1194 lines
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1194 lines
44 KiB
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This is your latest copy of FICTION-ONLINE.
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 3, Number 4
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July-August 1996
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EDITOR'S NOTE:
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FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
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electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
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The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts
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of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
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magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
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Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
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Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
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and publishes material from the public.
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To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail
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a brief request to
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ngwazi@clark.net
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To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same
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address.
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Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
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the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from
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ftp.etext.org
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where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
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material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is
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licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
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personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy
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or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings
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or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any
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other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.
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William Ramsay, Editor
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"Family Verses"
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Jean Bower
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"Home," an excerpt (chapter 14) from
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the novel "In Search of Mozart"
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William Ramsay
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"Fathers," an excerpt (chapter 15) from
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the novel "In Search of Mozart"
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William Ramsay
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"Envy," a scene (#2) from the play, "Act of God"
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Otho Eskin
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CONTRIBUTORS
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JEAN BOWER is a Washington attorney, founder of a program for
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legal assistance in child neglect cases, and a poet.
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OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
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affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
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and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
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has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
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Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters
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in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
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WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
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energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
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Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his
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and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was presented last fall at the
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Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
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FAMILY VERSES
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by Jean Bower
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INHERITANCE
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Those awful mother-monsters,
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hers in bed from her birth on,
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silent, sick and mean,
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his alive, awake, vicious
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taking all he had to give,
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wanting more --
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those awful square-jawed women
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loomed over me,
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his child and hers.
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These spirits sapped
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the playfulness
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of dinner table fun, edged his teasing
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in undertones of spite,
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balanced her confident
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assertions
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with hesitance,
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making ours a shaky
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little haven.
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ROLE MODELS
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The children had to sneak around
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to see Uncle Harry
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who dispensed five-dollar gold pieces
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when he was in the mood.
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Uncle Harry was the black sheep,
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damned for wasting his inheritance
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on living.
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The hero of my father's family
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was Aunt Bee's husband, Luther Beaman,
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who shot out his brains
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on a park bench in Denver.
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Luther, bless him, did the family proud:
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having lost his funds in some peculiar deal,
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he removed dishonor with himself.
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These two came down to us untarnished:
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the guilty pleasure of golden Harry,
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the stricken awe of Luther's sin.
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HOME SWEET HOME
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[An excerpt, chapter 14, from the novel "In Search of Mozart"]
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by William Ramsay
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The light filtered in through the rose window, shining in flat
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beams along trails of dust particles, as the sounds of the organ
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bounced from walls to ceiling and back again in the old Maria Plain
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Church just outside Salzburg. A large but orderly crowd of his fellow
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Salzburgers, prosperous and poor, shuffled around uncertainly on the
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stone slabs in front of the blue and cream image of the sorrowing
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Lady. The gilt crown was almost in place now -- there, it was safely
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perched atop the head of the statue. A prayer, and then the procession
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dispersed into their seats and the mass began. The music came out
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well, it sounded better than it had in rehearsal, the presence of the
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audience damped down the reverberations, the voices swept along
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with the ancient words.
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As Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart listened to the traditional,
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unchangeable words of the Catholic mass, he thought ironically: the
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best libretto I've ever set! No earthly bonds -- not even the foul,
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toadying air of Salzburg -- can imprison the words and music that
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bring glory to God.
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He had heard the soprano solo in the Agnus several times in
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rehearsals for his new "Coronation Mass." It had sounded fine,
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beautiful and soft, mellow, he knew Klothilde's voice, it was a worthy
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instrument. But this time the melody seemed to pierce so keenly
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through the chill air of the vaults of the church that he shivered. The
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music seemed to come to a standstill, time felt frozen, he was there
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and he was not there. Death was hovering overhead. Or Life.
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What was there in life that he didn't know about? Religion was still
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there -- but the ordinary ritual of the mass said so little to him. What
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about the really big questions in life? He realized how worried he had
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always been about success and happiness. But what did it matter
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what he did in this world, in this brief life? What did it matter
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whether he got a job or not? Or about marriage, "happiness," even
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music? There was something else -- or else there was nothing at all.
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Was everything that he had been calling his "life" really _irrelevant_
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to what life was really all about?
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Another crescendo, and the keen quietness enveloped him
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again. All was blue and still inside him. Cold but clean. A silence
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behind the biting sound of his music. And then the strains of the
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melody began to soften and become sweeter, and he slowly drifted
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back to earth, to the shivering chill of the January air and the hard,
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cold bench of the centuries-old pew. The music went on and on and
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on.
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His music. No one alive could do better.
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***
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"Count Seeau!"
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"Yes, Your Highness!" The bass voice rumbled as the little
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Count snapped to attention.
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"Lord, it's hot in here!" The Electoral Prince Karl Theodor
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wiped his brow with a lace handkerchief.
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"I'll have them pull the blinds, Your Highness. Nymphenburg
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is lovely, but as summer palaces go, it isn't built for comfort." He
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waved his tiny arms, and two bewigged servants ran to close the
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blinds.
