textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0303.txt

                 FICTION-ONLINE

         An Internet Literary Magazine
               Volume 3, Number 3
                 May-June 1996



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

     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

     "Three Poems,"  
          Alan Vanneman

     "Survivor's Match," short story
          George Howell

     "Liebe Means Love," an excerpt (chapter 13) from
               the novel "In Search of  Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "Temptation," a scene from the play, "Act of God"
          Otho Eskin

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


                  CONTRIBUTORS

OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God."  His play "Duet"
has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters
in the United States, Europe, and Australia.

GEORGE HOWELL is a fiction writer living in Takoma Park,
Maryland.  He has written art reviews for "Eyewash" and the
"Washington Review."

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 professional editor and writer living in
Washington.

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

                  THREE POEMS

                by Alan Vanneman


          Death of a Thug

(Lines inspired by "Don Simpson was outrageous, erratic,
and a great producer," by John Gregory Donne, the
New Yorker, Feb. 5, 1996, p. 26.)

Donny died big; he went down hard
The madams mourned and the pushers paused
When the big guy bought it
You had to know Donny
He gave great memo
"Your plotpoints suck!" he told me
And it was true. I was soft, and Donny punished me.
Donny cut to the bone:
"You got the bucks, you get the fucks
So don't fuck with my bucks."
We all lost a little when Donny died
But Joanie and me the most. We cried.
Yes. We cried, all the way to the bank
Because we knew this was our last opportunity
To cash in on the big guy before his eyes fell out of their
sockets
And because our latest picture, "Up Close & Personal,"
starring Robert Redford and Michelle Pfeiffer,
Is opening soon
At a theatre near you.



          A Cleaning

It all accumulates so rapidly,
Old magazines I saved, for some reason or none
Catalogs, for books or presents I might buy
Or an indulgence or two, 
But now most must go, to make room for others
J Peterman, so low on my list,
Measures my fall.
Indefinitely I'll forego the silk shirt in sand or moss,
impeturbably insouciant
Even its idea a luxury I can no longer afford
Books are another matter.
The sale runs through January
Perhaps I'll be read through by then, and paid
The Life of Dryden, definitely
And more on the English Civil War
Is now the time for Wittsgenstein?
Save the Met's catalog too
I'll be flush with cash by Christmas, no doubt
To shower my friends with gifts --
And earrings for a girlfriend
Still to be collected


               The Turtle

               I
The elevation of earth, and transposition of sky
Alarm the reptile mind.
Betrayed by his defense and hoist upon his nature,
The turtle reaches for reason in an inverted world.
Head and neck loll from the shell like a crazed tongue,
And the short legs extend in frenzy,
Searching for a claw's purchase.
They lash in silence until, strained to the limit, one
Hooks the unnatural asphalt and gives a wrench.
His dignity restored, he quits the automobile's path,
Scene of his embarassment --
The sun-warmed treachery of the silent road.
His slow pace unsuited to man's eternal hurry --
His carapace precarious shelter from the occasional Buick --
The turtle makes his retreat.
Hemmed by a curb he treads the brown cement, looking for escape.
Climbing the lip of a driveway, he transforms his enviroment;
Paws sink in cool earth -- his belly shield scuds over cut grass.
And now a prehistoric shape squats in the Impatienz' bed,
To feed on rosehips and worms.

               II
Like the turtle I have rested on the carapace of my brain,
And spent my strength straining for revolution
While the fierce tires threatened.
Like him I heard their hiss,
Invincible, Inconceivable.
Like him, I am saved by a claw, the world turning on a hairbreadth.
And now like him I tread the earth victorious
Head uplifted, with an old man's neck,
Beneath suburban skies
An unprepossessing omnivore, weighing less than a pound
Legs pumping like a Brontosaurus
Absurd, inappropriate, out of place
Safe in the mold.

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


                SURVIVOR'S MATCH

                by George Howell


     Alphonse once met a cat he was wise to.  Diseased, pus- ridden
face, ears chewed and slunk back on its head, the cat avoided him at
first and then prowled in circles in the alley, coming closer and then
backing away.  He understood this cat.  He knew this cat.  This cat
was black some days and other days it was a manx.  Some days it
turned into a hundred other cats, but he was never confused.  He saw
through it.
     "Why are you trying to confuse me?" he asked the cat. "You know
you can't do that.  You keep trying, but you know you can't."   But he
wasn't surprised by the cat's tricks.  He and the cat were soul mates.
     "Yeah, and that's why I'm a survivor," the cat hissed, its yellow
mangy ears plastered against its head.  "Yeah, that's why I'm here.  I
got something to tell you."
     "Stuff it," he told the cat and lit a cigarette.  He was a survivor,
too.  He survived by not showing too much and not accepting
anything.  The cat would have to win his trust if the cat was going to
prove anything to him.
     "Okay, be that way," the cat said, bored.  It was so bored, it turned
another color and leaped into the alley.  It turned into two cats and
fought with itself.  A third version toyed with a rat and then let it go,
to prove to Alphonse that it didn't need anything to survive.  "That's
because of the Inventor," the cat said.
     "Who's that?"
     "You don't know?" the  cat was astonished.
     "If I don't know, I guess he ain't shit, eh?"  
     "Go ahead, be that way," said the cat.  "But then you lose out on all
the stuff the Inventor can do for you."
     "Okay, go ahead, tell me what this Inventor guy can do for me."
     "Well, he can make food out of nothing" and as if to prove his
point, the cat leaped on a box and the smell of cooked turkey drifted
out of it.  Baked potatoes, corn, pumpkin pie.  Alphonse may have
thought the cat was full of shit, but he couldn't get over the smell of
food.
     "In the box?" he asked.  The cat only smiled.  So, getting down on
all fours, Alphonse crawled into the box.  And ate and ate and ate. 
The food kept coming and he couldn't believe it.  He forgot about the
cat sitting on top of the box.  He forgot about everything but the food. 
He ate so much, so quickly, he got drowsy and fell asleep.  He had a
dream.  A voice inside the box asked him if he was happy.
     "You mean now, before or always?"
     "Take your pick," the voice allowed him.
     "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm happy right now because I'm
well-fed, asleep and dreaming of talking to you.  I don't talk to much
these days, except to that goddamn cat, and he don't count."
     "Good, then you like my invention."
     "Your invention, you're the Inventor?"
     "Yes, where did you think that meal came from?  I invented it."
     "Wow, that's great," said Alphonse.  "What else can you invent?"
     "O, anything and everything," he said matter of factly.  Just then, a
sofa appeared in the box and Alphonse got up from the floor of the
box and sprawled out on the sofa.  A TV appeared, a lamp, a coat
rack, all kinds of furniture appeared.  It was great at first, except it
wouldn't stop coming.  This was only a box, right?  Pretty soon
Alphonse was swamped, suffocated, strangulating in things.  A
lawnmower and an ice cream maker, 500 shoes and eleven overcoats
all crammed in on the sofa.
     "O please, let me out," he cried but he couldn't get out.  He was
trapped.  He was trapped in the box and he couldn't get out.  He beat
on the sofa and the TV and the coats with his fists, furiously, and he
suddenly woke up.  At first, he sighed a sigh of relief.  But what was
that smell?  The box smelled.  To his disgust, it was cat piss.  The cat
had led him into a trap and now was peeing on him.  and it didn't end
there.  Cats came and fought and fucked and cat come dripped
through the cardboard and cat shit and cat puke and he was gagging.
     "O Jesus, let me out, let me out!" he cried and the cat laughed at
him.  Suddenly, the box broke open and he was laying in the shit
encrusted alley.  The cat was gone.  Only the box remained.  But
looking at the box, he realized he was given a powerful weapon.  He
had this box and the Inventor.  He couldn't wait to introduce someone
else to the mysteries of the Inventor and his box.  He couldn't wait. 
He suddenly felt like he, too, was the Inventor.  Only he knew he
could never trap another victim the way he was trapped.
     "Wouldn't you really like to catch somebody like I caught you?"
the cat asked him.
     "I don't know," he admitted.  and he was ashamed.  He suffered a
deep humiliation.  He was the cat's victim, therefore he couldn't take
any prisoners himself.
     "Do you really believe that?" the cat asked.  The cat was clearly
skeptical.
     "I was once a man who could do many things, but now trapping
other people, I don't even know where to begin."
     "Be that way."  The cat yawned.  "You're giving up a good thing."
     "A good thing, yeah, a good thing," he said almost
apologetically.  The cat was onto him, making him feel even more
hopeless.  This cat knew how to survive.  How could he even compete
with this smart-ass cat?  He felt so humbled all he could do was leave,
leave the alley to the cat.
     "Good luck," said the cat.  
     He didn't know what to say, even now and this pained him even
more.
     "See you around," said the cat.  The cat was sad to see him go.
==================================================

