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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 5, Number 3
May-June, 1998
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by downloading from the website
http:/www.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, courtesy of the Writer's
Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the following URL:
http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage
performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Three Poems"
Tan-jen
"Portraits," short-shorts
Marie Kazalia
"Arnoldo," an excerpt (chapter 8) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Gabriele," part 6 of the play, "Duet"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
MARIE KAZALIA lives in San Francisco and has a BFA degree from
California College of Arts and Crafts. She spent four expatriate years in
Asia, living in Japan, India, and Hong Kong and has published both
poetry and prose in numerous journals
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters in
the United States, Europe, and Australia.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. His play, "Strength," recently received a
reading at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
TAN-JEN is an avid Georgetown (Washington, D.C.) gardener and
student of Chinese literature. Her verses seek to capture in English the
spirit and prosody of the classical Chinese lyric poems -- the ancestors
of the Japanese haiku.
=======================================================================
THREE POEMS
by Tan-jen
The Bag Lady
Months and months I've gathered scraps
Stray thoughts and bits of dreams
Waiting deep in memory's hold
To leap into the pattern of a poem.
Shells
Though cast ashore on sands of time
The inner ear still hears the ocean pulse
And the lonely soul now longs to curl
Inside that salt sweet mother sea.
Prana
Showers of stars drench the sky
Spill through the glow over the hills
Bounce into a million crystals on the lake
And fly back to dance in our eyes.
===========================================
PORTRAITS
by Marie A. Kazalia
One Night Stand
Humorous short guy. Black man. Computer operator at a bank. Forget
his name. Something with a Y on the end. Keep thinking Pilly but that's
not it. He took me home with him, in my car, to a once elegant building
with etched glass entrance doors, faded floral carpeting in the lobby, up
sagging stairs. Raised us up into a dense musty odor hanging in a warm
cloud at just the step corresponding to ceiling level. Cooler up above
up into a darker region. A few more stairs, a narrow hall, he opened his
apartment door. Head down a reluctance in his step, leading the way
into a tiny room overwhelmed with enormous furniture left-over from a
past marriage. His wife got the kids, but he got the orange crushed
velvet sofa and two matching chairs. A rumpled sheet and blanket on a
tiny cot shoved against one wall. I GOT MORE STUFF, he says, BUT
IT'S IN STORAGE. WON'T FIT IN HERE. I had a stunned look on
my face, for next he asked, WELL WHAT DID YOU EXPECT? I just
shrugged. What did I care what kind of furniture he had? Entered
further into the room. Sat down on the long stiff couch. Now I could
see that the entire wall of rectangular mirror panels folded open and
closed over closet space. I checked my lipstick. He listened at the door.
Nervous. Asking, DID YOU EVER HAVE SEX WITH SOMEONE
WHO LIVED IN THE SAME BUILDING YOU DID? THAT'S A
MISTAKE. Describes a one night stand with a woman in an apartment
below. How everyday afterward, she listened for his arrival, and the
second he got home from work she would come up and knock on his
door. When he tried to get rid of her, she cried and told everyone in the
building he'd made her pregnant. Sometimes he'd catch her listening at
his door early in the morning or late at night. When his mother came to
visit, the woman from down below came up and talked to her. Told his
mother she was pregnant with his child, though they'd only had sex
once and he'd used a condom.
Shame
She walks on the dusty streets of Taipei losing weight, starving--on her
way to a job interview to teach English as a second language--A job she
didn't want--The strap on her Joan & Davids broke--the flat heel of the
shoe slapping-up at a long odd rhythm falling back down too
heavily--no longer matching its mate on the right foot--she limped
along like this for several blocks until she came to a covered walk-way
and an old man with a shoe repair service, out of a wooden box on the
sidewalk. She sat on a stool and removed the bad shoe--speaking a few
words of Mandarin with the old man and one of his old cronies as he
glued and nailed her shoe. When it came time to pay the old man didn't
know how to say 15NT (New Taiwan dollars) in English so held up his
full hand to mean 5, pushed it forward 3 times--"FIFTY?" she asks in
Mandarin. He nods yes. Dropping his eyes in shame, takes the
money--Later he buys a sweet rice cake and takes it to the temple as an
offering to the gods--incense burning-- placing it on the offering table
beside two large Domino's Pizzas in delivery boxes--
Time
I enjoy going and seeing the Director--having a scotch or a beer,
whatever he offers---some good "home cooked" food; dinner his cooks
make --- after a little conversation and shared food & drinks, smoking a
cigarette ---then I feel better---I'm not as frantic or urgent ---I don't
want to grab the night and choke the living shit out of it; kick it and
bash it around just to try and get as much out of it as I can, as the clock
ticks---Instead I look back I sit back, and then, I comeback to my room
and write--I look around I sit down I relax I see the possibilities and I
go for them--slowly--carefully--systematically -- after that, after I start
and I begin and I move forward-- that urge to strangle and choke
myself get tangled up in it all, isn't there... and I just ease right past
all that kind of nonsense then have something when I'm finished.