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"I think the summers are hotter in Bavaria than they were in
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the Rhineland. Well, anyway, about the list... Oh, hello,
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Kapellmeister," he said, as Cannabich was announced and walked in.
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"Your Highness," said Cannabich, bowing his tall body so that
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his flopping queue almost touched the floor.
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"Kapellmeister, this list I have here of candidates for the new
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musical post, are these all the names?"
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Cannabich looked at the list. "Yes, Your Highness, but if you
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want others included, I'm sure it can be done."
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"No, no, I was just curious. I don't see the names of either
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Haydn or Mozart."
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"Well, Sire, Herr Haydn has indicated that he prefers to stay
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with the Esterhazys in Hungary. As for Mozart, I don't think he'll
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quite do."
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"Oh? Two years ago in Mannheim you did nothing but rave
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about his talents."
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Cannabich's handsome face turned dark red. "I just don't think
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he's suitable."
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"I can't imagine that Mozart himself would agree with you
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there," said Count Seeau, with an elfin smile.
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Cannabich's mouth hardened. "Many find his attitude
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deficient in respect for others, Count."
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"Oh, I'm sure many _do_, Kapellmeister!" The Count
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snickered. "No respect, indeed!"
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The Prince waved a dismissive hand, "Well, all right."
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Cannabich bowed and started to leave. "Oh, by the way,
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Kapellmeister, the Princess wanted me to tell you how pleased she is
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with that maid you sent to her, Sara Mueller. Much obliged."
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Cannabich bowed again.
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Once Cannabich had gone, Karl Theodor put his hand to his
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brow again and said to Seeau, "What was all that about? He isn't still
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worried about Mozart as a musical rival, is he? Two whole years have
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gone by. I would think that by now he would feel secure in my
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service."
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Seeau, with an impish grin on his face, put his index fingers
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up to his forehead and wiggled them.
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The Electoral Prince laughed. "Oh, I see, that's it! Well, I
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wouldn't want to put any temptation in the way of Frau Kapellmeister
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Cannabich that might upset my dear music director's domestic
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happiness."
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Seeau giggled.
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"But it is a shame, you know. I feel like doing something
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more with music, now that the war is over and we've got almost all of
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our territory back from poor sad old Kaiser Joseph. What with
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Joseph's cash contributions, the treasury is in good shape, and I'd like
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to put on a number of symphonies and operas. And Mozart may be
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conceited, but his compositions get better every year that goes by."
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"We could have Mozart, and Haydn too, work for us without
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having them on the staff here."
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"Of course, Seeau, and we will." He giggled. "And make a
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note..."
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"A note of what, Your Highness?"
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"Whenever Mozart comes to town, we'll get one of those
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medieval iron contraptions out of the armory for the Frau
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Kapellmeister to wear!"
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"As you command, Your Highness."
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"Stop giggling, Count. It isn't dignified!"
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Seeau smirked and bowed deeply. Then they walked off
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together laughing.
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***
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Not a plain allegro, that's not it, it has to be allegro ma non
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troppo, no, allegro maestoso -- that's it. Sitting at his desk in the
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house on the south side of the Markartplatz, listening to the hucksters'
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carts making their last run through the town on a July evening,
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Wolfgang was thinking about a work for two solo strings and
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orchestra. The tempo that was suggesting itself to him was a very
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moderate allegro, and the rhythm, 4/4 time. He had an idea for the
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opening figure, one he had heard in a sinfonia by Karl Stamitz in
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Mannheim. It went _1_-2-3-4; _1_-2-_3_-4-_and_; _1_, etc. -- all on
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the same note, E-flat, the tonic. It was a warm key, a key for singers,
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this music would sing out -- and the rest of it wouldn't sound like
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Stamitz, that was certain! And then pour it on! Work up to a
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full-fledged crescendo, orchestra and soloists together. Papa would
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be surprised, that wasn't his usual style, he'd think the Mannheim
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crowd had ruined his son.
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He wrote it down as he thought it out, covering the paper
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rapidly, leaving out the horn parts here, the second violins there, but
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coming back soon to fill them in before he lost his momentum.
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Two octaves up -- that should be high enough to get their
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attention. Bah-bah- bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah with eighth notes in the
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bass.
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Give the strings a little chance to play -- didleididleidahdah --
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then the woodwinds back at them -- dooduhdooduhdehdeh --- and so
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on -- and so on --- then the viola soloist, then the violin soloist.
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Then all together again. That should sound all right. He couldn't
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wait to try it out.
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"Papa, Papa, have you got a minute? Bring the fiddle."
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His father came in, violin in hand, and helped him check out
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the string and woodwind parts of the first few bars of the first
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movement of his new "Sinfonia concertante" for violin, viola, and
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orchestra.
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As he played out the woodwind parts on the piano, a thought
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came to him: _that_ would show those assholes in Paris and Vienna!
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***
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It was noon by the clock on the Salzburg Rathaus. A
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woodseller was pulling his handcart around the square outside.