 . . . . . . . .LIEBE MEANS LOVE

               by William Ramsay
 
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 13, of the novel "In Search of
Mozart"]


     The three gold coins glowed dully in the light from the tall
wax candles.  A lousy three louis d'or again!  Two concerts, and all
the good people of Strasbourg had been able to cough up had been
about enough to pay Wolfgang's wine bill at the Relais de Hoffman. 
Oh, the Duke of Zweibruecken had made an appearance, all smiles
and smooth talk.  That was something.  But the triumphal return trip
through southern Germany was off to a terrible start.  At least in
Mannheim he could look forward to some help from friends, so it
wasn't time to give up yet.
     Besides, M. Vallaint had suggested that the fighting between
the Austrians and the Prussians in Bohemia might be having an effect
on the economy in the upper Rhineland,  including Strasbourg.
     After all, Strasbourg wasn't really Germany, it was technically
part of  France.  He couldn't wait to see the last of these frog-eaters!
   . . . . . . . . . .***
     The blood poured freely from the open wound as the bayonet
slashed through the  throat muscles.  There was a screaming roar of
pain, a great thrashing about, and then a violent quivering into death. 
The white and black skin of the calf  was splashed with red.  The tree
swayed as the blood and life flowed out of the creature.
     "There," said the soldier in blue, that's the first blood that's
ever been  seen on that bayonet."
     "Well, that blade is also good for spearing plums," said his
companion, who wore the red of the Croatian Hussars.
     "And not much else," said the gray-haired sergeant, knocking
the ashes out of  his pipe.  "At least not in this campaign."  The
weather had turned brisk, and he pulled up his coat collar.  "There
won't be any more fighting this year."
     "Won't the Emperor go over after the Prussians?"  said the
soldier in blue. 
     "I'll bet not," said the sergeant, shaking his head pompously. 
"He knows when he's well off.  Better not beard old King Fritz in his
den.  Let well enough  alone.  They'll probably wait him out.  You'd
better save your bayonets, you'll  need them for potato digging this
winter."
     A small group of riders came down the road.  They wore the
elegant headgear and bright uniforms of cavalry officers.  The men
hurriedly got to their feet. 
     As they approached the hanging carcass, the Emperor Joseph,
in an unadorned maroon uniform, said, "What have those men done
there?"
     There was a long silence.  Someone giggled and the Emperor
looked around fiercely.  
     "They have evidently slaughtered some farmer's calf," said
General Lascy,  touching his cap.
     "Slaughtered a calf, a calf belonging to my loyal Bohemian
subjects?"  His  face grew contorted.  "I want those men shot at once!"
     "Lieutenant, arrest those men!" said General Lascy.  Then the
General saluted and motioned to the Emperor to pull his horse aside. 
His bushy eyebrows drew together above his dark eyes.
     "Sire, pardon me," he whispered, "but we can't shoot a man for
killing a  calf."
     "Why not?  It's treason!"
     "The army wouldn't understand.  Even for killing a civilian,
the penalty is only twenty lashes."
     "All right, twenty lashes then."
     "If I might suggest, Your Majesty, to avoid causing comment,
perhaps ten lashes."
     "All right," said the Emperor, chewing on his lower lip, "ten." 
     The blood came away in stripes.  The cries were repeated
every stroke after the fourth lash.  Drops of blood from the whip hit
the Emperor as the provost sergeant flipped the whip back between
blows.  There was a faint smile on the face of the Emperor.
     General Lascy stood twenty feet away, beside Count Rakocsi.
     "He's enjoying it immensely, isn't he?' said the Count, brushing
some  imaginary dust off the yellow lapels of his natty green uniform.
     "Yes," said Lascy, "he only wishes it were King Frederick and
that he were wielding the whip."
     "If he feels that way, why doesn't he attack?  God knows we're
all getting tired of this phoney war."
     "Because the Prussians are quite likely to teach him a lesson,
just as they did poor old Laudon over at Tollenstein -- only worse. 
The Kaiser gets some wild ideas, but once in a while he does
recognize his limitations.   Especially against Frederick, his ex-hero." 
Lascy fiddled with his saber knot, which was tangled up.  "Besides,
confidentially, the Empress has forbidden me  to attack for fear of
endangering her sonny-boy's Imperial person." 
     "That's not so confidential, I've heard that before.  Well,
anyway, what  happens now?  Are we winning or losing?"
     "Right now we're winning.  We still have our piece of Bavaria
and the Prussians are stuck in the mud."
     "So if they don't attack, we win, right?"
     "No, we win -- but just for now.  In the spring the Russians
could well bring  up 150,000 men in support of the Prussians and then
it would be 'good-bye, Austria.'"
     "My God, does the Emperor realize that?" said Rakocsi.
     Lascy gazed at the figure in maroon.  "Not yet, perhaps, but he
will soon enough.  Poor simple-minded fellow!"
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     The signpost read "Mannheim."  They were four days out of
Strasbourg, ten out of Paris.  The wheat and barley had been
harvested in the Palatinate, and the golden fields were bare and
stubbled.  As they left the thatched roofs of Heimhausen behind, the
meadows became dotted with teeteringly tall stacks of straw.  It was
the kind of landscape his mother would have loved.     
     Wolfgang was looking forward to seeing his Mannheim
friends -- whatever ones hadn't gone to Munich along with Karl
Theodor's court.  Maybe the Princess of Orange could help steer him
to some opportunities in the Netherlands.  It was worth a try.
     The road climbed up a hill, poplars and oaks hemmed them in,
and then the road dipped down, a stream lined with willows appeared,
and a series of fields could  be seen, separated from each other by
hedgerows, climbing up toward a forested  hilltop.  
     He hoped Rosa Cannabich wasn't there -- that would be faintly
embarrassing.  
     They were approaching the city.  It had been a long ride on the
post stage up the Rhine, only broken by a stop to change horses the
other side of Heidelberg.  Foaming mouths, smells of sweat and
leather.  They passed an inn with green shutters, a gryphon's head on
the pump spout that glared wickedly at  him.  The road narrowed
and tall houses appeared on either side.     
     Turning into the square in front of the Mannheim Rathaus, the
coach hit a loose brick and broke a spoke in the wheel.  The postillion
opened the door of  the coach and looked inside at the passengers. 
When he caught Wolfgang's eye,  he quickly removed his
three-cornered hat and tucked it under his arm.  "I'm  sorry, meine
Herrschaften, we'll have it fixed as soon as possible."  He bowed low.
     "No need to worry about me," said Wolfgang, "my friends'
house is right across the way.  Please have my baggage brought up to
Kapellmeister Cannabich's  house."
     "Yes, sir, immediately, sir."
     He walked across the square and entered the hallway, going
up the staircase to the second floor.  He rang a bell, pulling hard on
the cord, and waited in front of the massive dark-stained door.  He
started to present his card to the maidservant, but immediately Frau
Cannabich rushed into the room, smiled at him, offered her cheek for
him to kiss, and, taking his hand, led him into the  parlor.
     "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Wolferl.  Or are you so important
now, after  Paris, that I have to call you 'Herr Mozart.'  Or should it be
'Chevalier de Mozart'?"
     "No," he smiled.  "I'll always be 'Wolferl' to you, Frau
Cannabich -- Liesel."
     "Now, I hope you've planned to stay here?"  He hesitated.  "I
insist, there's plenty of room.  Especially since Christian and the
children have gone to Munich, leaving me all alone here to get things
together for the move."  She was wigless, and she pulled at her long
blonde hair, pushing a ringlet away from her eye.  Her large brown
eyes seemed to go well with her rosy cheeks and snub nose.  He could
see a delicious hint of breast swelling where her kerchief had pulled 
slightly away from the bodice of her morning gown.
     Wolfgang averted his eyes.  "It's sad to see the old Mannheim
crowd breaking  up."
     "Oh yes, but we'll all be reunited in Munich.  You, too, I hope.
     "It would be wonderful if I could."  
     She smiled radiantly.  "Don't worry, we'll work something out. 
If that stupid husband of mine can't use his influence with the
Electoral Prince to find a post for you, I don't know what he's good
for."
     "Oh, I'm sure you know what husbands are good for."
     "Well, that one thing.  Yes."  She giggled.  "But that's not
much help to me when he's in Munich and I'm here in Mannheim."
     "Well, it's lucky you have other friends."
     She looked startled.  "Friends?  She frowned.  "Has somebody
been saying something to you?"
     Did that mean there was something to talk about? he
wondered.  "No, nothing.  I was just joking."
     "Yes, you were just joking."  She smiled enigmatically. 
"Perhaps unfortunately!"  She put her chin in her hand and gazed at
him intently.   "Well, get out of your traveling clothes.  Sara will
show you to your room.  Sara!" she called out.  "Show Herr Mozart to
Peter's old room."  She turned back to him.  "The older children are in
Munich, and Peter's in Bonn,  studying."
     Going to his room, he thought of Aloysia.  Then he
remembered that awful letter of hers, the only one, and began to
whistle a tune from "Ascanio" as he tried to powder his hair by
himself.
     That evening, the moonlight shone into the middle of the
room.  But it was dark where they sat, the fire had died down and he
could see only the shadowy contours of her face as they sat together
on the ottoman in the parlor.
     "And how was Strasbourg?"
     "It was awful!"  
     "Poor Wolferl!"  She leaned toward him and made a sad face.  
     "Yes, poor me."  He reached over and took her hand and
kissed it.  "But you, Frau Cannabich, are quickly making me feel
better."
     She didn't pull away her hand.  "It's nice to be useful."
     He kissed her hand more forcefully, licking the palm.
     "Ohhh, Wolferl, you mustn't do that."  She had closed her eyes
tightly and had crossed her legs.
     "I mustn't, is that it?" he said, pushing his tongue harder into
her palm. 
     "Ohhh.  That's so nice."
     He began to stroke her bare arms.  After a moment, she leaned
against him, sighing.  "Oh, Wolferl, you must stop this.  Really."  He
stopped but held onto  her hand.
     With her other hand she picked up her glass of port.  "It's been
so dull around here.  Just nothing going on.  And Christian going off
to Munich."    
     "That's too bad."  He leaned over and kissed her on the neck. 
She pulled her head back so that he could burrow deeper into the
flesh.  She spilled some of the port on the carpet.  He pulled out his
handkerchief.  
     "Never mind, we're  leaving that carpet here."  And she
laughed.  "I won't be sorry to go to  Munich, I'm tired of Mannheim,"
she said, straightening up. 
     "Yes, I suppose it will be a nice change."
     "You know what's a nice change?"
     He shook his head.
     "You are," she said.  "I always wondered last year about you." 
She leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth, her lips large and
soft. 
     He embraced her, pressing her close and saying, "darling" over
and over.  She cuddled up to him.  He reached into her bodice, feeling
for the nipple on her left breast.  She stiffened.  Then he began
kneading the nipple, which felt long and stiff.  She sighed.
     After a minute, she said, "All right, you'd better stop." 
     "But I don't want to."
     "I didn't mean stop completely, darling."  She made a gesture. 
"I just meant not here, in the parlor."  She patted him on the cheek. 
His penis was warm and  hard, pulsing furiously in his breeches. 
     He followed her into the bedroom.  Down the hall, Sara
looked startled, hesitated, and then hustled away toward the kitchen. 
Liesel blew out all the  candles except one and then went into her
dressing room.  He took off his breeches, climbed into the large
four-poster bed, pulling the feather bed up around himself, and
waited.  He was uncomfortable.  After a minute or so, he  hopped out
and looked under the bed, and found the chamber pot.   
     Despite his excitement, he immediately felt the exhaustion
from the trip down the Rhine valley, and he had dozed off by the time
she had returned.  He awoke to the feel of her wool nightdress
scratching against his legs.   He opened his eyes and could see the
outline of her hair clearly against the light from the one candle, but
her face was in darkness.  She leaned over him, puckered her lips, and
kissed him full on the lips.  He became excited again.  He put his
hand down between her legs, but she moved it away, directing him to
stroke her  flanks.  "Not too much of a rush, please, Wolferl," she said
softly. 
     "All right, sorry."
     "You don't have to be sorry, my dear boy."  She pulled his
head gently down to her breast.  He pulled at her nipple with his
mouth, holding back carefully with his teeth.  She made an odd
clicking sound, and he moved his mouth faster  and faster.  He began
using his hand too.  She tensed her body, still making the clicking
sound, and then with a short, sharp squeal, pulled her body up, 
quivering, trapping his hand between her legs.
     "My God," he said.  That was marvellous, he was aching with
desire.  He wished he could get his hand free, it was being crushed. 
He pulled on it, harder. 
     "Ouch," she said, rolling onto her side.  "You roughneck!"
     "Sorry."
     Her lips broke into a smile.  "You're too quick to be sorry. 
You don't need to be, I like a little bit of roughnecking once in a
while.  Not too much, just a little."  She kissed him lightly on the
cheek.
     He pushed her firmly onto her back and spread her legs.
     "Yes, Wolferl, now, now, NOW."  She began to breathe hard. 
     "Oh, oh, yes, Wolferl, yes," she said, panting.  "Yes, oh, oh,
ohhhhh."
     Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!
     It was burning warm and bursting.  "Ow," he cried.  She
moaned as he collapsed, his head on her shoulder.  As he drifted into
drowsy, senseless dreams of gnomes on the Hohensalzburg, he woke
once or twice to hear her humming.  It was an old folk tune, but he
couldn't remember its name.   Later he woke up with a start.  The
candle had burned down, but scattered rays of light glowed over the
mound formed by Liesel's body.  He pulled himself up in bed.  She
woke up, pulling one arm over her head, yawning.  He sat up on the
edge of the bed.  "Where are you going?" she said.
     "To my room." 
     "You don't need to rush, Sara is reliable.  Anyway, don't go
just this  minute."
     She reached over and placed her hand on his lower stomach. 
He began to  squirm.  "Not just this minute," she said, lazily.
     "As the Gnaedige Frau wishes," he said, picking up her small,
soft hand and relocating it.
     One evening the following week he was sitting cross-legged
on the bed working on a manuscript, which was propped up on a large
folio volume of the works of Cicero.  He was wearing only his shirt,
with its frilly long collar.
     He looked over at her as she sat in her white peignoir in front
of a small silver-framed glass mirror, brushing her long blonde hair. 
"You really are a  beautiful woman," he said.
     "Thank you, my chevalier.  I'm glad that at least you think so."
     "I'm sure I'm not the first man who has ever noticed that." 
     "Well," she said a little sharply, "I was thinking about my
esteemed husband, for one.  I can't picture his saying anything like
that."
     "Oh, well, husbands.  Husbands are that way."
     "I'm sure you know a lot about husbands, my boy."
     He looked away.  "I don't, really."
     "Oh, you're blushing, how cute!"  She came over and knelt by
the bed.  "Never mind.  What I meant was that all this serves
Christian right.  He thinks he can just go away to Munich and leave
me here all alone and deserted."   
     "Well, you're not exactly alone, with little Paul and Maria
downstairs."
     "I'm not talking about children, you sweet thing.  I'm talking
about having a man around.  And I'm talking about my husband,
probably getting into bed with every tart in Munich!"
     "I hope I'm not just revenge."
     She took his head in her hands.  "Revenge?  Well, just
incidentally!"  And she laughed, lifted up the covers, peeked at his
belly, and giggled.  "And you, you unfaithful one!"
     "What do you mean?" he said, thinking of Aloysia.
     "You had such a terrible crush on my daughter Rosa!"
     "Oh, I don't know."
     "That's all right, she is cute.  I don't blame you."  She gave him
a big wet kiss and fondled his hair.
     The days melted away -- his thoughts sometimes drifted to
Aloysia in Munich, but his feelings about meeting her again were a
mixture of desire -- and dread, that she would reject him.  One
morning, there was a note on the pillow and a little package.  The
note read, "For my little bear."  Inside the package was a small gold
ring with a harp and the word "Liebe" engraved on its flattened boss. 
He woke her up to kiss her.  She went back to sleep, but he lay awake
for some time.  It was strange.  All these months he had tolerated not
having the love and tenderness of a real woman in his life.  He was
obviously not made for deprivation.  Certainly not!  He had seen
others doing without pleasure, without love.  All their lives.  He just
didn't understand them.  What a stupid way to live!
     Well, as a Catholic, it was no small matter to be involved with
a married woman.  Adultery was a more serious sin than any he had
ever committed before.  A Catholic had to think about sin and falling
into the ways of damnation.  As a Catholic, he did have to worry
about it.  But as a man, it was different.  He had to deal with his own
nature.   Puritanism didn't fit him.  And God was responsible for his
nature -- even if it was a libertine, sinful nature.  Wasn't He?  Could
that theological contradiction be resolved?  Maybe some day he'd
understand, maybe not.  He reached over and stroked her head lightly. 
She opened her eyes.  She stared blankly at him for an instant, then
she smiled warmly.
     Her turned-up nose reminded him of another blonde woman. 
Countess Lotte.  He remembered the long hours sitting outside her
door, waiting.  Waiting for what?  
     One morning, he lay in Liesel's arms, admiring the skin
covered with blonde fuzz that felt like silk.  It was as if he were
floating in a warm, calm sea.  The striving for position, money
worries, even his longing for Aloysia -- all that seemed distant.  All
those troubles were down there somewhere, back in the real world,
the unreal world, maybe.  He realized somehow since his mother's
death that he could be anybody, create anything, he could become like
a god.  If he could quell his fears and marshall the strength of the lion.
     "Oh, Wolferl, I'm sure you're going to get tired of an old
woman like me," she said one night as they sat by the fire.  The logs
were damp from the rain and little curls of smoke were escaping into
the room.  Sara had opened one window to clear the atmosphere.
     "The only 'tired' I am is that I can't keep up with you, my aged
friend," he said.
     "Oh, Wolferl," she said, smiling with mouth barely parted. 
She blew him a kiss.
     Mein Gott, it was great.  Was it that he was with a woman, an
older woman, a real woman -- rather than with a mere girl?  Or a
whore.  Was it love?  He remembered his Baesle saying,  "How much
do you love me?"  Who ever knew how much he loved any one
woman?   Except maybe -- one's mother.       
     Yesterday had been his mother's saint's day.
     "Do you want something else to drink, Wolferl?"        
     "No thank you, I'm fine."  He got up to poke at the fire with
the old twisted brass poker.  She smiled up at  him. With her, it was
anything he wanted.  And no demands, like "Do you love me?"  In
fact, sometimes she was so easy with him when he was testy or
complaining that he felt embarrassed.  She was like a mother and a
lover combined -- he even speculated about incest.  Mama was dead
-- and now this!  But then he had said to himself, to hell with it,
"incest" or not, it didn't matter.  What he wanted, he wanted.  Who
cared what anyone else thought? 
     "Wolferl, tell me one thing," she said, looking up from the
fire.     
     "Yes?" he said.
     "Do you love me, just a little tiny bit?"
     He thought, nothing in life is simple.  "Of course, of course I
do." 
     "Thank you."  She got up and poked the fire.  Her smiling face
was pink in the firelight.  "Even if you don't know."
     "Know what, sweet thing?"
     "I don't believe you quite know who your 'I' is, Wolferl."  
     Wolfgang felt his face heating up.  "Does anyone?"
     "Never mind, dear boy."  She patted his cheek.  "Don't worry. 
You don't have to know all that.  Not quite yet."
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     It was snowing in Salzburg.  Leopold Mozart opened the door,
then shut it again for a moment while he stamped the snow off his
boots and brushed the melting flakes off his breeches and stockings. 
Nannerl opened the door then and handed him his lounging robe,
taking his coat from him.     
     "It's terrible out tonight, Papa."
     "Yes, awful.  But I had to see Herr Hagenauer."
     "Oh," she said.
     Leopold sat down in the large chair.
     "Don't worry, Papa," she said, squatting down by him and kissing
his cheek.  He smiled up at her.
     "Nannerl, what can he be doing all this time in Mannheim?"  
     "I don't know, a job possibility, I suppose."
     "But there aren't any.  Since the court has moved to Munich,
Mannheim is a backwater."
     "Maybe it's that girl."
     He took off his wig.  She picked it up from him and rubbed
her hand over the top.  "I know," he said, "I should stop wearing wigs
and be stylish like your brother.  Lord, it takes him a half-hour every
day to get his hair combed and brushed and pomaded and powdered."
     "You do whatever you want to, Papa.  Whatever my father
does, is right."    
     He made a face.  "Except for sending your mother on that
trip."  His face contorted, he sniffed hard, and he repressed a sob. 
"Well, God's will be done.  And now to get Wolferl home safe.  No, to
answer your question before, it's not Fraeulein Weber that's keeping
him in Mannheim.  She's gone to Munich with all the rest of the
ambitious courtiers."
     "Well, I'm sure we'd hear if he were sick."
     "I hope so.  In the meantime, it's our bank balance that's sick!  
     
