careful around strangers. We pulled up in front
of my house. I planned to wait till Billy drove away, then bolt--go over
to the aunt and uncle's to see if Carlene was home or go up into the
woods. But Billy did what he thought was the right thing, given there
was a some stranger lurking in the neighborhood. He watched till I
went in the house. There was no escaping.
In the kitchen, I made myself a bowl of cereal, and wolfed it. I
thought hard about what had happened. That guy had made a point of
scaring me, but only after I'd scared him first. He was just keeping
things on an even keel. Even Steven, I thought. I decided that's what I
would call him. Even Steven.
We were a lot alike, Steven and I. I pictured us on the road. We
wouldn't talk, we wouldn't be any kind of friends, but he'd watch my
back and I'd watch his.
The father came in the kitchen. I got up and put the bowl in the
sink. Pitched it, actually. It broke.
"You did that deliberately, didn't you?" he said. He'd started
doing that, asking those kinds of questions that if you say yes you're
guilty of something and if you say no you're still guilty.
He grabbed my arm. I stood perfectly still and focused on a
Pennsylvania-shaped stain on the linoleum. He clutched a hank of my
hair and pulled so I would look at him. Even with his face three inches
from mine, I looked away.
"Will you please just listen to me?" He was at the screaming
stage. It was like it always was only worse.
Something burst into flames inside of me. I yanked my arm
away and bolted out the kitchen door. I ran back toward Steven. The
father came after me. I went off the road and into the woods.
* * *
Next day, I skipped school and went downtown looking for
Steven. Out in front of Fritcher's, the bus was pulling away from the
curb and he was on it, resting his head against the window. I just stood
there sucking in exhaust.
That evening, two police officers--Horsey Chester and some
guy named Albie came to the house and sat me down in the living
room and broke it to me gently that they'd found the father in the
woods with his skull smashed by a good-sized rock. While they were
telling me this, I got a picture in my head of Carlene coming home and
the two of us eating cereal in the kitchen alone every day for the rest of
our lives.
They questioned me. Did I know if the father had any quarrels
with anyone? Had we heard from the mother lately? Did I know why
the father might be out in the woods? I said no, no, and no.
Then I told them how this stranger had followed me. I told them
how Billy Fritcher had picked me up. I told them Billy would know
about it. To put them off Steven's trail, I left out that I'd seen him
leaving on the bus.
A few people had seen Steven around Mount Jackson, but no
one had talked to him or knew him or knew why he was in town. Just
another stranger, there then gone. The investigation wound down for
lack of information.
They sent me to live with the aunt and uncle. Though Carlene
and I were always being pressed half to death under their godfearing
thumbs, at least we were together again.
That didn't last. Before long, they had me put in juvenile
detention. I'd come out, I'd go back, till I turned 18 and lit out for the
nation's capital.
* * *
I won out in the end, though, or so I thought. I primed Carlene
to get out of that hell hole. I kept giving her the bright lights, big city
picture. It wasn't till she was done with school that she finally decided
to come. The aunt and uncle didn't like it, but what could they do?
She slept on my couch and in no time at all got a job at one of
those slick Adams-Morgan restaurant-bars. Briefly, everything seemed
perfect, just like I'd always planned it. But almost right away she met
this guy McDunn in the Safeway on 18th Street. A couple weeks later I
came home from work and there was a note. Need my own life, shit
like that. She'd moved in with McDunn.
He said he worked for the government. He was average
looking, chubby faced, corduroys and flannel shirts and a little scruffy.
I couldn't figure out what she saw in him.
After Carlene moved in with him, I was over there one day and
he was in his living-dining room at the table eating a hot dog. Carlene
walked by his chair and he reached out and pinched her ass. In front of
me. The two of them giggled, like it was no big deal, him feeling her
up right in front of me.
The other day when I stopped by, he was gone for once. At first
Carlene didn't want me to come in. She said McDunn wouldn't like
someone coming in his apartment when he wasn't home. She said that
to me, her brother. She had one of those little chain things across the
door. As a joke, I told her if she didn't let me in, I'd have to bust her
head open. I gave the door a little push. She let me in, but right away,
she said she wanted to run down to the Safeway to get us some beer.
While she was gone, I tore through McDunn's dresser drawers looking
for sex stuff. I found nothing. The bastard wasn't careless.