Isn't there more?
===============================================================================================
ARNOLDO
by William Ramsay
(Note: This is an excerpt, Chapter 8, from the novel "<22>Ay, Chucho!")
So there I was, running around Havana under an alias, trying to get
two prisoners -- my eccentric old man and the unknown Mr. Pillo
out of a pretty damned formidable hoosegow, all by myself. Oh, the
Salvadorans read the C.I.A. had provided me with a contact
address in the Cayo Hueso _barrio_, and they said they might be able
to help me get a boat or a light plane out of the country once I had
succeeded in getting their friend Pillo out. But that was about it. First
success, then help and forgiveness.
The next day, my friend Pierre -- Waldemar visited me in my
hotel room.
"Au revoir, Felipe. Off on business," he had told me, stroking
Kropotkin and smiling as he whispered his conspiratorial good-byes.
"Lots of business in the Socialist Paradise. VCR's, very big now. Also
Roseanne and Madonna tapes. Also Barbara Bush photos. And her
dog."
I bid him good-bye, wishing him success wheeling and dealing --
and hoping that if the police caught him that he wouldn't feel obliged
to mention his colleague "Felipe Elizalde."
That left me with one less person around who knew who I really
was. But it also left me all alone and in over my head. I can only
suppose that's why, that first week in Havana, my prick started to take
over from my brains.
It all started with Valeska the night I gave a little party for her
and Arnoldo. We were in the Tropicana -- it was a dollar place, and I
was treating Valeska and Arnoldo with the Association's -- or the
C.I.A.'s expense money. In the outer lobby, there were placards with
anti-imperialist cartoons, a pot- bellied Uncle Sam pulling a steel net
labeled "embargo" around a poor Cuban woman, while a Cuban soldier
in camouflage pointed an automatic weapon at him: "We know how to
defend ourselves," it said. Inside the club itself, it was a welcome
return to bourgeois degeneracy. Aerialists swung from ropes and
teetered on high wires above the giant stage of the nightclub. Chorines
that looked as if they had stepped out of a Las Vegas revue of the
Fifties extended long sequin-stockinged legs in every which direction.
Arnoldo was in a surly mood -- as usual. He wanted to bitch about
how INDER, the ministry in charge of sports, gave all its support to
track and field, _futbol_, and boxing. "_Jai-alai_ isn't an Olympic
sport, so they're not interested. Socialism!" I was willing to share his
feelings about socialism -- but not to listen to him go on and on about
it. I was feeling starved for capitalistic degeneracy, and I tuned out his
diatribe as I watched the show. The music swelled into a sweep of
violins and then a ripple of marimbas. In the background, I was aware
of Valeska's voice and a few harsh-sounding syllables from Arnoldo.
Finally Arnoldo stood up. "Deodorants!" he said.
"What do I ever get from you?" said Valeska. The stomach and
groin area of Arnold's tight trousers were bathed in a spotlight.
"What the hell do you mean?" said Arnoldo.
"Sit down!" yelled someone. Arnoldo frowned but sat down.
"You're impossible," said Valeska. "It was nice of Felipe to get
me some things from the dollar store."
Poor kid, I thought, she had been forced, like so many other
Cubans, to use milk of magnesia as a replacement for Right Guard. In
the dollar store on La Rampa, I had also found her two Italian bikinis
and some Cadbury chocolates -- the kid had a sweet tooth that
wouldn't stop.
Arnold stood up again, backing into another spotlight, which lit his
narrow Moorish face like a covering of white paint.
"Sit down!" yelled the same voice. But Arnold didn't move.
Valeska turned to me. "I saw a beautiful pearl bracelet with little
diamonds and a little gold star in the center in the store window," she
said in a clear and incisive voice.