     "Don't fret!"
     The next evening, across town, Herr Hagenauer sat down at
his desk.  He wrote out a letter, placed it in an envelope and sealed it. 
Then he wrote out another slip of paper and handed the letter and the
paper to his twenty-one- year-old son, who sat at the rolltop desk
working on the books of the Hagenauer enterprises. 
     "More money to the Mozart boy, Papa?" said Heinz
Hagenauer.     
     "Yes, go ahead, send it!"
     "We'll never see it again!"
     Hagenauer turned red.  "Maybe not, but I can afford it.  And
let me tell you something."
      "What, Father?" said Heinz, pulling back in his chair and
raising his eyebrows. 
     "It's a privilege to help Wolferl Mozart.  He's different.  He's
somebody different -- from Salzburg.  Do you hear?"
     "Yes, Papa," said Heinz.  "I hear."
 . . . . . . . . . . .*** 
     Wolfgang lay in bed, watching her at her mirror.  It was a
strange wonderful world with her.  But maybe it was not his world. 
How could this go on forever?  What about Christian?  She did have a
husband, after all.  Would she want him to run off with her?  That
would be disastrous!  A middle-aged married lady as a mate for him? 
For the toast of the royal courts of Europ   Shit!  If he was such a
"toast of Europe," what was he doing there at the age of twenty-two
without the prominent Kapellmeistership he deserved?  But still, he
couldn't let himself get permanently involved with her.  No, no, no! 
He had his whole life in front of him.
     And Aloysia was still in Munich.
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     Liesel Cannabich gazed into the glass.  A thirty-six-year-old
woman looked back:  
     I'm getting old, I'm afraid.  Well, not old yet, but older.  Some
wrinkles, tiny ones.  But I'm still a pretty woman.  And a lucky one. 
Lucky me!  It's so wonderful with Wolferl.  She studied the lines
showing as she smiled.        
     Take that, Christian, old fellow!  Enjoy your girls in Munich! 
I'll bet they're not half as nice as my little boy!
     Lord, I only hope Wolferl's not getting too serious about this. 
Sometimes he looks at me with those darling bugged-out eyes of his
in such a way.  I don't know what he's thinking.  So naive -- and such
a cuddly little bear.  He's so cute, the way he struts around, so cocky
and self-assured.  I've got to make him understand that it's all just for
this short time we have together.  Then I go to Munich, and he goes to
Salzburg.  I don't want him hurt.  And I will miss him! 
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     By the middle of December, Wolferl had become uneasy.  The
Princess of Orange had been no help in finding a musical director
position, he had talked to Baron Falke from the court at Baden, and
the music director from the seminary at Kaiserslautern -- but that had
come to nothing.  His father's letters were becoming hysterical.  One
day, feeling sexually spent, lying in bed early in the morning while
she still slept, he began to think of home -- and Munich.  And one
other woman in particular.  He had to admit, with a sense of dull,
gnawing doom, that he wasn't cured of that particular dream yet.  It
was like witchcraft.  Aloysian sorcery.  His destiny.  
     Shit!  What a world!
     He had heard nothing from her.  That awful letter about the
hussar and "that nice Herr Lange"!  What a love affair!  He was insane
to still hunger after her. 
     But still, it was inevitable.  He had to go to Munich.  He just
had to see her one more time.  And it might as well be now.  
     But how could he say good-bye to Liesel?  His conscience
gnawed at him.  He would tell her that he might see her in Munich, if
not that winter, then maybe later, in the spring.  That thought made
him feel better.  A little better.
                      ***
     It was dawn, she sat by the window, she had rubbed away
some of the frost so that she could see out into the back court.
     Oh, God, he's leaving, she thought.  I thought it wouldn't be
difficult.  But now that it's come...
     She looked at the faint image of a woman's face reflected in
the pane of glass and began to weep.
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     After breakfast, he sat down to write to his father.  It was slow
work, the pages came only with difficulty:

     I have to admit that not only I, but all my good friends, and
particularly the Cannabich family, have been in the most pitiable state
the last few days, since the day of my sad departure has been settled.
We really thought it was impossible for us to part.  I set off at half
past eight in the morning, but Madame Cannabich didn't get up -- she
couldn't and wouldn't say good-bye.  I didn't want to make it hard for
her, so I left without letting her see me.  Dearest Father!  I tell you she
is perhaps one of my best and most loyal friends.  And what I like
best about Madame Cannabich is that she never tries to deny it.   

     He stared for a long time at the gold ring on his second finger. 
It said, clearly, "Love."  There was a knock at the door.  It was Sara
with his coffee.  Sara's dark smile looked almost like a frown.
     It was not a short trip from Mannheim to Munich, but the
roads were in good shape, considering that it was winter, and
dreading his meeting with Aloysia -- and eventually with his father in
Salzburg -- he resolved to travel leisurely, stopping along the way for
lengthy meals or overnight stays.  It was a pleasant journey through
the bare but elegant countryside.  As they pulled to the top of a hill on
the last morning, the driver of the stagecoach called out to him, and
he poked his head out of the window and saw the familiar spires of
the Bavarian capital. Munich held good memories for him -- as
Mozart the child.  But much more frustrating recollections for him as
Mozart the man.  Paris.  London.  The Hague.  All the European cities
with their memories of the grand tour when he was seven years old. 
Where had the triumphs of his childhood flown?  Clouds gathered in
the west and a shadow passed over the spires of the cathedral.   
     He felt some relief as he settled into his lodgings in the center
of the old town.  Now, at last, he would get some kind of answer from
Aloysia.  His stomach sank at the thought, he felt as if he would throw
up.  He told himself to calm down, but he was afraid that his heart
was going to pound louder and louder until it burst.  He tried to force
himself to think positively.  He would be ready for anything.  He
braced himself for the first encounter with  her.  Maybe everything
would still be all right!  Why did he assume that the worst was going
to happen?
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     It was a moonless but clear Saturday night.  The center of
Munich was quiet, with only isolated groups of people, all wrapped
up against the cold, strolling by the shuttered food and dry goods
shops and an occasional tavern or inn.  Aloysia was waiting for her
new friend, Josef Lange the actor, to pick her up at the Weber home.       
     "Aloysia, have you heard that Herr Mozart is in Munich?" said
her mother.
     "Yes, of course, Mother."  Aloysia examined herself in the
mirror.  The right side of her face was the better one.  The blackhead
on her nose was still visible under the powder.  She peeled one beauty
mark off her smooth white cheek and placed it over the blackhead. 
She frowned.  A strand of hair had escaped from her coiffure
     Her mother looked stern.  Her double chins were pulled tight
against the folds of her neck.  Her long, sharp nose was almost lost in
the roundness of her face.  She stood with her hands on her hips. 
"You're planning to see him -- I hope."
     Aloysia replaced the stray lock of hair.  "Of course, Mother,"
she said in a flat tone. 
     "I expect you to.  Remember that."  Her mother pursed her
lips.  "Aloysia, he can be important to you."
     She turned to her mother, her elegant nose in the air, and said,
"Of course.  Herr Mozart is one of my best friends.  He's written me
the nicest letters.  I look forward to seeing him again."  She looked in
the mirror again.  "He should have useful suggestions about my
career.  He's always full of ideas.  In fact, I've told Count Hadik how
pleased I'll be to have the advice of my dearest friend Amade."
     "Well," said her mother, looking uncertain.
     "You know, Mother, Herr Lange told me that Fellini, that
charming conductor from the Hague, said the most complimentary
things about my singing in 'Giulio Cesare.'  And he was so personally
charming to me.  Kissed my hand over and over.  I told Count Hadik
that too."
     "Be careful of what you say to the Count.  He seems to have a
great proprietary interest in you."
     "Oh, Mother! "  She smiled archly at her mother, her chins
waggling under the strap of her lace bonnet.  "You do worry
unnecessarily.  The Count knows that my talents are admired all over
Europe -- he expects that."   
     "But go easy on the hand kissing, you're not a married woman,
you know -- that's my advice," said her mother.  She turned away,
shaking her head slightly.
     "Oh, Mother, you think I'm still a child." 
      The curtains by the doorway flew apart.  "You are a child! 
And a selfish one at that!" said Josepha coming in, swinging her little
arms from side to side and scowling.  "I feel sorry for poor Wolferl
Mozart."  
     Aloysia shook her head deprecatingly.  "Are you still fuming
about yesterday?    
     "Yes.  Why not?  My dress still has the wine stain on it from
when you borrowed it -- without asking me.  Now what am I going to
wear to the bishop's reception next week?  How dare you do that!" 
And Josepha burst into tears.  
     "But I said I was sorry.  I don't see why you have to be so
selfish with everything."  And Aloysia flounced off, annoyed, saying
softly but distinctly,  "I just don't understand."
     Josepha looked at her mother.  She sniffed and the tears
stopped.  "And she's been leading poor Herr Mozart on.  That's
disgraceful!"
     "Oh, well," said her mother, "that's the way it is in these
affairs."      
     "It's indecent, improper."
     "No.  No, I don't think so."
     "Yes, indecent."
     Her mother reached out her fat hand, grabbed her by the upper
arm, and said,  "Don't you say that a Weber girl was indecent.  Not
Aloysia, not Konstanze, not you, no one!"  She raised her voice: "Do
you hear me, don't ever say that again."
     Josepha twitched.  She shivered and backed away from her
mother.  She thought she was going to cry again. "No, Mama.  No."
     More calmly, her mother said, "I've talked with Aloysia, she's
explained everything to me.  It's unfortunate, but it wasn't all her
fault.  You know, the way young men are.  They have fantasies."
     "I always thought she wasn't serious with him!"
     "Well that's none of your business.  Those things are difficult,
and she did not behave improperly."
     "Yes, Mama."  Josepha picked up her sewing and went into
her bedroom, shutting the door very gently.
 . . . . . . . . . . . ***
     He decided to try to see her again at a reception backstage at
the opera house.  It had been nine months!  He entered the barely
decorated common room.  She was standing in the middle of the
room, her profile toward him.  She was still lovely.  His head ached,
his stomach felt hollow.  Count Hadik, the opera manager, a few
Court officials, and some of the singers were there.
     "Fraeulein Weber, charmed as always," he said in a strong
voice.  "So happy to see you again.  It's been such a long time."
     "Herr Mozart," she said, in her beautiful high voice, "I'm so
pleased to see you again, you're looking well." 
     He put on a smile.  "Do tell me all you've been doing.  I see
the season has been quite busy here.  Of course, I'm out of touch."  At
first, he couldn't stop himself from talking, he said anything and
everything.  Then, in the middle of one of his stories, she turned away
from him to say a few words to Count Hadik.  Hadik told a joke.  She
laughed, giggling like a ten-year-old.   Wolfgang's belly felt gripped
in some kind of vise, he felt his face turn rigid, and he stalked over to
the other side of the room.  She came over to talk to him again,
smiling radiantly.  But now he could hardly say a word.  He stood
fixed to the floor with what he knew was a pouting expression on his
face, his eyes looking first at her, then at a picture on the wall of the