Carlene took a long time. When she came back, McDunn was
with her and she didn't even have any beer. I just left. I don't know if
he noticed something amiss or not, but after that afternoon, he hung on
Carlene like a trained monkey. I called her after I went home and he
answered. I hung up. I went over there after work and he opened the
door a crack, peered out over the chain and said Carlene was out.
Later, I went by the restaurant and he was there, hunkered at the end of
the bar.
* * *
The police found McDunn early yesterday morning in an alley in
Adams Morgan with his skull crushed. They told me this in preparation
for grilling me with a bunch of stupid questions. They said not to leave
town, just like in a movie. I told them I wasn't going anywhere, also
like in a movie. They didn't get the joke. I thought of telling them about
Steven, but then I thought, no. We stick together, Steven and I.
I called Carlene after they left to tell her I was on my way. She
said no, don't come over, but I knew she didn't mean it.
I hung around her place for a couple days till finally she came
outside one morning. She was looking bad. I helped her back inside. I
told her to get her things together, I'd take her home. She said she was
home. I told her I meant back to my place. She said no.
I said come on, and went into the bedroom to get some of her
things. I tried to be cheerful and firm, but she started screaming at me
to get out, let her alone, stuff like that. She can be such a little girl. I
tried to calm her. I suggested that we stop on the way home and get
us a movie at the Blockbuster and just forget about it all. She pointed
out that the boyfriend had just been murdered. It went on like that. She
said things she always would have regretted, I'm sure. Finally, I left.
She needed to calm down.
But she hasn't. I keep calling. I keep going over there. She
doesn't even answer the door. I'm afraid I'm going to have to give up
on Carlene. All these years, all this care, and still she eludes me.
I think I saw Steven again on the street. He ducked into the
drug store, but I didn't go after him. Frankly, I don't expect him to
disappear on me. He didn't just miraculously show up. I know that
now. He's been here all the time.
===================================================
.
THE BREAK
by William Ramsay
(Note: the is chapter 15 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
It took me twenty four hours of talking and being talked to -- and
shouted at -- plus a lot of sitting and waiting in cells and offices, before
I convinced Pineda that I hadn't had anything to do with the escape.
Of course I knew who had arranged it -- but I didn't have to tell Pineda
that. After he had gotten tired of browbeating me, the fat man looked
sad instead of self- satisfied. I guess my case must not have been the
kind that good careers are built on. His jowls seemed to sag more than
usual. A full beard from the barbudo days, instead of the present
rodent mustache, would have been a help to his face.
I was sent back to my cell, but shortly, he called me back to his
office and said that there was a technical matter that Comrade Baez
wanted to consult with me about. Would I go please directly to the
Havana Libre?
I closed my eyes, allowing the blood to seep back into my brain.
Thank God for the phones. As long as the new system worked -- but
didn't work perfectly -- I was going to be Mr. Indispensable and get
the benefit of the doubt as far as counterrevolutionary activities were
concerned. Pineda looked sour as he bid me good-bye -- You're
nothing but trouble, his face said. The thought of being "trouble"
made me feel a little like Errol Flynn, fighting against impossible odds,
weighing into Basil Rathbone's evil minions in the castle of
Nottingham. Or Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade -- or whichever
character he played that said that trouble was his middle name. At
the Hilton, Eddy had already had an idea for solving Baez' problem
with the transmitter. Together we installed a bypass circuit to take out
some interference that had popped up on one of our frequencies from a
new short-wave radio in the Chinese embassy. After we finished, I
tuned into both police channels just to see whether there was any
traffic about the prison break, but there was nothing. I idly moved the
dial to the G-2 frequency, but there was only choppy noise -- they had
their scrambler in operation.
Eddy was watching me. "It would be fun to give those spooks a
blast of salsa music. That would give the bastards something to
'communicate' about." Eddy was right -- we had 350 watts
radiated power and we could jam the hell out of G-2 or the police or
anyone else we chose.
"I don't think 'the highest levels' would be too happy with us
then."
Eddy looked toward the partition: Baez was sitting on the other
side at his bench. "Fuck the highest levels," Eddy whispered.
"Don't we wish," I said.
He grasped my thigh close to my body.
