1260 lines
61 KiB
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1260 lines
61 KiB
Plaintext
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 6, Number 3
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May-June, 1999
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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 of
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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-
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mail 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
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same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
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of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
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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 the website
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http:/www.etext.org
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where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.
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The FICTION-ONLINE home page, courtesy of the Writer's
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Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the following URL:
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http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
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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 licensed
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to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
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reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
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in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage
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performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
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explicitly licensed, are reserved.
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William Ramsay, Editor
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=================================================
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"To a Sister Who Did Not Land on Earth," a poem
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W. R. Hastings
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"In the End," a short-short story
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Don Barbera
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"The Easy Way," an excerpt (chapter 14) from
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the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
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William Ramsay
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"Plans," part 5 of the play, "Miss Julie"
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Otho Eskin
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=================================================
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CONTRIBUTORS
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DONALD R. BARBERA is a former journalist for the Tulsa Tribune,
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the Pittsburgh Morning Sun, and others. He is currently working in
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marketing and sales in the corporate world, and does part-time
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university teaching.
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OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
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has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
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produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
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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 in
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the United States, Europe, and Australia. He is currently working on a
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suspense novel with a Washington background.
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W. R. HASTINGS is an attorney and a former government official.
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He now lives in the Berkshires, where he gardens, investigates
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aerodynamics, and writes poetry. His works have been published in
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leading journals.
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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 a member of the Northwest
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Fiction Group. His play, "Through the Wormhole," recently received a
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reading at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
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=================================================
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TO A SISTER WHO DID NOT LAND ON EARTH
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by W. R Hastings
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She was always ready for love
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the way lions love zebras
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and bears find blueberry bushes
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but I was just a boy then,
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had only brothers, trouble in my shape,
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and thought that love meant
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having muscles or round hips and
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touching until all your chemicals
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smelt like sweet cider.
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Her face arises now from dreams:
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high cheeks, her blue delphinium eyes
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relentlessly following those of others,
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her laughter like a steel hoe striking stones,
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her hair out of place, a smoke tree in bloom,
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a heron lightness in the way she moves.
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We sometimes wrestle as we talk,
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dance wordlessly to '50's music
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or argue all night long.
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Her arrival takes me to gardens,
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to places where yesterday's rain lingers in leafmold
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or streams over old stones along the same runs
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it took last year and the year before.
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Though now we meet often under eyelids,
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there is still one question I cannot ask her:
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what is it like not to have been enfleshed
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with lipid fats, proteins and carbohydrates?
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How is it not to be and so be?
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==================================================
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IN THE END
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by Don Barbera
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Vernon and Willie didn't have enough sense to poor piss out of a boot
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even with the instructions written on the heel. Now, they were
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contemplating robbing a convenience store. Once they had it all worked
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out, Vernon drove the raggedy truck to the front of the store where Willie
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hopped out and went inside.
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After wandering down the aisles for several moments, Willie grabbed
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some chips and a candy bar then stood in the waiting line as if he were
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going to pay for the items. When the last customer paid, Willie waited
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until the customer left the store and then with his hand jammed in his
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jacket pocket he bellowed at the night clerk, "give me all the money in the
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register or I'll blow your brains across the counter".
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The man behind the counter responded immediately. His actions suggested
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that this wasn't his first time being a part of a robbery. The clerk moved
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with precision removing the money from the cash register, handing the bag
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to Willie and stepping back behind the counter in one smooth move. That's
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when it all went bad.
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When Willie removed brought his hand forward to grab the money he
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didn't not realizing that it was the same hand that supposedly held a gun
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in it. Willie didn't notice it at first but the clerk did. While Willie's only
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weapon was his finger in his jacket pocket, the clerk had a .357 magnum
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that was very real.
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Fear hit Willie like a left hook. For just a second his feet locked to the
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floor as the clerk snatched his pistol from beneath the counter. In an
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instant, Willie broke free and sprinted to the door and into the parking
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lot. With pistol in hand the clerk leaped over the counter and opened fire
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as Willie zigged and zagged into the night. Just as Willie reached Vernon's
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open truck door, a bullet caught him in the ass knocking forward into the
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truck.
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The impact of the bullet and the remainder of Willie's speed knocked him
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forward and into the passenger's seat next to Vernon as they started their
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get away. Screeching from the parking lot, Vernon failed to notice the
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one-way sign and turned directly into the oncoming traffic where they
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promptly collided head-on with a police cruiser. The collision threw both
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of them forward and smashed their heads into the safety glass.