"I have my pride," said Arnoldo even more loudly.
"Sit down and shut up," came a yell from behind us. Arnoldo's
mouth moved into a pout that would end all pouts. He leapt out of the
light and into the darkness behind our table.
"What the hell?" I heard, and then the sound of chairs falling and
bodies thumping. The long streaky cones of flashlights appeared and
two big waiters came up. One flashlight showed Arnoldo was down
on the floor, tangled up with a waiter. The music from the orchestra
was very loud now, with lots of percussion. A glass hit the floor next
to me, and droplets of something landed on my shirtfront. I put my
arm around Valeska's shoulder and tried to pull her away. She leaned
the other way and swung her foot, trying to kick either Arnoldo or the
waiter.
"Little shit," she said. The waiter was a big guy; I guess she had
Arnoldo in mind.
Arnoldo managed to stand up. He reached out an arm toward
Valeska. "I love you."
"Oh, for God's sake," said Valeska.
The waiters started to hustle him away. "I love you," he yelled
again. A spotlight turned in his direction, illumining his face. The
waiters stopped shoving him "I love you."
There was scattered applause.
"Arnoldo!" said Valeska.
The spotlight moved to her. She blinked, then she smiled and
waved. More applause. Somebody shouted, "_Viva_ _el_ _amor_!"
The waiters had gotten Arnoldo moving again and he was near the
door. "I love you," came his shout. More applause. A last flicker of
the searchlight lit up his face, and then he was gone.
People came over to the table. Valeska signed autographs with the
aid of a waiter's flashlight. She posed for photos.
After a few minutes, the room settled down. "Let's get out of
here," Valeska said.
"O.K. Where to?"
"I'm beat, I need to lie down."
"Lie down," I said. "Oh." We paid the bill, grabbed a Turistaxi
out front, and went back to the Presidente.
The attendant on my floor tried to stop us in the hallway, thinking
that Valeska was one of the quasi-official whores _jinetas_ who
frequented the hotel. Knowing Valeska's life-style, I was worried for a
moment. But she yanked her identity card out from her bodice and
flipped it in the attendant's face. He apologized. I had glanced at the
card. "Cigar factory worker?" I said as I opened the door of my room.
She sniffed. "I used to sit there rolling cigars at H. Upmann's, 8 to
5, with some jerk reading editorials from _Granma_ out to us. I took
it for almost three years, when the baby was small, then I got smart."
She yawned. "I'm tired."
"Go ahead, lie down," I said.
She took off her shoes but left her dress on. "You can lie down
too."
"O.K." I said. My prick stirred slightly. I lay down beside her.
"This life stinks too. Cuba is no good. Turn the light off."
I put one hand on the breast nearest me. She grasped my hand firmly, her
long fingernails eating into my palm, and pulled it off. "Just lie down, I
said," she said sharply.
"Oh, sorry." I lay back and tried to think cold-shower thoughts.
Later, I awakened, feeling groggy. I gradually woke up completely as
I felt a hand pulling down the zipper on my fly.
Me: I thought you said...
Her: I can't get it down.
Me: Let me help.
I did help and she found my candlewick erect and ready. Too
ready.
Me: Don't, be careful!
Her: Why?
Me: Because...no, no.
Her: (easing up with her hand): You know that pearl bracelet?
Me: First thing in the morning. Oh. God no! Stop, stop! Yikes.
Oh. Oh.
It turned out it was a good thing I was only twenty-nine years old.
If I had been fifty, my evening fun might have been ended then and
there. But those African lips brought me back to life quickly. As it
was, when she left about 3:30, my body was trembling as if I had had a
an evening of ten daiquiris instead of two, and I could hardly raise my
eyelids, much less my prick.
I awoke to a sudden silence. The air conditioner had stopped
abruptly, along with the light in the bathroom -- a routine socialist
power outage. I pushed the light on my Casio -- 5:15. It would be
light soon, pale blue streaks were already showing above the still
gurgling blob of refrigeration machinery blocking the lower part of the
window. What a night. Making it with a sexy woman beats watching
reruns on TV -- and since it was Havana, there wouldn't have been any
TV after eleven anyway. Besides, it does something for your ego
when it's a woman who might have charged you for the evening, and
didn't. I know, I know, a small point, maybe. But face it, I, Jesus
Revueltos, was important, interesting, charming enough to pull a
freebie from a high class "girl" like Valeska.