"Cut it out, for God's sake, Eddy" I said, still whispering. I was
getting jumpy about Eddy's version of male togetherness.
"Sorry. But really..."
"'But really' nothing, find your own friends."
"You're the one I want as a friend."
"Ohmigod," I said, and picked up my coat and left.
Back at my hotel, I found Amelia waiting for me. I was amazed. I
had assumed she would have been on the run from the police, but the
architect of the "easier way" looked cool and self-confident as she
sipped at a daiquiri at a corner table in in the open-air bar by the pool.
I didn't know which question to ask first. Where was my father now?
How had she done it? She sat back in her chair, looking swollen up
like a small dove in her gray frilly blouse, bringing her head back so
that her lovely cheeks rippled, her mouth in a shy smile touched with
irony.
"I'm so tired, Chucho." She pressed my hand, which was lying on
the table. "Don't worry." She glanced at the empty tables around us.
"Don't worry, he's safe -- for now." She reassured me -- my father
hadn't been hurt. She took a mirror out of her purse and examined the
locks of hair around her ears. "It wasn't all that difficult. Your friend
Marcus helped."
Marcus! Him. Jesus. I asked what he had done.
"Oh, I can't tell you all about it now, but he supplied the two
women we needed."
"Two women?"
"I'll tell you the whole story later." She pointed to her empty
glass. "I need another one of these." I chh-chh'ed for a waiter.
"Marcus should have let me handle it," I said. "I would have gotten
both of them out eventually -- out of jail and out of Cuba. Now
mamacita's in jail and papacito's out -- somewhere in the heart of
Fidel's little police state."
"Don't be negative."
"Do you call that negative? We're practically worse off than
before. And I'm under suspicion now more than ever."
"Negativity, negativity. We just need one thing -- a place for Mr.
Revueltos to stay for a week or so until we can get him out of the
country."
"Why can't he stay wherever he is now? And when can I see him?"
"Stay in the laundry room of the Habana Libre? He has to go to
the bathroom in a pail and hide whenever they change shifts or someone
on the regular staff comes in."
I thought about a hideout for papacito. Not my room: I was
watched too closely. Finally I thought of it. "I have an idea."
"We only need one place, just for him. Pillo wanted to stick with
us, but I wouldn't stand for that. Too dangerous, all our eggs in one
basket."
"Good idea, I suppose."
"You wouldn't think so from talking to Pillo. For a shrimpy little
guy he's sure a hardhead! He acted as if he were afraid to be alone or
something. But I insisted."
"So where is he?"
"Don't know exactly. He's supposed to hide out with his own
friends and to keep in touch with us through one of Marcus' men."
Suddenly Marcus loomed as the big guardian angel -- I
experienced a sudden desire to have somebody like him to fall back on.
Momentarily I hung onto the warm glow of being taken care of -- then
I remembered the real Marcus as I knew him, and realized that
"guardian devil" or "ministering clown" might be a better description of
him.
"Where do you suggest keeping your dad?" said Amelia, taking
out the mirror again and touching up her lipstick.
I had been thinking. "He can stay with a friend of mine. Never
mind where. It will be more secure that way."
She said that she would want to check up on him later, that she
should have to talk with him about getting "her client" out of jail. I
told her that that could be arranged. "But," I said, "how are things
with 'your client'?"
She made a face, dismissing Havana, Cuba, and Fidel in one twist
of the mouth. "They don't dare hold Elena long, this isn't China, after
all. It should be obvious that she's an innocent -- and besides that,
she's an American citizen. If they do turn out to be sticky, maybe we
can accomplish more from Miami than here -- especially with the video
tape still in our possession. We'll have to see."
I wasn't convinced by this reasoning, but I had enough to worry
about for the moment. Amelia's "success" seemed to have produced
what looked to me like nothing but an awful mess.
Amelia didn't think it was safe for me to try to see my father until
after the shift had changed at the Hilton and they'd stashed him
somewhere safe. While we waited, she told me the story of the escape.
She spoke about it as if she had been describing one of her lawsuits,
handled according to the book, and she left out some of the details,
which I had to fill in from my father's version later.