lake at Berchtesgaden.  His feet felt numb as if he had been walking
on ice.  Finally he saw his old friend Raaff leaving.  He said a hurried
good-bye, and went out with Raaff, holding onto the old tenor's arm. 
     Later that night, he told himself he had been a silly fool to
have acted that way.  Lion strength -- come to his aid!
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     Count Hadik turned to her after Wolfgang had left.  "Is he
always that way?" 
     "No, he's, well ..."
     "He's still in love with you."
     "Yes."  She stared at her reflection in the makeup mirror.  She
picked up a comb and rearranged her curls.
     The tall, thin, dark Count, handsome in his Bavarian Guards
Uniform, twirled at his mustache.  "What are you going to do about
it."
     "Nothing.  What can I?"
     "I think you'd better try."  He turned on his heel to leave, then
he turned back.  "And it would be better if it were soon.  I don't want
any scandal.  I have a wife and family, you know."
     She stared grimly into the mirror.  "Yes, I know that," she
whispered to herself.  She bit her lip and pushed the curl back
vigorously. 
                      ***
     A light snow had fallen, three days later, and the streets were
muddy.  Wolfgang alighted carefully from his rented horse at the door
of Count Hadik's town house.  Candles were lit in all the windows for
the reception for the visiting Crown Prince of Saxony.  As he entered
the small but high-ceilinged salon, Aloysia was in conversation with a
handsome young soldier in a green uniform with red epaulettes.
     At first she ignored him. He shifted his feet and coughed. 
Finally he broke into the conversation:
      "Mlle. Weber, good evening!  I so much enjoyed the
performance the other night."
     "Herr Mozart, delighted, " she said, not introducing him to the
young officer.
     "Awful weather." 
     "Oh, do you think so, Herr Mozart?"  She fixed her large eyes
on him and the she turned back to the young officer.  "Lieutenant, do
tell me more about the Orlovsky's party last week.  I'm absolutely
desolated that I missed it.  They say it was frightfully amusing."  And
she stared soulfully into the lieutenant's eyes.  He had very long
eyelashes for a man.
     After a few long moments, feeling sicker and sicker,
Wolfgang said that he hoped he would have the pleasure of seeing her
again soon.  She turned to stare at him blankly for a brief moment,
then smiled carefully and said that she hoped so, but unfortunately
she was going to be very busy the next week.  Then she began
chatting with the young officer about a party they were both going to
the following Wednesday.  
     He stared at her silently.  Then he muttered his adieus, bowed,
turned to go, and stumbled over his feet, one knee almost touching
the floor as he caught himself.  His face felt as if it were on fire.
     Outside the palace, the stone figures of a smiling Pan,
wreathed in flowers, laughed merrily at him.  He started to go back to
his lodgings, then stopped, turned around, and headed in the opposite
direction.  He could see a sign for the "The Red Soldier" tavern at the
far end of the street.   
     That night, in his back bedroom at the Spotted Hart inn, next
to the kitchen, he had a dream about dark tunnels and a melting
waxen statue of the Virgin.  He woke up with the blood pounding in
his chest, as if he were having a heart attack.
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     Three days later, Ramm ran into Wendling at the "Horn and
Gun."  Wendling lowered his eyes to Ramm's level, put down his mug
of beer, and shook his hand.  
     "Missing Paris, Hans?" said Ramm.
     "Not much, just a spell of sharp, excruciating yearning every
day, Fritz."  His broad smile smoothed out the deep lines around his
wide nose.     
     "Me too.  You've heard about Wolferl and Aloysia, I suppose,"
said Ramm. 
     "Oh, yes.  But I haven't seen him.  How is he?"
     "You'd never know it.  He acts as full of fun as he ever was."   
     "He probably cries himself to sleep at night, if we knew the
truth about it."  Wendling took a pull at his beer.  A wisp of foam
remained on his upper lip.  "But he probably is relieved -- she's had
him on the string so long." 
     "Poor Wolferl."
     "Yes, poor Wolferl, the only thing worse that could have
happened to him was..."
     "Was what?" said Ramm.
     "Was if she had accepted the poor bastard," said Wendling,
spraying a few drops of saliva on the table.      
     Ramm smiled sadly.  But then his face lit up.  "And you know
who's taking him in and administering comfort to him in his sorrow?"
he said.
     "No, who?"
     "None other than Mother Weber."
     Wendling's eyes widened.  "Frau Caecilia herself?"
     "Herself!" said Ramm.  Wendling sputtered.  "Well," said
Ramm, "you know she does have other daughters."
     "Yes," said Wendling.  "Poor Wolferl!"
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     Konstanze sat with her needlework canvas in her lap, patching
in the motto "God Bless Our Hearth and Home" below a picture of a
chocolate-colored log cabin surrounded by five olive green fir trees. 
She sighed.  Her mother, reading one of the tales from the
Decameron, looked up.  It was eight o'clock, and almost time for
supper.
     "What is it, Stanzerl?"
     "Nothing, I guess."
     "Come on, tell me what you're thinking about.  You haven't
said a word for the past half hour."
     Konstanze turned to face her mother.  "What do you think of
Herr Mozart, Mama?"
     "Why, has he been saying things to you?" asked Frau Caecilia
cautiously.    
     "No, no.  Well, yes, I guess, in a way, he has."
     "Be careful with him.  He's still suffering over your sister." 
She sighed.  "I almost feel I should have warned him about her.  He's
a nice young gentleman, but I knew it wasn't any use.  He isn't her
type, but you can't get a man to see that.  She attracts them, all of
them, it's like the spider and the fly."
     "Oh -- Aloysia."  She spit the words out.  "I think she's, well
she's..."      
     Her mother looked at her sharply.  "Be careful what you say,
she is your sister.  And keep on your guard with Herr Mozart. 
Especially since he's going back to Salzburg next week."
     "Don't you approve of him?  I know he doesn't have a job."  
     "That has nothing to do with it.  He's been raised like a gypsy
-- he doesn't understand much about women.  Just wait till he settles
down a little.  Then he might make a nice husband for you."
     "But he doesn't have any money."
     Her mother thought a minute and said, "Yes, but just you
listen to the way the other musicians talk about him.  He could be
somebody some day."      
     "But he isn't somebody now."
     "No, he isn't, not now."  She smiled at her daughter and said,
in a husky whisper, "But neither are you, my dear, exactly the Queen
of Sheba."     
     Konstanze turned pale and bit her lip.
 . . . . . . . . . . .***
     Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart filled his wine glass again.  She
was gone.  All that remained to him was music.  He would conquer
his world with music.  Not even Salzburg could hold him back! 
Marianne Pertl Mozart's son wasn't made of straw -- no girl soprano
would thwart his destiny.  The stars of Guyana shone as brightly in
Salzburg as anywhere.  One's fate wasn't in the stars, Horatio, but in
oneself.
     "Herr Mozart!"
     "Yes, Frau Weber, what is it you want?"
     "Come help Konstanze with this Alberti bass!"
     "Coming, Frau Weber, coming."  He drank off the wine,
knocking the glass over.  A trail of red spread out over the writing
desk, pointing a bloody finger at the door.  Salzburg next Tuesday, he
thought.  Salzburg for a long, long time.
     But someday, somehow!  His mother had said, "I'm the only
one who will tell you the truth when you don't want to hear it."  Now
he was the only one who could tell himself the truth.  His father could
bite back his pride and toady to the bigshots when necessary -- but
from now on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart would keep to the truth --
his genius -- and follow his destiny wherever it might lead!