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They were both groggy and glassy-eyed when the police came to Vernon's
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truck. The store clerk arrived a few seconds later and blurted out the
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entire story. They arrested Vernon and Willie on the spot. A brief search
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produced the bag of money. That's when the clerk spoke up again. That's
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the bag I gave him, " he said. "He snatched it out of my hand and ran out
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before I could get to him." The policeman with the bag opened it and
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looked at the contents for several seconds before saying, "are you sure this
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is the bag?" The clerk looked closely and realized he had made a mistake.
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It was the right bag but it didn't contain money. It was his lunch-a bologna
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sandwich, a bag of chips and two Twinkies. When the policeman emptied
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the contents onto the hood of Vernon's truck, everyone laughed including
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Vernon. Willie's ass hurt too much for him to see the humor.
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===================================================FIDEL AND ELECTRONICS
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by William Ramsay
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(Note: this is chapter 14 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!")
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My mother had figured out a good way to get publicity -- not that
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the "March of the Little People" was covered on Cuban TV or in
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"Granma" or in any of the other official media in Cuba. But the next day,
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Sunday, I overheard people in the hotel -- two Colombians, a Czech trade
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delegation, two Russian engineers -- talking in guarded tones about the
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"little people," and I saw a group of teenagers cavorting along a sidewalk
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on the Rampa, crouching, jerking about, pretending to be dwarfs or
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twitching in caricatures of epilepsy. Walking along the Malecon, I heard
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an African and an Oriental talking in fractured English about "that
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foolishness at Lenin Park" -- as well as about a new bank robbery in
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Holguin. At Holguin, a provincial capital in the north of the old Castro
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country, a cat had been reported involved, and the robbers were supposed
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to have escaped in the direction of Mayari and the Sierras.
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Paco came around in the afternoon. He sat down on the edge of the
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bed in my hotel room and made apologetic faces, apparently to excuse his
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inglorious escape from the police. Fidel was said to be really angry. My
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mother was in custody and her case, anti-socialist behavior and
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possession of illicit drugs, was "under investigation." Then Paco must
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have taken in what I hoped was the withering look on my face, because
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he immediately volunteered that my mother had refused to get away while
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there was still time. "Really, Chucho, no kidding. I tried, really I did,
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Chucho." He twisted his big diamond pinky ring as if it were causing him
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agony.
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"Where were you after the march on the merry-go-round?"
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"I was coming back, Chucho, really, I was looking for the car that
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was supposed to pick us up afterward. Then I saw the cops closing in
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and I ran into Jerry, who told me to get out."
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"Yeah, sure," I said. Paco was the kind of guy who would always
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leave someone else holding the bag -- it was my mother's fault, or
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misfortune, that she had decided to hook up with someone like Amelia's
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brother. The fact remained that now I had, not just one parent, but both
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my mother and father in Fidel's jails.
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As for me, Pineda had me brought in for questioning later in the
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afternoon. Slumped in his chair, his triple chins sunk despondently on his
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chest, he interrogated me lackadaisically, as if I had been caught
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jaywalking. I figured that my G-2 shadow must have reported to him that
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I had only been an onlooker at the demonstration. Finally he said he was
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releasing me, but warned me that any intervention of mine on behalf of
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my mother would be looked at as "unfriendly." I asked what was going
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to happen to her.
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"If those tapes appear on American television," he said, "I won't
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answer for the consequences."
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Aha, I thought. The Canadian TV crew. Fearless Fidel didn't want
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to look ridiculous on CNN. I nodded.
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"The Comandante wishes you to continue on your work."
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"Yes, Comrade."
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"I don't want to be called 'Comrade' by a gusano!"
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"Yes, sir!" I said, getting up and leaving. I was unhappy about
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mamacita's imprisonment, but I was glad that somebody on our side was
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keeping the videotapes as a card to play against Fidel -- and that
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consequently Mama should be safe for the time being. So the only thing
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I could think of to do was to continue with my efforts on the cellular
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phone front.
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I had checked earlier with Dominguez who told me that the spooks
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had received my request. But ten days or so had passed and no response.
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Then on the Tuesday I had a message from Mr. Marcus that arrangements
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for a "shipment" were being made. They were waiting for a suitable
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courier. Meanwhile, no word on my mother, who was still being held
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incommunicado. But from an English tourist I found out that both the
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"New York Times" and the "International Herald Tribune" had had short
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articles on the "little people." The tapes, however, had not yet appeared,
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I assume because the Canadian producer had been negotiating with the
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Cubans.