***
The security at Havana's La Cabana prison is very good in one
sense: once a problem, say, a riot or a strike or an attempt at escape,
has been identified, the commandant and his guards are quick to
respond, well-armed, good shots, and ruthless. But if the problem isn't
so obvious, then it's a different story. I don't like to say this because I
personally get tired of the things that people say about us Latins: but it
may be that it is part of our "temperament" not to pay too much
attention to some kinds of details. In La Cabana, that lackadaisical
quality means that if it's not obvious that an escape is an escape, the
prison hierarchy has been known to drop the ball. A few years ago a
certain Dumont-Perez, an embezzler from the Bank of Cuba, made his
escape through a laundry chute, leaving a dummy in the bed in the cell.
Only eighteen months ago, Captain Herberto Mendoza, a renegade
fidelista, managed to escape while carrying boxes to the main
guardhouse, where he simply struck out the line with his name on it on
the duty register. Amelia had taken her inspiration from those two
cases.
Here's the picture. It is nearly nine o'clock, toward the end of the
regular visiting hours -- and time for the conjugal visits. Outside the
tall wooden side door of the prison, a crowd of women are gathered.
Some are in old dresses or jeans, one wears a pink frilly dress with a
wide-brimmed hat, as if for a garden party. Two middle-aged women
stand together, one slim, the other bulgy, with a large round belly.
They both wear full head scarves, one red, the other royal blue. The
door opens. The body search is careless -- these are "ladies," after all.
Two guards form the women into a straggly platoon and lead them
into the cell blocks. The sound of tapping and clanking -- prisoners
clink spoons against the bars of their cells. The platoon dissolves into a
swarm of individual women as it approaches the cells. A number of the
cells have gray blankets strung up behind the bars. The guards vainly
try to herd the women, as here and there they break for the cells. In
front of the cell of the prisoner Revueltos, the slim woman in the red
scarf stands patiently waiting. Catercornered from her, a guard
unlocks the door for the woman in the blue scarf. A yell arises from
one cell: Dolores! A guard angrily jams a long steel rod between the
bars of the cell and a cry of pain is heard. More yells directed at
spouses or friends. My father's cell door is opened and his "spouse"
enters.
The conjugal visits begin as the noise in the cell blocks calms
down. Almost immediately there are noises from behind the blankets,
but the guards are used to it. Only one of the new ones, a youngster,
giggles when he hears a particularly loud groan or a sharp, stifled
scream. As far as I know, there may even have been animal noises
from behind the blanket in the prisoner Revueltos' cell -- my father is
after all a human being, no matter how much he may try to disguise it.
The visits end at eleven -- or ten or fifteen minutes after, because
the guards are human beings too. The women are let out of the cells,
lined up, red scarf still next to blue scarf, faces in the shadow of weak
overhead bulbs, I suppose. The "spouses" are counted and then led
out toward the great wooden door again. Then one guard, excited by
the visit, tries to slip his hand up the skirt of the woman in the royal
blue scarf. She punches him in the belly. Gasping, he pulls his rifle,
but an older guard pushes up the muzzle of the gun and tells the
woman to get along. Out the door they all go.
My father said he was trembling so hard that he kept tripping on
the cobblestones in the courtyard and Pillo had to hold him erect by the
elbow.
Amelia tells me that the two women found in the cells in the
morning might have to serve at most a year or two in prison -- but
during their stay in jail they will be able to look forward to their release
and being set up with their own flower shop off Calle Ocho in Miami.
Amelia got Mr. Gomez' solemn word on that one.
***
"Chucho, we really haven't got time for this now!"
Amelia was kneeling with her legs on either side of me and I was
getting ready to lift her up over and onto my erect penis. Talking about
the conjugal visits had inspired me.
"Sure, sure, there is," I said.
She winced as I lifted her onto it. "But your father..."
"But you told me Paco has to get hold of his friend's van before it's
safe to take him away." I grunted -- contact!
"The laundry --- ooohhh--- will be closed. Oohhhh."
"Paco -- can -- pick..." I grunted. "Locks." And I myself picked
and picked and picked some more.
Amelia gasped, stretched her leg muscles, groaned. She collapsed
on me just as I was hurrying to finish. I redoubled my speed. "Easy,
easy!" she said. "Stop for a minute, I'm finished."
"I can't, I can't!"
"When a lady says 'stop,' you should stop," she said.
"Oh, God, I'm dying."