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

                   TEMPTATION

                 by Otho Eskin

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


Cast of Characters


MARTIN              An unemployed actor <20> weak, shallow
                    and self-absorbed.

SATAN



                     Scene

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

                      Time

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

                     SCENE

AT RISE:  MARTIN, alone, in a single spotlight. The rest of the stage
is dark. He holds an old book in one hand.

                     MARTIN
It started when I was fourteen and my parents made me join the
church choir. Mary Ellen Quinn stood in the row in front of me and,
with a little effort, I was able to look down her dress. My only
experience with girls until then was as tormentors at school. Sex was
a frightening mystery but seeing Mary Ellen was a revelation and I
anticipated each Sunday with seething eagerness. As time passed, my
passion grew and only the voluminous choir robes prevented me from
making a spectacle of myself during the Recessional. To this day, I
associate sex with religion. The smell of wax candles can arouse me
still. When I hear the doxology, I become an animal. My ex-wife used
to claim that, in the absence of a spirited hymn or two, I was hopeless
in bed. Mary Ellen moved on but I retained my prurient interest in
things godly and this has led me on a search into the nethermost
regions of the religious experience and the occult. I don't care much
what religion it is, provided there's a certain zing to it. My favorites
are the primitive religions which are big on ritual <20> dancing around
naked under full moons, biting heads off chickens <20> and which don't
bother much with theology or doctrine. Like the Episcopalians. I've
always found Jesus sort of a putz, but Jehovah is fun.  He's bad-tempered, 
unpredictable and basically malevolent <20> a very nineties
kind of deity. I've never entirely lost my faith in some cosmic power. I
suppose it's because I'm an actor. In my profession <20> subject as we
are to forces beyond our control like weather and lunatic directors <20>
it's impossible not to believe in some malign force in the universe.
But it's kind of hard to put much faith in divine justice and mercy. I
mean, look at my life. I haven't had a decent acting job since last fall.
My lawyer's being investigated for malpractice.  My shrink won't
return my calls. On the other hand, I've met this wonderful new girl
<EFBFBD> Amy. But things aren't working out with her either. She refuses to
have sex with me. Can you believe it?  She claims I'm self-absorbed.
So you can see how I might become an atheist. Well, I'll be damned if
I'm going to sit around until somebody recognizes my talent and gives
me a good role.  And I'm not going to wait forever hoping Amy will
be reasonable.  I'm going to take charge of my life. I'm going to do
something about it. (MARTIN lifts the book in his hand.) Recently I
found this book. (Reads) A Book of Sorcerie and Blackest Magick.
It's very rare and contains ancient magic rituals. Now I don't actually
believe in these things but there's a spell here you can MARTIN
                  (Continued)
use to ask for whatever you want. I'd do anything to get a part in a
Broadway play. I thought, what the hell, why not try it? And if the job
works out <20> I'll see about whether this might work on Amy.  What
have I got to lose?  Right? 

                     MARTIN
Now shall the Master form a great circle.

         (MARTIN draws a circle on the floor
         with a piece of chalk.)

                     MARTIN
When once the circle has been traced, the Sorcerer shall form the
Great Pentacle.

         (MARTIN draws a Pentacle within the
         circle. He stands in the center of the
         circle.)

                     MARTIN
I conjure thee, Emperor Lucifer, Master of all rebellious spirits. Grant
me the riches of which I have need.  I beseech thee, leave thy
dwelling, in whatever part of the universe thou dwellest, come and
speak to me or I shall compel thee by the power of the mighty words
of the Great Key of Solomon, whereof he made use to force the
rebellious spirits to accept his pacts.  Appear then.

         (MARTIN raises his hands in a
         dramatic gesture.  The doorbell rings.
         Stage lights go up, revealing the full
         stage for the first time. Three doors lead
         off the living room <20> one to the
         bedroom, one to the kitchen and one to
         the outside corridor.  There is a couch, a
         table and several chairs.

                     MARTIN
Damn!

         (MARTIN puts the book down and
         opens the door.  SATAN stands in the
         doorway wearing a sleazy outfit with
         red jacket and gold chains.  His manner
         is pushy and aggressive; his voice loud
         and abrasive.)

                     SATAN
You called, buddy?

                     MARTIN
Who in hell are you?
                     SATAN
           (Entering the apartment.)
What a dump.

                     MARTIN
You can't just come barging in here.

                     SATAN
                      (Looks at an invoice form)
Your name Martin? You just send for Prince Lucifer? 

                     MARTIN
Certainly not. You look familiar. Have we met?

                     SATAN
More than likely. (SATAN gestures toward the cabalistic markings on
the floor.)  I haven't seen a set-up like that in years. You never heard
of MCI?

                     MARTIN
Would you please get out of here.

                     SATAN
No fuckin' way, pal. A deal's a deal.

                     MARTIN
What deal?

                     SATAN
We got an arrangement.

                     MARTIN
I'm calling the building superintendent and have him throw you out.

                     SATAN
Don't bother. I don't leave till we settle this. Besides, the super works
for me, if you get my meaning.

                     MARTIN
You sure look familiar. Who are you?

         (The lights go out.  There are brilliant
         flashes of light; the sounds of moans
         and screams.)

              A LOUD, DREAD VOICE
You dare ask who I am? I am ten thousand names for all that is evil. I
am Apap. I am Beelzebub.

                     MARTIN
                  (Terrified)
Oh, fuck!

              A LOUD, DREAD VOICE
I am Demogorgon and Bright Lucifer. The Angel of the Bottomless
Pit, the Son of the Morning and the Prince of Darkness. I am Baal,
Moloch, and the Dread Astoroth. I am Siva. I am Demon.

                     SATAN
                  (Cheerfully)
But you can call me Satan.

                     MARTIN
Now I know who you remind me of <20> my agent, Larry Dorg.

                     SATAN
Forget about Larry. Let's get to work.

                     MARTIN
You're trying to tell me I actually summoned the Devil?