Well, there was the pearl bracelet -- but a present between friends
is not the same thing at all as paying for it -- nobody can tell me
different about that. Besides, the prices at the dollar stores were pretty
reasonable, considering.
I began to see more of Valeska. She usually managed to find a
night or two a week free for me -- and fortunately the dollar stores
never ran out of jewelry, chocolates -- or Chinese condoms. And two
days later I ran into Pierre too. I was surprised to discover that I was
glad to see him again. He was back, staying at a house on the Malecon
near the hotel and busy with "business." A knowing smile when he
saw me with Valeska. "Dear Felipe, and dearest Valeska, my favorite
people, such good friends."
In between I went to lots of movies. There was one place that
showed the classics from the thirties that I love -- Garbo as Queen
Christina, Ninotchka and Jimmy Cagney, who is quite a culture hero
in macho-conscious Cuba. Besides, the TV had two channels,
afternoons and evenings, that showed reels and reels of old American
films from the thirties and forties. My idea of heaven. Sometimes a
speech of Fidel's preempted the flicks. Him and that repulsive brother
of his, Raul. Like Napoleon, Fidel believed in family -- wimpy-looking
little Raul standing beside and slightly behind his big brother, poor little
number two.
One day Valeska and I sat down to order coffee and ice cream in
The Pigeon's Nest on the Rampa, the chic area for all the socialist
gilded youth of Havana.
I looked up from the menu and saw Arnoldo. A giant chocolate
sundae was in front of him. He was with a group of other young men
and three postgraduate nymphet types. He stared at me. Valeska's
back was to him. He dug his spoon heavily into the sundae and stuck
it, filled with ice cream, into his mouth. He ate, then he puffed out his
cheeks. He began stabbing the sundae with the spoon, aimlessly.
"There's Arnoldo," I said, pointing.
Valeska turned around, smiled very briefly at Arnold, then turned
back toward me. Arnoldo jabbed the spoon hard into the sundae. It
slipped, and a big gob of ice cream landed on his forehead. Chocolate
sauce dripped down over one eye. He looked like he was going to
explode. One of the nymphets took a napkin and began to clean off his
face. With a swipe of his hand, he knocked several dishes of ice cream
off the table. A waiter hurried over, the a manager type. Arnoldo's
friends urged his to his feet and they put their arms around him and
shepherded him toward the door.
"No one knows what love is," he yelled.
The cafe grew silent.
"Love is hell," he said and he and his friends left. Applause. "You
can say that again," said someone. Laughter.
"I hate vulgarity," said Valeska, digging into her banana split.
On the far wall, the bearded likeness of Fidel Castro grinned down
paternally on the scene.
Fidel. I was still nowhere getting my promised interview with the
maximum leader. In principle, Fidel was accessible to everyone -- but
that apparently meant accessible only if and when he felt like it. I had
no luck with Pepita's contact on his staff, and I went back to MININT
to try there. Comrade Menendez, pulling on the jowls below his fat
cheeks, squirmed in his swivel chair. "The Comandante," he said,
making a tent with his hands, "is extremely conscious of the obligations
of the Cuban Revolution to the struggling democratic forces in other
nations. Especially Czechoslovakia."
"El Salvador," I said.
"El Salvador? I thought it was Czechoslovakia. Or was it
Albania?"
"El Salvador."
"But El Salvador is under the heel of the imperialists."
"I'm with the FMLN."
He looked puzzled.
"The socialists, the other side."
"Of course you are." His wide mouth split his face in a
pumpkin-like smile. "Of course."
"We will notify you as soon as we get an opening." Big smile. "I
hope you are enjoying your stay in Cuba. Have you been fishing out of
Mariel?" he said. I told him I hadn't.
And not having much else to do after the runaround I'd gotten
from him, the next day I did join a day charter. At anchor, the boat had
a rotting oily fish aroma that mixed in nicely with the iodine-salt smell
of the breeze off Punta Rubalcava. Underway, the ancient engine
contributed hydrocarbon smells that overwhelmed all other odors.