"Jesse!" She pulled up and away but simultaneously lowered her
hand to gently caress my crotch. "You've got to learn to not be so
frantic," she said, pumping with her hand. "You've just got to learn to
do things the easy way."
***
My father said afterwards that all he knew was that he lay down in
the laundry cart, as instructed, and covered himself over with towels.
The lights were out, and only a faint luminescence from the city lights
came through the thin cloth of the side of the cart. Then he waited for
a long time -- he realized afterward that he lapsed into the familiar
zombie pattern of prison life, as if the laundry cart had become a
stretch in solitary confinement. Finally he heard a door open, and a
familiar voice: "Don Federico, don Federico."
"Here, here," he said in a whisper.
"Don Federico, where are you?" shouted Paco.
My father pictured himself surrounded by people attracted by
Paco's voice. "Be quiet, young man, whoever you are, I'm in here," he
whispered.
"My respects, don Federico," said Paco, leaning down close to the
cart. "Just a minute and we'll have you out of here."
"Oh, God," said my father, used to the caution and quiet of prison
life, and feeling that by this time they must be surrounded by police.
"Are you all right, don Federico?"
The door opened, and a very short woman in a chambermaid's
uniform came in. "What's all this here, who are you?" she said to Paco.
My father carefully pulled the towels down closer onto his head.
"It's all right," said Paco.
"I said 'Who are you?'"
"Inspection," said Paco.
"What inspection?" she said, and she came over and lifted some of
the towels off. My father gazed into a pair of dark brown eyes.
"What's this?" she said, as if she were talking about a traffic accident.
"He's inspecting the laundry cart," said Paco.
"Oh," she said. "What is he finding there?"
My father now got a glimpse of Paco for the first time. He was
wearing a white coat that looked as if it had been stolen from an
impoverished physician.
"What are you finding, Perez?" said Paco.
"Nothing," said my father. "Nothing yet."
Paco put his arm around the fat little woman and said, "Nothing.
You get it? You see, he isn't finding any clean towels.
Counterrevolutionary elements have been stashing clean towels in with
the dirty to confuse the laundry comrades and create confusion and
useless labor."
"Really?" she said, her eyes widening.
"Help us get this out to the street to the inspection van," said
Paco.
"All right. But why is the inspector wearing women's clothes?
"A test of revolutionary alertness," said my father. My father told
me that at this point he felt as if he were going to pee in his pants.
"Let's go," he said.
"Yes, Comrade Perez." said Paco.
The little woman helped push the cart to the door and held the
door open as Paco pushed it out.
She whispered to Paco as Paco wheeled the cart over to the van,
"Is the test part of the VD campaign?"
"Yes, that's it. Help me, comrade."
"You're a big man," she said to Paco, as he opened the back door
of the van and helped my father inside. Then he pushed the cart away.
"Are you finished inspecting?" she said.
Paco flipped up the front of her skirt and peeped under. "Let me
inspect under here."
The little lady's mouth fell open, then she giggled, put her hand
over her mouth, frowned, and gave Paco a light slap across the face.
"Funny man. I know your type."
"Ay," he said. "That hurts." He closed the rear of the van and got
in. He turned to her. "Thanks, Comrade."
She reached up and patted his cheek, softly this time, standing on
tiptoes and reaching her arm out as far as she could. "Come back and
inspect again. Anytime, handsome."
"Duty calls," said Paco.
"Let's go!" said my father.
"What did he say?" said the woman.
"He's cold in there -- want to come with us and help warm him
up?" She looked thoughtful. Then she whispered. "Leave him off --
and then you come back here. Ask for Julia."
Paco waved and shot the van into gear. With a clash of metal, it
took off. My father, in a skirt and scarf, was now really at large in
Havana.
***
How to explain it to Valeska? -- that was my problem. I had the
advantage that there had been no publicity at all on the break. But still
I had to explain why a friend of Felipe Elizalde would need a place to
stay, and I needed to think up a cover story as to who this friend was.
I thought I knew how to handle Valeska.
"Who is this guy?" she said, as I talked to her, my father waiting in
the hall outside her apartment.
"Oh, I said, it's real interesting. You see, it all started before
the Revolution. It was in Bayamo..." As I spun my tale, Valeska began to
look nervous, still more nervous, and then positively antsy. Things
before the Revolution -- she was born in 1969 -- she thought of as
being in the Stone Age. "And then there was a group of resistance
fighters against Batista, even in 1954..."