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People were getting ready for the coming winter. Wolfgang had been
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looking forward to going to Munich to write a new opera for the
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coming Carnival season. Suddenly the bells of noon seemed to be
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smashing into his skull, half-stunning him: his sister had just told him
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that she had heard, through her friend Margarethe zu Sonnenberg, that
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Aloysia Weber and Josef Lange were going to get married.
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"Lange?"
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"Yes, you know him, don't you?" said his sister.
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"Lange!"
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She looked at him cautiously. "They say he's quite nice."
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"Nice!"
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"Oh, Wolferl," she said, coming over to the table and taking
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his head in her arms. "Don't, Wolferl."
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He flung up his hands, knocking her away, then he plunged his
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head deep into his arms.
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"Ouch," she said, rubbing her elbow where it had been flung
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back against the wall.
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"I'm sorry, leave me alone. Please. Please."
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"Sure, bubboo, sure." She kissed him lightly on the top of the
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head and left the room. Her soft voice reminded him of another soft,
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sweet voice. And a tiny, doll-like figure.
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Two days later, he saw Aloysia's familiar figure on the
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Linzerstrasse. She was walking quickly away from him. He hurried
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to catch up. Then he could see the outline of her cheek. He came up
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to her, turned around, and looked into her face. A strange woman of
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about thirty-five looked back at him curiously.
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He walked slowly back home, a pain in his stomach. An old
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pain.
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Before he set foot in Munich again, he would cut out his own
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guts, if he had to, to get rid of his gnawing, nauseating ache for that
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faithless woman! He would be Atlas, he would lift the world to
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quit himself of the weight of that black-haired witch!
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After all, he had the new opera to think about! Women! To
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hell with all of them!
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On to Munich!
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FATHERS
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[an excerpt, chapter 15, from the novel "In Search of Mozart"]
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by William Ramsay
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The voice of the tenor soared. The lighting was dim and fitful
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for the rehearsal in the Bavarian Court Theater, with only a few
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candles to supplement the scattered rays of afternoon sun that came in
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through the high clerestory windows above the orchestra. Wolfgang
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waved his left hand to the rhythm of the music, while with his right
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he paged through the score.
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"Fuor del mar ho un mar nal se-e-e-no-o-o-o." The notes
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echoed through the empty hall.
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The tenor stopped, looking at him. Then he strode into the
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center of the stage, pushing out his big chest in a heroic pose.
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Wolfgang imagined Aloysia's tiny figure in his place -- she
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had sung on the same stage the previous month.
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"Very good, Raaff, very good. Now do you suppose you could
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get a little more movement into it? You're describing the sea, and
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how your soul is like the sea. It doesn't do to be too still. Try some
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pacing about, some more gestures."
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"But, Herr Mozart, too much running around might spoil the
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emotional effect." Raaff ran his hands through his gray locks.
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"Don't worry about the emotional effect too much, Raaff,
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leave that to me."
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"Herr Mozart, Wolferl, could I ask about an aria in Act II?"
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"But you have no aria in Act II, Herr Raaff."
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"Exactly, that's the problem. My aria in Act I is not easy to
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sing expressively, so I think it would be a good idea if I had
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something sweet and melodic to sing in Act II. You see my point,
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don't you?"
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"Yes, yes, I see. But it has to fit in with the story, you know."
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It was worse than dealing with sopranos, thought Wolfgang.
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"But surely you and the librettist could work out something.
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Why don't you let me talk to you about it?"
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"Yes, yes, fine. Later. We'll talk later."
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"Wolferl, could you tell me whether I'm making my second
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act aria too sentimental?" said Dorothea Wendling. "I don't want to
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overdo it."
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"Don't worry, Dolly, 'Se il padre perdei' means 'If I've lost my
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father' and I don't see how you can overdo it. Let out all the stops.
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Just as you've
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_been_doing it, that's fine." He motioned as if applauding. She
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smiled. In some way her smile reminded him of Aloysia's, damn it!
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He addressed the other members of the cast. "Let's take a
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break here. We'll resume in twenty minutes." He motioned to the
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stage designer. "Quaglio, come here."
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"Yes, Wolferl." The thin, dark Italian looked at him eagerly.
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Wolfgang's hair had fallen into disarray. Only part of it
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retained any powder. From the rest, blond strands poked out at
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random. "Quaglio, I think we have a problem with this scene in the
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ship. How can the king be alone in the ship in a storm?"
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"No, you're right. Of course, we could take away the ship, he
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could be shipwrecked and alone. As long as that worked out with the
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music."
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"Well, one or the other. He's either alone, shipless, or he has a
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ship and some crew. I can't have just a king and a big ship all alone
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there in the center of the stage. I can make the music come out either
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way, but Varesco will have to fix the libretto."
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"What shall we do?"
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"Leave it the way it is for now. I'll write my father in Salzburg
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about getting Varesco there to change it."
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"Mozart, how is it going?" asked a bass voice.