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Looking back, I can see now that at that point I began to go
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downhill. I don't know whether it was something about strong rum, or
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whether it's the way I handle or can't handle my drinking -- I've never
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really been at ease with alcohol. Or maybe it was the situation. I had
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organized the transmitters and handsets for the phone system, and while
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I had enough to worry about, I didn't have enough to do. Waiting,
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waiting. I began to feel that everybody was against me. Except maybe
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Valeska. Valeska and rum -- the week after the march, those two were
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threatening to become my downfall. I would get too tiddly, then she and
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I would start something up, a little pleasure, a few more promises about
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consumer goods, then hours of drugged sleep. One night in my room, she
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sat looking down on me as I tried my best to get my dingdong up and
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going. Her hair had recently evolved into a sort of dark greenish color,
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and it hung down around her face as she made a little pout, her legs
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working futilely, the sweat standing on her temples. "God, the work a
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woman has to do for you!" she said.
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I told her I was sorry. "Let's not give up," I said, "I can still do
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it."
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She sighed. "I'll turn over." She turned away from me, pulling me
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to her rear end, and started to move again, her pelvic bones clunking on
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mine. My prick started to feel better. Oh yes!
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"I need some more nail polish," she said.
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"Tomorrow," I said, gasping.
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The phone rang. I leaned over to answer it, reluctantly plucking
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myself away from Valeska.
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It was Paco.
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"Chucho, my sister's here. Just came in on the midnight charter from
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Miami."
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"What!" I said, sitting up. "Christ!" The condom I was wearing
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began to collapse between my legs like a miniature pup tent.
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"Don't worry."
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"Shit. What made her decide to come to Cuba?"
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"She'll tell you about that herself. We're at her room at the
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Nacional, waiting for you."
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Oh God. I cleared my throat and told Valeska I had to go out. I
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went into the bathroom to wash up.
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"Oh come on, it's eleven o'clock, can't it wait until tomorrow?"
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I shook my head no, no.
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"Another woman?"
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I said no it wasn't another woman.
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"Give me a lift to the Rampa, then."
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I told her I was only going over to the Nacional, which is about ten
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blocks along the Calzada from the Presidente. She said fine, she wanted
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to see a friend there anyway. I figured I could ditch her quickly when we
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arrived, and so off we went in a cab -- followed by a dark gray Volga that
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I was growing accustomed to seeing in my wake ever since Lenin Park.
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I walked into the lobby of the Nacional, getting ready to escape from
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Valeska as quickly as possible, when I saw Amelia and Paco sitting in the
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bar just off the lobby.
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"O.K., I've got to go," I said, backing away. I glanced over my
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shoulder. Paco was waving at me. Amelia, in a rose-colored dress, smiled
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and raised a glass at me.
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"Kiss good-bye." said Valeska, looking over at Paco.
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"Later," I said.
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"Who's that pudgy girl with Paco?" she said.
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"Just a friend, tell you later." I edged farther away.
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She leaned close to me, gave me a peck on the cheek and, in the way
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she has, poked her long sharp fingernail through a gap in my shirt and into
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my belly button. "She looks like a schoolteacher," said Valeska.
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I backed away, waving, and then turned. Amelia gazed intently at
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me as I walked over to the bar. The distance between us over the soiled
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maroon carpet must have been no more than ten yards, but the walk
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seemed to last longer than a moon mission.
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"Who is that, Chucho?" she said loudly.
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"Please," I said, "Don't use that name here!"
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"Under any name, darling, you look wonderful." She put her mouth
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up to be kissed. "But what shall I call you?"
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"Felipe," I said.
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"I call you crazy," said Amelia. "Well, anyway, who is that tarty-
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looking woman?"
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"What woman?" I said.
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"She works for the government," said Paco.
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"Yes, the government," I said.
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"But doesn't everybody work for the government here?"
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"Yes," said Paco.
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"No," I said.
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Amelia looked over my shoulder. "And why did she poke you in the
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stomach?"
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"You see..." I began.
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"Why did she?" said Paco.
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"She's still there," said Amelia.
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"Oh," I said.
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"She's waving at you."
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"Better go over," said Paco.
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A sudden inspiration. "She's waving at Paco."
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"Me?" said Paco.