"Wait, she said, "just tell me straight, who is this guy?"
I pursued my story.
"Some old guy?" she said.
".. but then there was this conflict between Fidel and the
University group..."
She shook her head. "Stupid to fool with the Comandante."
"But he wasn't the Comandante then, you see..."
She sighed, her face stiff with boredom. "Your old pal, whoever
he is, can sleep on the sofa. Pedro and Mama are at my brother's,
anyway. But Your pal better not be in the bathroom when I get up."
Valeska was proud of having her own bathroom (even often without
water). She went into the bedroom and shut the door. I heard a
clothes hanger zing.
Paco brought my father in. He looked unshaven, his skirt was
askew, the tail of his pink blouse was out, sweat stained the flowered
head scarf. But his eyes glowed -- I supposed with the light of
freedom. I thought of the years in jail, an experience I couldn't even
begin to imagine. As I gave him an abrazo, the heroism of my father
suddenly struck me -- now I saw strength there, not just insane
single-mindedness.
"Chucho..." he began. I reminded him I was "Felipe."
"That madman, arresting your mother."
"I know, I know,' I said.
Valeska came in, applying a light violet lipstick, twitching the edge
of her skirt. "Whose mother?"
"Dr. Revueltos' mother," I said. I introduced them.
She stared at him. "Excuse me."
"Yes," said my father, taking off his head scarf.
She turned to me. "Flip, has he escaped from Piedras Huecas?"
Piedras Huecas camp was where homosexuals and transvestites were
"reeducated" to become productive members of a socialist society.
"No," he said.
"Yes," I said. "We can admit it to Valeska, Doctor."
"You're
both doctors -- quite a family."
"What?" said my father.
She turned to him. "I'm sorry, I never thought those G-2 creeps
would lean so hard on harmless guys like you." She shook her head.
"You look like you could use a bath, old boy. "
"Look here, young lady..." said my father.
"You'll have to wait for the hot water. You have to fill the heater
from the cistern, but we've got propane." The pride in her bottled gas
in fuel- deficient Havana was evident.
"Valeska..." I started to say.
"And I suppose he doesn't have a ration book, either. Never mind,
we can make do."
My father rubbed the stubble on his face. "As long as there's
water, and a razor. And some men's clothes." He smiled. "Thank
you, young... Comrade."
Valeska giggled. "'Comrade'!"
My father looked at me. "Valeska isn't much on politics," I said.
"I'm behind Fidel," said Valeska in a dreamy voice.
"Sure," said Paco, pulling out a chair for her.
She waved a hand. "I can't stay, I have to go to work."
"Do you work in a ministry?" said my father.
Her face froze for an instant. Then it lightened. "Sometimes I'm a
contractor for the ministries." She smiled, her wide-cheekboned face
beaming with pleasure, presumably at the thought of some of her
encounters with higher- level bureaucrats. "Sometimes."
"Valeska's a singer," I said.
"A superb singer," said Paco.
"I've got to go to work," said Valeska. Help me carry my
costumes to the bus stop, will you, Paco?" She smiled, her large lips
pulled tightly, almost prim.
"I'll give you a lift in the van." He almost knocked her down as he
ushered her to the door.
"Remember the bathroom in the morning," she said as the door
closed behind them.
The two of us were finally alone. I told my father to get some
rest. His eyes were drooping. "That man Castro is the biggest traitor
to social dignity that I have ever known," he said. I started to agree
with him, but before I had finished speaking, he was asleep, slumped in
the hard chair, the thinning hair on top of his head ruffled, matted with
grease.
Now "all" we had to do was to get my father out of Cuba.
And of course my mother and Jose Pillo too.
==================================================
WHAT DO I DO?
by Otho Eskin
(Part 5 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a
new version by Otho Eskin)
CHARACTERS:
MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of
a "patrician" family in the deep south
RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur.
CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook.
PLACE:
The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep
South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to
Cora's bedroom.
TIME:
Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's
Night (June 23). At original rise, the sky, seen through the doors, is
still light. As the play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again
with morning.
AT RISE: The kitchen, immediately afterward
(JULIE picks up her bird cage.)
RANSOM
What in God's name you got there?