Sitting as far forward out of the fumes as I could, I managed to survive
the cruise, catching one medium albacore, a two-foot shark, and a
quite usable twenty-one-inch bicycle tire. The only thing that made me
the day tolerable was watching one of the big Soviet-built fishing
factory ships going by and being glad I wasn't one of the poor slobs
that had to spend three or four months at sea on a socialist vessel. On
the way back, I tried to scrunch down in the plastic chair, pull my hat
over my eyes, and take a nap. I thought about Valeska. How did you
get a name like that? I had finally asked her. It was my mother's idea,
she told me. Later Pierre told me that Maria Walewska was
Napoleon's mistress. "Give you any ideas, Felipe, darling?" he said.
I opened my eyes as the boat came in. We were passing a small
blue and white fishing boat. A man in the cockpit looked familiar. He
ducked his head. His blue coat fit him like a sack. He looked familiar.
He raised his head again. It was Mr. Marcus. Instead of the floppy
sports shirts and _guayaberas_ he favored in El Salvador, he was
wearing under the blue coat a striped shirt, trying to look like Spencer
Tracy in "Captains Courageous," I suppose. He saluted me and
grinned. Then he disappeared into the cabin of the boat. Mr. Marcus
in Cuba! I supposed he was making sure that I didn't try to leave the
country by boat until "the mission" had been accomplished. His
presence didn't make me feel any better at all.
That night Valeska's mother had gone on a visit to relatives in what
used to be Oriente province, and we were lolling on the murphy bed in
Valeska's cramped little apartment in Casablanca, across the harbor
from downtown. Strictly speaking, I was the one who was lolling,
trying to forget about Cuban bureaucrats, the Cuban police, the
Association -- and Mr. Marcus. I had just come in from fetching a pail
of water from the hydrant -- Valeska's block only had running water
from 11-12 and 2-4. Valeska was sitting with her son in the other
"room," where her mother and seven-year-old Pedro slept: the "room"
lay behind a sheet that had been thrown up on a clothesline running
through the middle of the apartment. She was trying to keep him
amused -- he had built a tent out of his bedclothes, but had then taken
a pair of scissors to the sheets to improve the design. She came back
to the main "room" and kitchen to put on the fish croquettes and check
the rice and the potatoes. In Cuba, complex carbohydrates were all the
rage -- lots of them, every meal. "What the hell are you really up to
here in Cuba, Felipe?" she said. "Something crooked, I suppose."
I asked her why she said that.
"Friends of Pierre are always into crazy things, usually crooked.
He's crazy," she said.
Pedro yelled "Mama!"
"Shut up!" she replied, calmly and hardly raising her voice.
"I want some pineapple!"
'No."
"Yes! _Pinita_!"
She slammed the wall with her fist. There was absolute silence
from the other side of the sheet. "He'll be quiet now."
"I'm working for the Party back in El Salvador."
"'Party.' That's what Pierre always says. And the only 'Party' he's
concerned with is himself." She smiled, evidently thinking of past
pleasures. "He knows how to take care of himself. But he's a good
pal."
"Yeah?"
"He doesn't bother women. That's good."
A low humming could be heard from the other side.
"Quiet!" she yelled.
A modest but clear "no" made itself heard. Then the humming
resumed.
"I've still got a few bureaucrats to see here," I said. The
humming grew louder.
"That drives me crazy, he gets it from next door."
"Next door?"
"That Indian creep Gupta, always sitting around humming. It's like
_santeria_, I don't like it."
"Sounds like meditation," I said. "Maybe transcendental."
"Don't hum!" she yelled. "Seeing bureaucrats, huh?" she said to me.
"Yeah."
She said she hadn't noticed my seeing anybody but her and a bunch
of fishermen and some films with movie stars from the stone ages.
"Well. I'm waiting to see Fidel."
The humming grew louder, into almost a screech. "Shut the hell
up!" she yelled. Sobbing. "Please, darling," she said to the hanging
sheet. Then she frowned at me and asked why seeing Fidel was such a
big problem. I explained my frustrations with the bureaucracy.
"What bullshit," she said. "Why didn't you say something? My
friend Doris has this special friend of hers that works on the staff of the
Council of Ministers. Very generous with presents from the dollar
stores. A new color TV, a camera that does everything, rolls the film
by itself, flashes like a regular lightning storm."
"Can he help me?"
"Lie back," she said. "I'm getting kind of hungry."
I looked toward the pots on the propane burner. "Is it ready
yet?" "Not that kind of hungry."
"I'm hungry too," came Pedro's small voice.
"But can your friend help?" I said, trying to raise myself up.