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"You," I said in what I hoped was a decisive voice.
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Paco smiled. "Sure, O.K., Chucho, I mean Felipe. I mean sure,
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sure." He got up and went over to Valeska, leaning over her and falling
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into what looked like an intimate conversation.
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"Why didn't you say she was a friend of Paco's?" said Amelia.
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"Well, she is."
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"I see she is." Paco's lips were close to Valeska's ear now. Amelia
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looked into my eyes. "Good to see you, sweetheart, may I call you
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sweetheart?"
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Paco and Valeska had moved away and were leaving the lobby,
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headed for the mezzanine restaurant. "Yes, of course you may." I kissed
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her. Tender lips, just like always. "But why are you here, Amelia?"
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"To see you," she whispered, "'hush-hush Chucho.'"
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"Oh," I said.
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"No, no," she said and laughed. "I don't want to mess up your
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'project' here, whatever it is. I really came to get Elena out of custody."
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What?"
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"I'm not going to have my client treated this way."
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"But, but..."
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"Communists or not, they can't get away with this."
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"But Amelia."
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But me no buts, I'm going to get" -- she lowered her voice -- "your
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mother out of jail and out of this country. Come on, let's go up to my
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room, we can talk more privately there." She squeezed my hand. "Mr.
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Whoever-you-are!"
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When Amelia gets into one of her decisive moods, there's no point
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arguing with her.
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The Nacional's elevator was working that night. Inside, as I tried
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not to look at myself in the mirrored walls lest I see someone I didn't
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want to see staring back at me, she said, "I've got something for you.
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Upstairs." Inside her room, she rummaged in her suitcase and handed me
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two large manila envelopes. "I don't know what it's about," she said. As
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she took off her dress, I ripped the envelopes open. While she went to
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the bathroom, I pulled out: (1) a wiring diagram for a telecommunications
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switching module, (2) a circuit board for the key switch in the module, (3)
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a network diagram for a phone switching system, (4) a BASIC program
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code for sequencing and "handing off" calls in a cellular phone system.
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Mr. Marcus -- or his colleague Peterson in Miami -- had found his
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courier.
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I don't know what it was, the freshness of Amelia's body, the glow
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of her smile, or the relief at getting the cellular data, but I didn't have
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any more trouble in bed that night. Maybe it was being in a sense incognito
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-- even though Amelia knew the real me, yet another person in Havana
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who knew my real name -- I still felt disguised, like Zorro in the old
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Republic serials, or like the Man in the Iron Mask in the Douglas
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Fairbanks, Sr. flick. I was the dashing, romantic star that night, making
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love to the lovely leading lady.
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Until she turned over and said, "Jesse, you forgot me again!" and I
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had to lean over, shuck my star part, and take on the faithful love slave's
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role. But even slaves have fun -- after all, think of Kirk Douglas as
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Spartacus.
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For the next two weeks, I saw a good deal of Amelia. She was busy
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trying to arrange some deal to free my mother, but she also kept at me
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about my efforts to get my father out. I told her I was hopeful, but that
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it was a little complicated. It felt complicated enough at that instant, I
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was trying to get Pineda to let me test out the cellular network on just
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four units -- but he was insisting on at least ten.
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"We have to look like it's a real system," he said. "We have to be able to
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let a group of delegates to this conference try it out for themselves."
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In vain I tried to convince him that the principle was the same with
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four or ten or a hundred, and that we needed to minimize the chance that
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last- minute nitty-gritty problems would foul things up. He looked at me
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and smiled.
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"I don't know why you're arguing about this -- when it has already
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been decided at the highest levels." With his bristly little mustache and
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his prominent front teeth, he reminded me too much of a happy rat. But
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rat or no, I figured he was only relaying Castro's royal commands.
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"By the way," he said, "who is this new woman you're seeing, this
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gusana from Miami?" I started to hedge, but he interrupted me. "I know
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she's here about Mrs. Revueltos. Anything else?"
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I shrugged. "An old friend."
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He raised an eyebrow. I asked whether there was any news about
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my mother. He told me the case was being "evaluated."
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"At the highest level?"
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"At the highest level. There have been psychiatric tests. Some of
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the doctors think she's crazy."