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"Oh, hello, Count. All right, I think." It was always unsettling
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to have such a big voice come from such a small man. The Count
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was dressed in plain black wool, but with a bright yellow shirt that
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made him look like a starved bumblebee.
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When he'd last seen the Count, at a reception the previous
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week, Seeau had been talking with Herr and Frau Lange. Aloysia was
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still beautiful. He had only said a few polite words to her, but he
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found that he could stand next to her and look at her without that
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awful feeling in his stomach. He was on the way to a cure. And
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about time!
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He thanked his dead mother for the strength of the Pertls, the
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power to endure and survive. To conquer fear.
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"No problems with the singers?" said the Count.
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"Oh, Count, why would you imagine that a conductor would
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have problems with singers?" He clapped his hand to his head,
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making a loud smack.
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The Count laughed. "Well, as long as the audience doesn't
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notice the problems, it will be all right."
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"By opening night, Herr Mozart will have everything
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organized," said Quaglio.
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"You mean," said Wolfgang, "by opening night the singers
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will have convinced me that they can't do what I've written, that even
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if they can do it they won't, and that, anyway, they want to sing
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something else entirely different."
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"Well," said Count Seeau smiling, "I trust to your judgment."
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"Thank you, Your Excellency," said Wolfgang. "I'll whip
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them into shape -- I've got lots of experience."
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The Count bowed quickly and strutted off. The Count was
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even tinier than Aloysia. Wofgang was getting over her, all right, but
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he still found himself wishing she lived somewhere other than here in
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Munich.
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"What's that other problem, maestro?" said Quaglio at his
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elbow.
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"Oh. It's that subterranean voice. How can we make it more
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believable?"
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"Well, I don't know, people are used to that sort of thing. I
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don't think anybody will object."
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"I know, it's like the ghost in Hamlet. But Varesco is no
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Shakespeare, and I'm wondering if Shakespeare himself didn't have
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better ideas than that one. It's going to be awfully hard to get the
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audience to believe it."
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"Herr Mozart," said a soprano voice, "I have an appointment
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in an hour, can we begin soon?" Dal Prato stood there with his
|
|
wizened but oddly boyish face. "Or do you want to rehearse my
|
|
third-act aria tomorrow?"
|
|
"No, no, no. It must be today. I have to get an idea how it
|
|
sounds. All right, we'll begin in two minutes." He shouted out, "Two
|
|
minutes, prince's aria, two minutes."
|
|
Anyway. Just because one girl married someone else, didn't
|
|
mean that a person had to become a monk. He had other friends in
|
|
Munich. Good friends.
|
|
***
|
|
The sun was just setting over the snow-topped roofs of the
|
|
city. The clouds along the western horizon were turning pink and
|
|
silver. Karl Theodor stood in his bedroom and looked at his young
|
|
black-haired, athletic-looking aide, Braun.
|
|
"So the grand old lady's dead!"
|
|
"Yes sir, last night. The courier just arrived."
|
|
"So, now the Emperor will think he is really the Emperor."
|
|
Karl-Theodor smiled and gazed out the window.
|
|
"Ahem."
|
|
Karl-Theodor turned and saw little Count Seeau standing,
|
|
head slightly bowed. "Seeau, you've heard?"
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness," said the Count with a solemn
|
|
expression on his face.
|
|
"Well, she had a long life."
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness. Will the opera be postponed?'
|
|
He grimaced. "I don't see the need. No, let's proceed. After
|
|
all, we don't want young Mozart sitting around here with nothing to
|
|
do. 'The devil finds mischief for idle hands,' right?"
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness, especially for Herr Mozart's idle hands."
|
|
said Seeau, smirking. Karl-Theodor smiled also. "A time of great
|
|
change, Your Highness," said Seeau more soberly. "I suppose we'll
|
|
see all sorts of reforms coming out of Vienna now."
|
|
Karl-Theodor snorted.
|
|
"You think not, Your Highness?"
|
|
"What we'll see from there will be decrees, decrees, and more
|
|
decrees. But with Joseph's luck, nothing much will happen as a
|
|
result." He thought a minute, looking out to where a hawk was
|
|
circling in the dusky sky. "But one trivial consequence I can predict,
|
|
Braun."
|
|
"What is that, Your Highness?"
|
|
"You'll have to ask Heinz to get out my best black suit."