"Lie back!" She drew her lips together and frowned. I lay back
on the sofa and opened my fly. "Don't forget the amethyst ring I told
you about, will you, Flip?"
I shook my head. Her lips prodded into my groin. A broken
spring reached up out of the sofa and jabbed me in the ass. Then a
voice said, "What are you doing, _mamaita_?"
I tried to zip my fly and caught it in my penis. Ouch.
"Go away and play, Pedrito," she said. "Don't pay any attention
to him," she said to me.
A small face poked around the edge of the sheet. I turned away to
hide myself. "Mama!"
"_Queridito_, come see, there's nothing here." She motioned to
me and then got up and took him by the hand to bring him over. I
hurriedly undid my zipper and got my prick back in. "You see, it's
nothing." Pedro stared at my crotch. He looked disappointed. "See,
nothing."
"What have you got there?" he said to me, pointing at my fly.
She reached into the table drawer, scooped out a piece of hard
candy, and handed it to him. "Go!"
He popped the candy in his mouth. His eyes popped out too. She
shoved him and he trotted back to his "room."
We got back to business. As she eased herself onto me again, I
heard a voice from the other side of the sheet, singing: "He's got a little
weewee, a little weewee, he's got a little weewee, weewee, wee...."
My "weewee" felt smaller and smaller with each chorus. She
raised her head. "Don't pay any attention." She smiled. You should
see that ring, it's lovely."
"...little weewee..."
"Shit," I said loudly.
"_Senor_," said a small voice.
Her lips had hardened. Another "Shut up" was coming. "Yes," I
said, gasping.
"For one of those chocolate bars like you got _mamaita_, I could
stop singing."
"Go outside and play and I'll give you two," I said. Inside of
twenty seconds the door slammed. Inside sixty seconds, I came. And
the next morning I was the first in line at the dollar store, buying an
amethyst ring and a three month's supply of chocolate bars. By dinner
time Doris' friend had gotten me an appointment with Fidel Castro.
================================================
GABRIELE
By Otho Eskin
(Note: this is part 6 of the play "Duet")
CHARACTERS
(In order of appearance)
ELEONORA DUSE
SARAH BERNHARDT
MAN
SETTING
Backstage of the Syria Theatre, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
TIME
April 5, 1924 Evening.
SCENE
ELEONORA
Sarah Bernhardt has said I should come to Paris?
SARAH
Of course, my dear. You are welcome. As a sign of my good will, I will
allow you to use my own theater.
MAN
How generous!
ELEONORA
I'm not so sure.
MAN
What a noble soul the Great Sarah has to make such an offer. You can't
refuse.
ELEONORA
I couldn't refuse.
SARAH
It's settled! That Italian woman will perform in Paris.
MAN
Paris talks of nothing else. The press is ecstatic over the Divine Sarah's
generous offer to stand as the champion of La Duse her only rival.
SARAH
Everyone described it as an act of unprecedented generosity.
MAN
Not every one.
SARAH
Some questioned my motives.
MAN
Some suggest it was done for publicity. Some suggest that Sarah is
luring this young woman to Paris so that Sarah might devour her.
SARAH
How absurd! I would never dream of such a thing.
ELEONORA
I need something new something fresh to perform in Paris. I will
perform your new play, Gabriele The Dead City. I will make it the
greatest theatrical work of our time.
MAN
I cannot allow you perform The Dead City.
ELEONORA
But, my love, you wrote it for me.
MAN
You may not perform it now. Not in Paris. Not yet.
ELEONORA
I was devastated. I wanted more than anything else in life to perform
that play. I knew
it would be an event of transcendent beauty. I could not understand.
MAN
It is not for you to understand. Appear in La Dame aux camelias
instead.
ELEONORA
Impossible! That is Sarah's play.
MAN
Face the tigress in her lair. Perform in the role she is most known for.
ELEONORA
And so I went to Paris. And so I finally met the Divine Sarah face to
face.
(SARAH and ELEONORA rush toward
one another, arms outstretched, and fling
themselves into one another's arms in an
extravagant, and unconvincing, gesture
of warmth and friendship.)
MAN
The two greatest actresses of their time together at last. This was not a
meeting it was a collision.
SARAH
My dear, welcome to Paris! Welcome to my modest home.
ELEONORA
Madame, I am honored.
SARAH
You are too kind.