JULIE
It's my parakeet. I can't leave it here.
RANSOM
I be God damned! You can't take that damn thing!
JULIE
It's the only thing I have...
RANSOM
Put that cage down! You not takin' it!
JULIE
It's the only thing that loves me. Don't be cruel. Let me take it with
me.
RANSOM
You can't take it. That's final. An' don' talk so loud. Cora'll hear you.
JULIE
I can't just leave it here. With no one to care for it. I'd rather it was
dead.
RANSOM
Give me the damn thing.
JULIE
Please don't hurt it.
RANSOM
Give it to me!
(JULIE takes the bird tenderly
from the cage.)
JULIE
Dear little Serena, must you die and leave me?
RANSOM
For Chris' sake! It's yore future yore life what's at stake. Give me
the damn thing!
(RANSOM snatches the bird and
flings in on the table. HE picks
up a butcher knife. He smashes
the knife into the board.)
RANSOM
You should a' learned to kill chickens when you was little. Then you
wouldn' be 'fraid of blood.
JULIE
Why don't you kill me too!
RANSOM
Be quiet!
JULIE
How can you butcher an innocent creature!? There's blood between us
now. I hate you! I loathe you! I curse the hour I first saw you! I curse
the hour I was born!
RANSOM
If you done cursin', let's go.
(JULIE moves toward the
chopping block as if drawn
against her will.)
JULIE
No. Not yet. I must see. You think I'm weak. You think I can't stand
the sight of blood. How I'd like to see your blood on that table. I'd like
to see all men swimming in a sea of blood. I'd drink your blood from
your skull. Bathe my feet in your blood. I'd eat your heart. You think
I'm weak. You think I love you. You think I yearn for your seed and
that I want to carry your child under my heart and nourish it with my
blood. You think I want to bear your child and take your name. I don't
even know what your last name is. Just Ransom. I don't suppose
people like you have last names. I'd be Mrs. Black. Mrs. Nigger.
You're a dog wearing my collar. You're just a nigger field hand. And I
share you with my cook! I'm my own servant's rival. You think I'm a
coward and will run away. No! I'll stay. Soon my father will come
back. He'll go to his study and find someone's broken into his desk and
stolen his money. He'll call for sheriff. I'll tell them everything.
That'll be the end of everything. How sweat! The end of everything. To
make an end of it all. Peace then. And quietness.
(RANSOM applauds)
RANSOM
That's wonderful, Miss Julie! That a great speech. Now shut up!
Cora's comin'.
(CORA enters, dressed for
church. JULIE runs to her and
flings herself into CORA's arms.)
JULIE
Help me, Cora! Protect me from this man!
CORA
What a to-do! (CORA sees the dead bird and blood.) What a filthy
mess. What gone on 'roun' here? Why you screamin' and carryin' on,
Miss Julie?
JULIE
You're a woman. We've been friends all our lives. I've got to warn you
about that man.
RANSOM
I think I'd better go.
(RANSOM goes into the
garden.)
JULIE
You must listen to me!
CORA
I don' like any of this, Miss. You gone somewhere? You got yore
travellin' clothes on. An' Ransom...? Where he gone?
JULIE
Please listen, Cora. I'll tell you everything.
CORA
I don' wan' to know nothin' more, Miss Julie.
JULIE
You must listen.
CORA
'Bout what? 'Bout you an' Ransom? I don' care 'bout what you done
las' night. It's no never mind to me. But if you think you gonna git
Ransom to run off with you, you got another think commin'.
JULIE
But you and Ransom -- you don't love each other -- not the way it is
between Ransom and me.
CORA
Miss Julie, Ransom my sweet man. We gonna get married some day.
He may be a damn fool sometimes. Sometimes he cain't help hisself.
Sometimes he think he high an' mighty. Jus' don' pay him no mind
when he git like that. But he be a hard down, true as blue man an' he be
mine. I ain't jus another cornfield nigger, Miss Julie. I been a cook-
woman all my life but someday this chile gonna have her own home an'
her own garden. Ain't nothin' gonna stand in my way. I promise you,
Miss Julie, some day the sun's gonna shine in my back door too.
JULIE
I can't stay here. Not after what's happened. And Ransom can't stay
either
CORA
Ransom not goin' nowhere wit' you. I done care what you two did.