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I could have told Pineda that without bothering with a test. My
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work was now cut out for me -- but at least it looked as if I had an
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outside chance of making the deadline, now just three weeks ahead. It
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would be close, but I already had a lot of the system together, installed in
|
|
four MININT motor pool cars -- the easiest thing I had to do was to
|
|
organize six more units -- one of which was to go into a new Alfa
|
|
Romeo, Fidel's favorite automobile. The hard part was finishing the rest
|
|
of the system. We had the space in a shed on top of the Havana Libre for
|
|
my main transmitter and the essential computer links, and a location on
|
|
the roof for my antenna. I was having a cable installed from the shed to
|
|
an empty room below, where the main computer processing would be
|
|
done. Luckily, we had been able to get some equipment from a Mexican
|
|
subsidiary of IBM. My colleague at the university had supplied me with
|
|
two students, and MININT had come through with a silent, beady-eyed,
|
|
experienced engineer to direct the central operations.
|
|
But it was Eddy who saved my life -- he was my good right hand.
|
|
One day he came into my office smiling. "I've just told Apodaca that the
|
|
two circuit boards you asked about have to be ready. Or else."
|
|
"Or else what?" I asked.
|
|
"Or else you would report it to 'the highest levels.'"
|
|
"You're learning, kid," I said.
|
|
One day Eddy and I had been drinking beer after work and I must
|
|
have winced once too often at the 'Doctor' label. "What's the matter,
|
|
Doctor?" he said.
|
|
"Eddy, I'm not really a doctor." The secret of my identity was really
|
|
getting on my nerves. The other people on the project hadn't been told
|
|
much about my background, they just assumed that my doctorate was in
|
|
engineering or one of the physical sciences.
|
|
I explained to him about being just a plain engineer.
|
|
"Oh well, then, you're an ingeniero. Even better. Where did you
|
|
study?" he said.
|
|
I hesitated. "Miami."
|
|
"Miami -- you've lived in America?"
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
He shook his head. "What I wouldn't do to go to America!" He
|
|
shook his head. "It must be like Carnival every day."
|
|
"Maybe you'll get a chance one day," I said.
|
|
"I'd be your slave." He looked at me, his eyes glowing.
|
|
"Nobody needs to be a slave to anyone."
|
|
"I wouldn't mind being yours, Doctor -- I mean ingeniero." And he
|
|
put his arm on mine and gave me a look so intense that it made me
|
|
nervous. "I have so much love and admiration for you, sir." His hand
|
|
pressed more strongly.
|
|
"Don't, Eddy, hey!" His arm was traveling up to embrace my neck.
|
|
He sat back on the barstool and lowered his head. "I'm sorry, I can't help
|
|
myself."
|
|
"Pull yourself together. Honestly!" I said. God, that was all I
|
|
needed, three girlfriends and a boyfriend to boot. Eddy was invaluable to
|
|
me, but he'd have to handle his own social life.
|
|
Speaking of sex, during these last weeks before the conference I
|
|
continued to see both women. One day, I spotted Amelia on the Malecon.
|
|
She was in her sweats. A light mist wisped about the edge of the sea.
|
|
She invited me for a stroll. After a few minutes, she picked up the pace,
|
|
and soon she was jogging. I was trying out some 4-peso Cuban-made
|
|
sandals and they weren't made for athletics. They felt like slippers on my
|
|
feet as I broke into a jog to keep up. Soon she was moving faster. "Stop,
|
|
slow down, will you." My big toe began to chafe against the crudely cut
|
|
sandal strap.
|
|
"You're getting soft, Chucho."
|
|
"Oh come on."
|
|
She picked up the pace more. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I
|
|
asked her how it was getting on with my mother's case. She shook her
|
|
head and said that the police wouldn't even let her interview Mother.
|
|
"They have her tucked away in some loony bin," she said. "But they
|
|
know we have the tapes."
|
|
So the tapes of the demonstration were in safe hands, thank God --
|
|
Amelia's. Then the cheap thong on the left sandal gave way, the sandal
|
|
slipped off, and I tripped and fell on my face on the concrete. I raised
|
|
myself slightly. Nothing broken.
|
|
"Poor Chucho!" She wiped away the sand where my knee was
|
|
slightly skinned and kissed it. I sat up and took a deep breath. She put
|
|
her arm around me and asked me how my "secret project" was working
|
|
out. I told her I was optimistic. She said it had better work pretty soon
|
|
or something else would have to be done about my father. I leaned over
|
|
to rub more sand off my wounded knee.
|
|
"Easier said than done," I said. I told her I wasn't even sure that my
|
|
father would leave prison if they opened the doors and shooed him out, he
|
|
seemed so anxious to appease Fidel.