                     SATAN
Technically, you conjured me.

                     MARTIN
Funny <20> you don't look Satanic.

                     SATAN
You want a tail and horns?  Cloven feet and a pitchfork?  That's been
out for centuries. 

                     MARTIN
I thought maybe...well...a bit more distinguished.

                     SATAN
I appear to everyone differently. Just as I was created by God in His
own image, so you create your own demons. (SATAN glances down
at his own appearance. HIS voice is regretful.) No one has any
imagination any more. (More cheerfully.) At least this is better than
some of the get-ups I have to appear in. The Bela Lugosi period was
the pits. I kept tripping on the cape. Now there was a time when I
could put on a class act.  Once I appeared as a severed head. And
another time as a hail storm. Very nice that.  I'm sure you heard of the
occasion I did my number as a serpent. Nothing flashy but it got good
reviews.

                     MARTIN
How come you look like some sleaze-ball who shows up on TV at
midnight telling me I can get rich investing in real estate?

                     SATAN
You tell me. It's your projection.

                     MARTIN
I don't want you here.

                     SATAN
Are you so sure? Wouldn't happen to have some beer, would you?

                     MARTIN
Certainly not! Get out!

                     SATAN
I can't.

                     MARTIN
I didn't mean to summon anybody. I was just asking for a special
favor using a formula in this book.

                     SATAN
                (Looks at book)
Crap! Last time I saw that was in a convent in Mainz in 1247.  Strictly
amateur stuff. Anyway, turkey, you used the wrong formula.  Should'a
used the one on page 47. Now, can we get on with this?

                     MARTIN
I don't want to get on with anything.  Just stop this <20> whatever it is
you're doing.

                     SATAN
Not a chance. You used all the proper incantations.  We got to go
through with this according to regulation.

                     MARTIN
                (Apprehensively)
What do you mean?

                     SATAN
I'll be your slave, I'll wait on you and give you more than you can
imagine.  Within reason of course.

                     MARTIN
I know what you're getting at.  No way!  Forget it!

                     SATAN
Why make a big deal? Happens every day. You just tell me what you
want and I give it to you. It's the American way.

                     MARTIN
Isn't there something more to the arrangement?

                     SATAN
                    (Airily)
Well, to be sure, there are some technicalities.

                     MARTIN
Don't you take my soul?

                     SATAN
In laymen's terms, something like that. (SATAN takes a contract from
his pocket.)  Don't sweat the details. Our legal people have worked
out all that stuff.

                     MARTIN
Would I have to sign in blood?

                     SATAN
Not at all necessary. It's messy and it's hard to get enough blood <20>
unless you got a very short name. Course, some of my clients insist on
it. Seem to think it gives the arrangement class. I prefer a ballpoint
myself. (SATAN produces a pen and presents it to MARTIN with a
flourish.) Just sign here, next to the X. You keep the yellow copy.

                     MARTIN
Are you sure you're not my agent?

                     SATAN
                  (Impatient)
I'm not your fucking agent! Would you get with the program.

                     MARTIN
If I make a deal, what happens?  I go to hell?

                     SATAN
Let's not be melodramatic.

                     MARTIN
But there is a hell?

                     SATAN
Not an actual place. More like a state of mind.

                     MARTIN
Will there be fire and brimstone?

                     SATAN
No fire. No brimstone <20> whatever brimstone is.

                     MARTIN
What's hell like then?

                     SATAN
Does the name Cleveland mean anything to you?

                     MARTIN
I want to know what I'd get.

                     SATAN
    (Glancing surreptitiously at his watch)
Say, buddy, I ain't got all day. I can't go into every little detail. Just
sign here.

                     MARTIN
I don't like to be rushed.

                     SATAN
                 (Exasperated)
Look, friend, you don't have to decide now. Sign the contract and let
me know later when you've made up your mind. We've got an 800
number.
                        
                     MARTIN
Can you give me some examples?

                     SATAN
Whatever turns you on. Anything in the Niemann-Marcus Christmas
catalogue?  It's yours.

                     MARTIN
I don't think I'd be interested.

                     SATAN
You want a McDonald's franchise in a very good location?  You got
it.  A great deal on an ocean-front condo?  Just ask me.

                     MARTIN
They're casting a new Broadway play...

                     SATAN
Forget it. Marty <20> I may call you Marty <20> OK?  Look, there are a
number of very nice, special features...

                     MARTIN
I'd be willing to consider a deal for a Broadway...

                     SATAN
Look <20> I like you, Marty, and because I like you I'm going to bust my
ass to put a deal together for you.

                     MARTIN
What about a part in a show?

                     SATAN
I'd better talk straight. I operate on a free-market basis.  You know <20>
supply and demand. Right now the soul business is soft. Obviously,
I'm always looking for good value. I'd pay top dollar for an innocent
virgin. But the fact is, souls are a drug on the market. 

                     MARTIN
You mean you won't get me into a Broadway play?

                     SATAN
It's time for a reality check, pal. No offense meant, but you ain't got
much to offer. You're middle-class, white, divorced.  And beginning
to lose your hair. Your love life's a mess. Not to mention your career's
a fuckin' disaster area.

                     MARTIN
I was in Shear Madness for four months.

                     SATAN
I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime deal. We'll be carrying you,
interest free, for another 45 years or so.

                     MARTIN
I'm not interested.

                     SATAN
You can't do this! 

                     MARTIN
Then give me what I want.

                     SATAN
How about a dinner theater production of "Gypsy" in Wisconsin?


                     MARTIN
Broadway or nothing.

                     SATAN
This is a regulated business.  I'm not allowed to make exceptions for
anyone.

                     MARTIN
Then we don't have a deal.

                     SATAN
Nobody turns me down.

                     MARTIN
Why don't you just get out of here?

                     SATAN
I told you <20> I can't.

                     MARTIN
Walk out the door.  Turn into a bat and fly out the window or
whatever it is you do.

                     SATAN
You got me here with powerful magic.  Bottom line is <20> I can't leave
till we meet the conditions of the contract.

                     MARTIN
I'm going to be in a Broadway show.

                     SATAN
In your dreams.

                     MARTIN
I can be just as stubborn as you.

                     SATAN
Fine! If that's what you want. But you can't leave either.  You are, I
believe the expression is, possessed.

                     MARTIN
Oh yeah?  We'll see who's possessed.

         (MARTIN tries to leave through the
         front door but is blocked as if by an
         invisible shield. He tries again, he
         pushes against the shield, then angrily
         kicks at it, hurting his foot.  SATAN
         watches him with a mixture of
         amusement and exasperation as
         MARTIN sits on a chair and looks at
         his injured foot.)
  
                     MARTIN
                    (Shaken)
There wasn't anything in the book about that.

                     SATAN
I told you the book was crap. Give up, Marty.  You'll never win.

                     MARTIN
You can't push me around.  I've had it with you.

                     SATAN
You're serious!? You really mean it.

                     MARTIN
Damn right I mean it.  No deal unless I get what I want.

                     SATAN
This has never happened before.  It's unprecedented.  It looks like
we're both stuck in this place <20> until you come to your senses and do
what I tell you...

                     MARTIN
No way.

                     SATAN
Looks like we got us a stand-off. We better make some living
arrangements.

                     MARTIN
You're telling me we're going to have to live together?

                     SATAN
That's the way it looks, pal.

                     MARTIN
That's terrible.

                     SATAN
I'm not too thrilled myself.

                     MARTIN
I get the bedroom. You'll have to sleep on the couch.

                     SATAN
I gotta have the bathroom every morning. Minimum two hours. 

                     MARTIN
No long distance phone calls.

                     SATAN
No listening to heavy metal after nine.

                     MARTIN
You fix your own food. And do your own dishes. And I don't want
any of your friends over here.

                     SATAN
This is going to be hell.

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