JULIE
I have a wonderful idea. Come with us. We're going to Chicago.
Ransom's going to have his own jazz club. I have a little money to help
get us started. You could help out. Maybe wait on tables. Wouldn't
that be wonderful! Please say yes. Everything will be just fine. You'll
see. Just like it was. You'd get to travel. See Chicago. We could ride
the Greyhound. It'll be fun. You'll see.
(RANSOM appears at the door
listening.)
JULIE
(Continued)
There are lots of stores in Chicago where you could buy pretty dresses.
And ribbons for your hair. You don't have to wait on tables if you don't
want. You could stand at the front and show people which tables to sit
at. I could wait on tables. It'll be a wonderful life.
CORA
Miss Julie, you believe any of that stuff you sayin'?
JULIE
Do I believe it?
CORA
Yes.
JULIE
I don't know what to believe any more.
CORA
(To RANSOM)
So you was gonna run off wit' her?
RANSOM
Run off? Without you? No way, baby! You heard what Miss Julie say.
We all in this together. We gonna start a new life together.
CORA
We gonna work together? Live together? You think I'd work for
that... that...
RANSOM
You watch yore tongue, girl, in front of yore superiors...
CORA
Superiors?
RANSOM
Yes! She the lady of the house. Yore mistress. Mine' what you say.
CORA
Well! I declare...!
RANSOM
It time you learned manners when you in the presence of yore betters.
CORA
She not my better...
RANSOM
You lost respect for her. You otta do the same for youself.
CORA
I got my self-respect. I know my place an' I don' sink below it. That
better'n some..
RANSOM
You lucky to catch me. Lot's a girls been after me. You weren't the
only apple on the tree.
CORA
Lucky!? You think you such a great catch. Stealin' brandy from the
judge's wine cellar. Who knows what else. You commin' to church
with me this mornin'? I'd say you in deep need of some churchin'.
RANSOM
No church for me today. You go on alone.
CORA
I'll go to church. An' I'll pray for you, Ransom. The Good Lord
suffered an' died for our sins. If we go to Him with a penitent heart
he'll forgive us. Even you.
JULIE
You really believe that, Cora?
CORA
I surely do, Miss Julie. That the faith I learnt as a chil' an' it stand by
me ever day of my life.
JULIE
If I only had your faith.
CORA
You cain't have it without God give you His special grace. Without
that grace, you lost.
JULIE
Who receives this grace?
CORA
That a mighty secret, Miss Julie. God no respecter of persons.
'Member what it say in the Good Book: with Him the last shall be first.
JULIE
Then he must love the last too.
CORA
It easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich
man to enter into the kingdom of God. That the way it be, Miss Julie.
I'm leavin' now. I gotta go. The sisters an' the elders they waitin' on
me.
(The telephone rings. RANSOM
picks up the receiver.)
RANSOM
Hello...Yes, sah....Yes, sah.... I be leavin' right away, sah...Yes, sah.
(RANSOM hangs up the phone.)
RANSOM
(To JULIE)
That yore daddy. Want me to pick him up at the railroad station right
away.
CORA
You come join me at church directly you come back, Ransom. Y'hear?
RANSOM
Yes, Cora.
(CORA leaves)
JULIE
You're not going to Chicago, are you?
(RANSOM shakes his head)
JULIE
(Continued)
You're never going to Chicago.
RANSOM
No.
JULIE
What about all your talk about playing your trumpet in a club.
RANSOM
Just talk.
JULIE
What about having your own club?
RANSOM
That was last night. It was dark. There was likker in my blood. An'
you in my blood. But it daylight now an' I can see things better.
JULIE
You're not even going to try and climb that tree you dreamed about?
RANSOM
I tried that life once. Didn' work out. I had to come home. This is
where I belong, Miss Julie. I bin in service too long. Sorry, Miss Julie,
but I can't go with you.
JULIE
What am I supposed to do now?
RANSOM
I can't say, Miss.
JULIE
If you were in my place, what would you do?
RANSOM
I don' know what I'd do if I was a white lady who'd fucked the family's
nigger driver an' stole her daddy's money. Hard to say what I'd do.
You can't stay here, that for sure. An' it don' appear you can go away
by yoreself. An' I'm not goin' with you. For sure.
=======================================================================
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