|
|
"You make it all too complicated, like the prison break idea Paco
|
|
told me about. All too much fuss."
|
|
"It can't be helped."
|
|
"Too much fuss -- there must be an easier way."
|
|
I made a face. It was simple enough for her to talk about easier ways
|
|
- - it wasn't her problem, I thought.
|
|
She got up and started running in place. "Come on, let's stretch the
|
|
legs a little more. Is your knee O.K.?"
|
|
"Yeah, sure, but..."
|
|
"Get off your butt, then, Chucho. Come on!"
|
|
"But my sandals..."
|
|
"Run in your bare feet. Come on, let's go." She started to move off.
|
|
I took another deep breath, flipped off the other sandal, stood up,
|
|
and jogged off after her. She kept talking, but my knee hurt and I
|
|
couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. Now my feet began to hurt
|
|
too from the rough concrete surface of the path.
|
|
In retrospect, I should have listened more carefully. When Amelia
|
|
gets an idea fixed in her skull, there's no stopping her. It makes her fun
|
|
to be around sometimes. But it can be dangerous at other times.
|
|
She was ten yards ahead of me now. "Come on, lazy. Get a move
|
|
on!"
|
|
"My feet!" I yelled.
|
|
"Your ass!" came her voice back through the stiff sea breeze.
|
|
"You're always giving up too soon!"
|
|
I stopped and looked down at my feet. I started to move again,
|
|
slowly. Even walking hurt now. I thought of Pepita, nostalgic for the old
|
|
days when at least I didn't have to walk on the wounded parts of my body.
|
|
Far ahead, running like a plumpish gazelle, Amelia was still talking, her
|
|
voice fading in the wind. "For instance," I heard her say, "suppose that
|
|
we could..." I followed at a crippled walk, now mostly hearing only the
|
|
sounds, not the words: I caught the single words "women," "marital," but
|
|
little else. Little did I know, that that day on the Malecon, that I was
|
|
missing out on an idea of Amelia's that would almost be the end of my
|
|
father, my mother, and me.
|
|
Three days later, coming back to my room at the Presidente, I found
|
|
my door slightly ajar. I pushed it open carefully. Marcus, in a red polo
|
|
shirt with a Boca Raton Club badge, his thinning hair barely covering the
|
|
top of his skull, was sitting on my bed reading my copy of "The Other
|
|
Side of Midnight" by Sidney Shelton. He didn't look up. He said, "You
|
|
can learn a lot from this kind of book."
|
|
"If you're here to pressure me, forget it, I need more time. My plan
|
|
should be implemented shortly."
|
|
He now looked up and waved expansively, his chunky body bouncing
|
|
on the soft bed, creaking and swaying like a toy top. "What is your
|
|
opinion of Amelia Santos?"
|
|
I told him my opinion.
|
|
He nodded. "A very resourceful girl. How about her loyalty?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh for Christ's sake, is this a witch hunt?"
|
|
"She seems to have what it takes."
|
|
"To have what it takes to do what?"
|
|
He got up, putting on a brand new Panama hat which was slightly
|
|
small for him. "Not like some of the rest of us."
|
|
"I told you, Marcus. Just be a little more patient."
|
|
He opened the door and smirked at me. "'Patient'! This is the U.S.
|
|
government you're talking to." He turned, showing the tail of his polo
|
|
shirt like the red flag on an overlength truckload, and clumped out of the
|
|
door.
|
|
As the door, shimmying slightly, shut behind him, I thought: God
|
|
save these United States!
|
|
#
|
|
Meanwhile the preparations for the demonstration of the cellular
|
|
phone system were beginning to look good. I went in to report to Pineda
|
|
one day, and he took me along to Fidel himself. A group of people were
|
|
in his office, but when Fidel saw me, he waved them away impatiently.
|
|
I set the plans for the network down in front of him and he gobbled it up
|
|
like a new toy.
|
|
"Magnificent. Qaddafi will be out of his mind with envy."
|
|
I gathered that he was running a socialist charisma contest with the
|
|
Libyan leader.
|
|
"How many? Only ten?" he said.
|
|
My stomach felt hollow. I explained to him that we were pressing
|
|
our luck in trying out a new system on even ten units.