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness," said Braun, without smiling.
|
|
"And I assume you wouldn't object, Braun, if I sent you to
|
|
Vienna once again, on the delegation to the funeral? You can take
|
|
care of my business -- and your personal interests there."
|
|
"Thank you, Your Highness, you're most kind."
|
|
"Your Highness," said Seeau, "a propos of Herr Mozart, the
|
|
courier brought a letter from Kapellmeister Cannabich. Cannabich
|
|
won't be returning from Vienna until a week from Tuesday."
|
|
"That poses no problem," said Karl Theodor, "at least for
|
|
_me_. Nor for Herr _Mozart_, I suppose."
|
|
"I'm glad to hear that, Your Highness. Shall I look over the
|
|
medieval items in the armory?" They both laughed.
|
|
Captain Braun looked at them with a puzzled expression on
|
|
his face.
|
|
***
|
|
Wolfgang stared at the fire in his sitting room in Munich. The
|
|
skies outside were gray. The snow on the ground was becoming icy
|
|
and in places, filthy and black. The rehearsals for the last act were
|
|
the next day. The opera was almost finished. "Can you come over
|
|
tomorrow?"
|
|
"Sorry, love," said Liesel Cannabich, "Christian's going to be
|
|
here all week."
|
|
"Oh, Christ!"
|
|
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She blew him a kiss from the
|
|
bed. "What do you hear from your father, love?"
|
|
"Oh, he's having the time of his life. He loves being an
|
|
advisor. He helps me with the libretto. He tells me when to take
|
|
breaks from composing. Now he's even worried about the music's
|
|
being popular enough. He told me to be sure to include something for
|
|
the 'donkey-ear' set."
|
|
"What did you say?" said Liesel, wearing his robe, spreading
|
|
out her long blonde hair and bunching it up for her comb.
|
|
He filled his glass with red wine from a decanter. "I told him
|
|
there was music in the opera for everybody, but not for 'donkey ears.'"
|
|
"Getting cocky, aren't you?"
|
|
"Why quit now? I say." He reached over and pulled her to
|
|
him.
|
|
"Oh, my hair!" She smiled. "You're in a good mood."
|
|
"Yes, well, It's almost finished, you know." He picked up
|
|
some sheets of paper and selected one. "You asked about my father,
|
|
read the latest about what the old boy has been up to," he said.
|
|
Liesel pushed back several strands of hair, picked up the page,
|
|
and read:
|
|
|
|
..Madame Masquerelle came in today to congratulate me on
|
|
my name day, turned some rench compliments and while
|
|
doing so lowered her pockmarked right cheek to my face. I
|
|
didn't suspect anything... At last she came so close that I
|
|
woke up from my stupid state and saw that I was to enjoy the
|
|
favor of kissing her. Which I did with the greatest
|
|
embarrassment. Then she turned her left cheek and I had to
|
|
kiss that one too. I immediately took a look at myself in the
|
|
mirror, because I felt as bashful as I did when as a boy I kissed
|
|
a woman for the first time, or when after the ball in
|
|
Amsterdam the women all insisted that I kiss them...
|
|
|
|
"I do think my father is becoming a Lothario, the old goat will
|
|
be chasing adolescent girls next!"
|
|
She frowned. "Oh, Wolferl, don't make fun of him!" But then
|
|
she laughed. "He seems like such a nice man."
|
|
"Well, I don't know that 'nice' is exactly the word I'd choose."
|
|
Wouldn't his father have died if he had known that his letters
|
|
were being read out loud by one of his son's girl friends? And if he
|
|
had known that the girl friend was the wife of Kapellmeister
|
|
Cannabich!
|
|
"He _has_ been a good father to you. Where would you have
|
|
been without him?"
|
|
"I'd have been a gypsy fiddler, or an innkeeper."
|
|
"More likely a bookbinder like your grandfather, with an
|
|
apron and a long dumpy face!"
|
|
Wolfgang felt his face turning red. He seized her ear, twisting
|
|
it, and she cried out in pain. "Oh, let go-o-o-o!"
|
|
"Sorry, I forgot your age."
|
|
"You _need_ an old woman to handle you, my bright, naughty
|
|
boy," she said, and they began to wrestle in earnest, not ending up
|
|
until the pale afternoon light had faded.
|
|
The noise of the supper preparations in the servants' quarters
|
|
wakened him later. She was already awake. He leaned over and
|
|
kissed her. "Maybe you're right."
|
|
"About what?"
|
|
"My father. Despite his pigheadedness and selfishness, he
|
|
does a lot for me, and I recognize it. There's hardly anybody else I
|
|
can talk to about the opera -- except Quaglio, and he doesn't know
|
|
music."
|
|
"Oh, music!" she said, pulling the cover over her face.
|
|
"He even got me the trumpet mutes I couldn't find in Munich.
|
|
And then of course my old black mourning suit."
|
|
"It looks shabby. You should get a new one."
|
|
"What would I use for money?"
|
|
She patted the sparse blonde hair on his chest. "Don't worry,
|
|
one day you'll
|
|
be rich and famous."
|
|
"'Famous,' I've tried that. As for 'rich,' I hope so. But in the
|
|
meantime," he said, pulling her closer, "I'll have to make do with poor
|
|
people's pleasures!"
|
|
"Eeeeee, Wolferl! Eeeeee! Ohh, ohh, Wolferl, ohhhh!
|
|
WOLFERL!"
|
|
***
|
|
The crowd was so large that it was almost impossible to
|
|
admire the rich texture of the bright new red carpet in the foyer of the
|
|
Court Theater. The light from the crystal chandeliers sparkled off the
|
|
gilded furniture and ornaments. Leopold was proud of his daughter in
|
|
the new maroon dress he had paid seventy gulden for.