ELEONORA
This is the culmination of years of hope to meet at last the
incomparable Sarah herself.
SARAH
I have heard many fine things about you...
ELEONORA
You have been my inspiration since I was a child.
SARAH
(Coolly)
I have not had the pleasure of meeting your companion.
ELEONORA
Madame, my I present Gabriele D'Annunzio.
MAN
Enchant<EFBFBD>.
SARAH
(Full of charm, flirtatious)
My delight is to be doubled I see.
MAN
Madame, your beauty exceeds all rumor. I am at your feet.
SARAH
I am an admirer of your poetry, Signor.
ELEONORA
Gabriele is also a distinguished playwright.
SARAH
How wonderful! I hope one day I will have the honor of appearing in
one of your works.
MAN
The honor would be mine.
SARAH
(To ELEONORA)
Now, my dear, tell me what will you perform for your debut in
Paris?
ELEONORA
I have decided to play the role of Marguerite in La Dame aux camelias.
SARAH
You cannot be serious!
ELEONORA
Cher, Madame...
SARAH
The effrontery!
ELEONORA
I mean this as a tribute to your genius.
SARAH
You mean to challenge me. You mean to lay claim to the title of
greatest actress of Europe. What treachery! What deceit!
ELEONORA
I don't need to appear in one of your old war horses to prove myself.
SARAH
I have welcomed you to Paris. I have offered you the hospitality of my
home. And how do you repay me? You have stabbed me through the
heart! I lie upon the floor, bleeding, the last breath of my life escaping
in a sigh. I will not allow you.
ELEONORA
Madame, I will do as I please.
SARAH
You dare contradict me!
ELEONORA
I will not be told what I can or cannot perform. If that causes you grief,
that can't be helped.
SARAH
It causes me more than grief. I have lived with grief all my life. It is no
stranger to me. What you have done causes me something much graver
it causes me disappointment. I had thought you had more honor than
to betray your benefactor.
ELEONORA
You are not my benefactor.
SARAH
I have given you my own theater for you to use.
ELEONORA
And you refused me the courtesy of your dressing room although
you used mine when you performed in Turin years ago. If you wish to
withdraw the offer of your theater you may. I will have no difficulty in
finding another.
SARAH
Without my endorsement, nobody will come.
ELEONORA
Everybody will come.
MAN
Please, dear ladies, do not spoil this happy this historic occasion
by quarreling...
ELEONORA
Quiet!
SARAH
This is between us.
ELEONORA
Why are you angry, Madame? Are you afraid the people of Paris will
see that this role can be interpreted by someone beside you? Will they
see how old and stale your vaunted technique is? Will they feel fresh air
once more in the theater?
(Long pause)
SARAH
You are, of course, quite right, my dear. You may select any play you
wish. Including La Dame aux camelias. I am sure you will do
splendidly.
ELEONORA
You are most gracious, Madame.
SARAH
I insist that you call me Sarah.
ELEONORA
Sarah.
SARAH
Eleonora.
MAN
See! Wasn't that easy. Everyone is happy. I am so pleased.
SARAH
Eleonora, the more that I think about it, the more I am convinced La
Dame aux camelias is perfect for you.
MAN
Didn't I tell you the same thing?
ELEONORA
I will confess, I have had doubts about that...
SARAH
Nonsense! You must do it.
MAN
You must.
SARAH
I insist.
MAN
She insists.
ELEONORA
She insists.
SARAH
You will be a great triumph.
MAN
A fabulous success.
SARAH
You will be magnificent. The event of the season. I will attend your
debut myself.
MAN
The Great Sarah will attend your debut. What an honor! And Sarah did
attend.
ELEONORA
She sat in her loge, her disheveled hair enveloped in a wreath of roses.
MAN
No one in the audience could take their eyes from the Divine Sarah.
ELEONORA
I am terrified. Never have I felt so unsure of myself.
MAN
There is no need to be anxious, my saint.
ELEONORA
This play is a mistake. I should never have agreed to do La Dame aux
camelias. Everyone will compare me to Sarah.
MAN
You will be brilliant.
ELEONORA
We must cancel the performance.
MAN
Impossible!
ELEONORA
I'm too nervous to perform. She is out there, watching me. I can't go
on.
MAN
You must. This is your chance to prove yourself Sarah's equal. If you
cancel the performance, everyone will say you are frightened of Sarah.
ELEONORA
I am frightened of her.
MAN
Tout Paris is here tonight. You will be brilliant.
SARAH
You will be fantastic.
MAN
Fabulous.
SARAH
Glorious.
(BEAT)
ELEONORA
I was a disaster.
MAN
Catastrophe.
SARAH
Horrible.
ELEONORA
I saw her from the stage the only one I saw beautiful,
transcendent roses in her hair. She smiled at me from time to time.
MAN
Everyone in the audience watched for Sarah's reaction.
ELEONORA
I knew it was not working. I felt her eyes on me at all times. I wanted
to die.
SARAH
At the first intermission my admirers came to my loge.
MAN
Madame, you have nothing to fear from La Duse. Your crown is secure
forever.
SARAH
They told me her reputation was inflated. She was only considered
good because she had never appeared in Paris. The only place that
really matters.
MAN
Not up to Paris standards.
SARAH
There was general agreement.
MAN
No make up. Dull costumes. Not as good as our Sarah.
ELEONORA
It was awful.
SARAH
I was re-affirmed by the critics and the public as supreme.
MAN
Another triumph for the Great Sarah.
SARAH
A time of triumph and I was in despair. The mob saw a woman not
using the stylized acting techniques they were used to. I saw something
else. I saw a new style of acting more natural, more felt, than
anything I'd ever experienced. I saw an artist who was as good as I
was. I saw genius. And that night I saw a woman fifteen years younger
than I playing my role. I felt mortality. And I never forgave that.
ELEONORA
I was a failure.
MAN
You were terrible, Eleonora.
SARAH
Disappointing.
MAN
Inadequate. Very.
SARAH
Not up to Paris standards, my dear.
MAN
You should never have appeared in La Dame aux camelias. You were
a fool even to think of such a thing. A fool.
ELEONORA
I should never have performed that play.
SARAH
You should not have performed that play. Not in Paris.
ELEONORA
Why didn't you let me use your new play, Gabriele? The play which I
inspired.
MAN
You made a fool of yourself, Eleonora. Worse you made a fool of
me.
SARAH
(To MAN)
Your lovely mistress was not a great success last night, I'm afraid.
MAN
I realize now I have been wrong about her. I was bewitched by her
beauty. I now know she can never be your equal. Forgive me for
thinking so.
SARAH
I always forgive men who are blinded by love. Have I told you about
the coffin I keep in my bedroom, Gabriele? One of my lovers gave it to
me. He would have me lie in it, surrounded by burning tapers, and
watch me for hours. Then we would make love. In the coffin. Perhaps
you would like to see my coffin?
MAN
I would be enchanted.
SARAH
I am told you have written a new play.
MAN
A great poetic tragedy.
SARAH
Tell me about it, Gabriele.
MAN
It is called The Dead City and it is set on the hot plain outside of the
ancient ruins of Mycenae. It involves adultery and incest..
SARAH
Adultery and incest. How wonderful! I am sure I will adore it. I wish to
produce and star in it myself.
MAN
That would be a great honor, Sarah, but...
SARAH
Is there something wrong?
MAN
Nothing would give me greater pleasure...
SARAH
What is it, my dear Gabriele?
MAN
I wrote that play for Eleonora.
SARAH
So? What is the problem?
MAN
I promised The Dead City to her.
SARAH
Promises are made to be broken. You were young. Your experience
was limited. Now, tonight, it can be unlimited.
MAN
I'm certain that, with you to inspire me, my genius will know no
bounds.
SARAH
We have a great deal in common, you and I. We're both charlatans. I
wonder how much more we have in common.
ELEONORA
(Furious)
You did what?! You gave your play to Bernhardt!? To that that
woman! How could you? She has nothing to do with our dreams.
Nothing to do with our new theater. She's from the past. She is the
past. We are the future. How dare you! The Dead City is my play. You
wrote it for me. I want my play.
MAN
I have signed a contract and Sarah will perform it next year.
ELEONORA
You betrayed me.
MAN
Infidelity gives love an intoxicating novelty.
(ELEONORA moves threateningly
toward the MAN who backs away
quickly.)
ELEONORA
You gave away your art for a night of rutting! You've cheapened your
art. You've cheapened yourself. You've cheapened me! (SHE snatches
up some heavy object.) You worm! You slug. I'll cut out your heart.
(The MAN slips into the shadows and
ELEONORA slumps into a chair.)
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