|
|
Count Seeau came up to him. "Herr Mozart, the Prince would
|
|
like to have a word with you."
|
|
Leopold caught his breath. He walked over behind Seeau to
|
|
the knot of people on the other side of the foyer. Several richly
|
|
dressed men stepped aside for Seeau, disclosing the white-uniformed
|
|
figure of Electoral Prince Karl-Theodor. "May I present Herr
|
|
Mozart, Your Highness?"
|
|
"Yes, Herr Mozart," said the Elector. "I just wanted to
|
|
compliment you on your son's opera. Since I've seen the rehearsals, I
|
|
can safely do that before the performance."
|
|
Leopold bowed, conscious of his new hairdo. He was glad he
|
|
had tried not wearing a wig. "You are too kind, Your Highness."
|
|
"Is the Archbishop coming?"
|
|
"I believe not, Your Highness, the Archbishop has business in
|
|
Vienna, they tell me."
|
|
"Well," said Kurfuerst Karl Theodor, stroking his narrow jaw,
|
|
"he's made a mistake. Both he and the Emperor."
|
|
"You are too kind, I am very grateful," he said. He bowed
|
|
deeply and made his way back to his daughter. They found Wolfgang
|
|
and went to the box.
|
|
"The Prince really likes your opera," he told his son. "He said
|
|
the Archbishop and the Emperor should have been here."
|
|
Wolfgang was resplendent in a green suit embroidered with
|
|
silver. "I wish they had been! Well, at least Count Rosenberg came
|
|
from Vienna."
|
|
"But Salieri didn't."
|
|
"Yes, and too bad. He's a bit frightening with the grim faces
|
|
he makes, but I'd have liked to have had his opinion."
|
|
Leopold pursed his lips. It was a shame, since Salieri was
|
|
now director of the Court Opera in Vienna. "Maybe it's too bad
|
|
Salieri and the Emperor didn't come," he said, "but I'm just as glad the
|
|
Archbishop stayed away!"
|
|
"Maybe you're right." His son sighed. "Come on, let's get you
|
|
to your seats so you can see how you like what we've done with
|
|
'Idomeneo, re di Creta.'"
|
|
Sitting in the darkened box, he watched his son standing in
|
|
front of the orchestra and waited for the aria that he knew would
|
|
come. He had seen the words often enough in the libretto, but he had
|
|
never heard the music.
|
|
Dorothea Wendling stood ready, the panels of her gauzy
|
|
Grecian gown quivered faintly. Wolfgang raised his hands, the
|
|
orchestra began the introduction, and then her voice sang out:
|
|
|
|
"Se il padre perdei"
|
|
|
|
Leopold's daughter reached over and clasped his hand. He put his
|
|
other hand on top of hers. Her eyes seemed to glisten in the faint
|
|
light from the stage. He thought about all the years of work and
|
|
travel -- and he wondered what his son was thinking at that moment.
|
|
Had he forgiven? Had he learned enough about himself to forgive a
|
|
father? The words were ambiguous -- what meaning was there in the
|
|
bitter-sweet tones of the melody?
|
|
***
|
|
Wolfgang opened the window of his room in the inn and
|
|
looked at the stars. No moon -- he was alone with the night, the night
|
|
of Idomeneo. He looked into the pathway of the ecliptic and
|
|
imagined the stars of Aquarius, his sign, now blotted out by the sun.
|
|
Somewhere up there a twinkling spark might belong to him alone.
|
|
Alone. A star had no father -- it just existed.
|
|
In the southern sky, Orion hovered, the stars of the sword
|
|
pointing down toward the dome of the Electoral Residenz. The opera
|
|
had been well received. And now a message from the
|
|
Prince-Archbishop, ordering him to come directly to Vienna and join
|
|
the "other servants" in the Archbishop's town house there. There
|
|
alone -- without his father -- si, il padre perdrei. It seemed like a
|
|
good omen. The Archbishop could order him to _come_ to Vienna and get
|
|
away with it-- but could he successfully order him to _leave_ when
|
|
the time came?
|
|
Anything could happen in the meantime. Absolutely anything.
|
|
Courage would carry all before it.
|
|
|
|
================================================================
|
|
|
|
|
|
ENVY
|
|
|
|
by Otho Eskin
|
|
|
|
(Note: This is scene 2 from the full-length play "Act of God")
|
|
|
|
|
|
Cast of Characters
|
|
|
|
|
|
MARTIN An unemployed actor weak, shallow
|
|
and self-absorbed.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE Young, beautiful, vulnerable and
|
|
radiantly innocent
|
|
|
|
Scene
|
|
|
|
The action takes place in the living room of Martin's apartment.
|
|
|
|
Time
|
|
|
|
The time is the present.
|
|
|
|
=================================================
|
|
|
|
SCENE (#2)
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
AT RISE: The spotlight goes up on JOHN. HE holds a plastic
|
|
container of spray cleaner in one hand. A sponge in
|
|
the other.
|
|
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
This business couldn't have come at a worse time. As I may have
|
|
mentioned, my life's been a mess. I've been to twenty-two auditions in
|
|
six months and not a single call-back. Three weeks ago I was mugged
|
|
at the police station while waiting to report the theft of my car
|
|
radio. I've met Maggie and I've had this feeling my luck would
|
|
change. Now this happens. Not only can't I get a job now, I'll never
|
|
get anywhere with Maggie. I mean, who wants to go out on a double
|
|
date with the Prince of Darkness?
|
|
|
|
(Stage lights go up on JOHN's
|
|
apartment which is in a mess. Cans of
|
|
beer and the packages of junk food are
|
|
scattered about. SATAN enters.)
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
I hope you have decaf.
|
|
|
|
(JOHN begins to clean up the apartment
|
|
ineffectively. SATAN pulls the sports
|
|
section from the newspaper, lies
|
|
on the couch and begins to read.)
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Damn! I'm out of circulation twenty-four fuckin' hours and look what
|
|
happens to the Knicks.
|
|
|
|
(SATAN tosses the paper on the floor.)
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
What were you doing in here last night? My downstairs neighbor has
|
|
called twice to complain about the noise.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Did you hear the one about the Italian, the Irishman and the
|
|
Frenchman who died and went to heaven?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Damn it, can't you clean up after yourself?
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
This place is driving me crazy. You don't even have cable. How
|
|
about dropping water balloons out the window?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Can't you think of anything better than that?
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
If you could send out for four yards of strong twine, a half dozen
|
|
oranges and a goat, we might...
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
No!
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
We could use a couple of chickens instead.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Forget it!
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Have it your way. I'm gettin' myself a brew.
|
|
|
|
(SATAN exits. The doorbell rings.
|
|
JOHN opens the front door. MAGGIE
|
|
is standing at the door, holding a bunch
|
|
of flowers.)
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Maggie, what are you doing here?
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
I was in the neighborhood, John, and I found these beautiful flowers. I
|
|
thought you would like them.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Maggie, that's very sweet.
|
|
|
|
(JOHN stands in the door, trying to
|
|
prevent MAGGIE from seeing into the
|
|
apartment. SHE tries to look around
|
|
JOHN.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
John, aren't you going to ask me in?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I'm sorry I'm having a really bad day.
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE tries to slip by JOHN but he
|
|
blocks her way.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Can I help? Make you some soup? Dust something?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Maggie, there's something I think you should know.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
What is it?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
There's somebody here.
|
|
|
|
(SATAN enters, beer bottle in hand.
|
|
HE sees MAGGIE and is enraptured.)
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Be still, my beating heart.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Wonderful! I'd like to meet your friends.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
He's not exactly a friend.
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE slips past JOHN and enters
|
|
the apartment. SHE shows JOHN the
|
|
flowers.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Look, there's woodbine and marigold and primroses here. I think the
|
|
asters are the prettiest though, don't you?
|
|
|
|
(SHE looks around at what is to her an
|
|
empty apartment. MAGGIE is unable
|
|
to see SATAN.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
This place is a mess! Let me help clean up.
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE snatches the spray cleaner
|
|
and starts busily cleaning things.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
I thought you said there's someone here? I don't see anybody.
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE puts the flowers in a vase.)
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Introduce me to your lovely friend, John.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
You seem upset. What's wrong?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
It's a little difficult to explain.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
I'll understand, John. Really I will.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I've been possessed by the Devil.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Excuse me?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
The Devil is here in the apartment with me.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
What's happening to you, John? Why are you talking like this?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I think the first thing is for you to meet Satan.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Oh, yes. Please. Do! Do!
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
What did you just say?
|
|
|
|
(JOHN gestures toward the couch
|
|
where SATAN is sitting.)
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I want you to meet the Devil.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Hi there, sweetie cakes.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Who?
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE looks at the couch blankly.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Are you all right, John?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I think you should talk to Satan here.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Where?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
On the couch.
|
|
|
|
(MAGGIE studies the couch carefully.)
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
What are you talking about? There's nobody on the couch.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
(To SATAN)
|
|
Say something to her!
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
You've been watching Geraldo again, haven't you?
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I swear I'm telling the truth.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
That's what you always say. John, you don't have to make up these
|
|
stories. Just be yourself. I know you're basically a good man.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Satan is right here with us.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
I'm worried about you, John. I come here! Your apartment is a mess.
|
|
Then you introduce me to a sofa cushion.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
(To SATAN)
|
|
Would you explain what's going on here.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Why should I explain? You're the one who's acting strange.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Sorry, I can't.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
What do you mean you "can't"?
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
What?
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Your friend Maggie can't see or hear me. More's the pity.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
She can't!
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Who can't what?
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
I'm afraid you'll have to do the explaining.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
You mean nobody can see you but me?
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
Of course people can see me.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
I'm not talking to you, Maggie.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
|
|
Most people can see me. Maggie's one of the few exceptions.
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
John!
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
What are you talking about?
|
|
|
|
MAGGIE
|
|
I'm not talking about anything.
|
|
|
|
JOHN
|
|
Maggie, would you stay out of this.
|
|
|
|
SATAN
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I told you, what you are is what you see. Everyone has some evil in
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them. Something to do with Adam, I think. But in some people, evil
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never develops. Maggie has no real concept of evil to project. She's
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a true innocent. Therefore, she can't see or hear me.
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MAGGIE
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John, please tell me what's happening.
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JOHN
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(To MAGGIE)
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Would you like to sit down?
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MAGGIE
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(Trying to control herself)
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I'll be all right.
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JOHN
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I'll try to explain. I used a formula for summoning the Devil which I
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found in an old book and damned if it didn't work.
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MAGGIE
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I think I'd better sit down.
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JOHN
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(Alarmed)
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Not on the couch!
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(JOHN leads MAGGIE to a chair. SHE
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sits.)
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JOHN
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So this guy shows up. He says he's Satan. He wears cheap clothes and
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tells bad jokes and he has no concept of personal hygiene.
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SATAN
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Watch it, fella.
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JOHN
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And he tells me I have a contract with him. Neither of us can leave
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my apartment until I agree to give him my soul.
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MAGGIE
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You're telling me the Devil is here? And you've been talking to him?
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JOHN
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Yes, Maggie.
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MAGGIE
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But, John, there's no such thing as the Devil.
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JOHN
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If he doesn't exist how do you account for evil on earth?
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MAGGIE
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There's no such thing as evil. Just not enough love. There are no bad
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people. Just misunderstood people.
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SATAN
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(Bemused)
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Oh, boy!
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JOHN
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(To SATAN)
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Would you show her a sign? Maybe a little sound and smoke.
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MAGGIE
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John! Stop that!
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SATAN
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It won't do any good. She doesn't believe in me.
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MAGGIE
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You're hallucinating, John.
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JOHN
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I swear, I'm not.
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MAGGIE
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Let's go walk in the park. You've been cooped up here too long.
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JOHN
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I can't leave the apartment.
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MAGGIE
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You're being really unreasonable, John.
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JOHN
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I'm no longer in control. Don't you understand?
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MAGGIE
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I'm not sure I want to understand.
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(JOHN approaches MAGGIE who is
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suddenly frightened. SHE holds the
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spray cleaner like a weapon, pointed at
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JOHN, and backs away.)
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MAGGIE
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Don't come any closer, I'm warning you, John.
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(MAGGIE backs toward the door.)
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JOHN
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Please, Maggie, I need your help.
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MAGGIE
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This talk of the Devil scares me. Unless you stop, I'm leaving.
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JOHN
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I'm going to try and work this thing out with Satan. Honest.
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MAGGIE
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(Becoming angry)
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Really, John, I've had enough.
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(MAGGIE walks toward the front door)
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JOHN
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Maggie, please don't go...
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MAGGIE
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My friends have been warning me about you. They say you're
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shallow and manipulative and self-absorbed. I'm beginning to think
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they're right.
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(MAGGIE leaves. JOHN tries to follow
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HER out the door but is prevented by
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the invisible shield.)
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JOHN
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(To SATAN)
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That tears it! Get out of my life!
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SATAN
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I only wish I could.
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(JOHN snatches up the book of magic
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and frantically leafs through the pages,
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searching.)
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JOHN
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There's got to be something here to get rid of you.
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SATAN
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Hold the phone! I may have thought of a way out of our problem. I'm
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not saying it'd be easy, but there's a technicality in the regs. I
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make a deal on someone else, you and I are off the hook. Now, your
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friend Maggie here... I think I could work something out. You
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understand what I'm saying?
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JOHN
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You want Maggie's soul?
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SATAN
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It's just the kind of thing I'm always in the market for.
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JOHN
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I thought you said she was innocent she can't see you.
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SATAN
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She can be taught to see me. Maggie would bring a premium. And
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there'd be something in it for you a sort of finder's fee.
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JOHN
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(Hopefully)
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You mean a Broadway show?
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SATAN
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Don't push your luck. Maybe off-off-Broadway.
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JOHN
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No deal.
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SATAN
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I could work things out between you and Maggie.
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JOHN
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How do you mean work things out?
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SATAN
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I can make her lust for you, Johnny.
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JOHN
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You can really do that?
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SATAN
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She'd be a challenge but it could be done. She can become your own
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personal love slave.
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JOHN
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It doesn't seem right, somehow.
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SATAN
|
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That's what you really want, isn't? You've been trying to get her into
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the sack ever since you met her. It's your call, pal. Just let me know.
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(SATAN goes into the kitchen.)
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JOHN
|
|
So now what am I supposed to do? I can't go on like this. There must
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be a way out. I think I need advice.
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BLACKOUT
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==============================================================
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==============================================================
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