|
|
"Well," he said. He clapped me on the shoulder, and it hurt, but I
|
|
suppose the honor was worth it. His large mouth widened into a delighted
|
|
smile. "We have a sacred obligation never to be satisfied," he said. I
|
|
recognized one of his favorite mottoes. He swung his chair around, so
|
|
that his head was half-hidden by a pile of documents: I understood that
|
|
he read fifty or so of them every day. Sticking out of the pile was the
|
|
border of what looked like a comic book -- they said Fidel's tastes in
|
|
literature were not of the highest. But I should talk -- I hardly read
|
|
anything anymore -- I prefer the old movies, where men are men -- real
|
|
men. On the wall, a photo of Fidel as a teenager with Raul and what
|
|
looked like his half-brother Ramon, together with an middle-aged woman
|
|
in a dark dress that looked like a collapsed balloon. He congratulated me
|
|
at some length on being part of the resistance to the imperialists. The seat
|
|
of my trousers were starting to feel imperially sweaty.
|
|
"Chucho!" he said. We were on first-name terms now, which was
|
|
fair enough since most people who didn't call him "Comandante" called
|
|
him "Fidel." "Chucho, you should really think about throwing in my lot
|
|
with your native land. Think about it! Cuba needs technical competence
|
|
-- and those who contribute to the Revolution will be rewarded.
|
|
Handsomely rewarded." He smiled as if he were hoping I wouldn't know
|
|
how few rewards even the big shots in Cuba were able to come up with
|
|
in those days of Soviet retrenchment. I said that the only reward I
|
|
wanted would be my father -- and my mother -- released.
|
|
"Well, we'll see," he said. He smiled. "But for yourself, consider
|
|
staying on. If the Cuban Republic can keep the youth, we can leave the
|
|
old people to their shopping malls in Miami."
|
|
Uh oh! I wasn't too happy about being considered what amounted
|
|
to a potential hostage for my parents -- on the other hand, I couldn't very
|
|
well go back to the States under the present circumstances anyway. On
|
|
the opposite wall was a photo of a pretty young girl. I recognized her as
|
|
Fidel's illegitimate daughter, Alina Revuelta, whose picture I had seen in
|
|
"Parade" magazine at home -- in Cuba, Fidel's private life doesn't get
|
|
much publicity. Her family name was Revuelta, not Revueltos, like mine,
|
|
but the coincidence started me thinking about myself, and what you could
|
|
call my "illegitimacy" maybe, my being Cuban but not Cuban, my being,
|
|
as I felt, totally American -- but still not quite like the mass of "other"
|
|
Americans, the 90% or 70% or whatever.
|
|
"I wonder whether you'd ever completely trust the son of Federico
|
|
Revueltos, Comandante."
|
|
Fidel thought, staring at his right hand as if he were looking for the
|
|
cigar that used to live there before he gave up the habit some five years
|
|
ago. "No, that's nonsense," he said after a moment, raising his chin to a
|
|
Mussolini- type altitude. He told me that Stalinist guilt by association
|
|
would never be part of the Revolution. Many comrades had parents or
|
|
friends who were counterrevolutionaries. "The hombre nuevo of Cuban
|
|
socialism would" -- he raised one finger -- "live and be judged totally as
|
|
an individual." He smiled. "And individuals with talent -- he nodded
|
|
meaningfully at me -- would be rewarded according to their merits by a
|
|
grateful people."
|
|
I told him that I had a lot of work to do -- the phones weren't ready
|
|
yet. He made a face, waved me away and picked up a phone.
|
|
I stood up, thinking: could it be that Cuba was after all where I
|
|
belonged? On the way out, I looked around the anteroom at Fidel's
|
|
bull-necked masseur, at his rigid-faced military aide, at the dumpy form
|
|
of Pineda, sitting absolutely upright, perched on the edge of an easy chair,
|
|
as if he were getting ready to be electrocuted. I saw the look of awe on
|
|
their faces as they prepared for him to appear in the doorway behind me.
|
|
I realized then: being a Cuban Cuban might only be possible for me if I
|
|
could make myself believe that Fidel was infallible. Maybe I could have
|
|
believed in Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. But the aging revolutionary sitting in
|
|
the shadow of his documents and his comic books -- that wasn't my idea
|
|
of a hero.
|
|
The last week before the conference was hectic. As you know if
|
|
you've ever worked with electronics, something always goes wrong at the
|
|
last minute. Usually several things. Come to think of it, that's true about
|
|
more than electronics. This particular time we found that the transceivers
|
|
that we were using in the individual telephone units did not come
|
|
equipped to operate on the central transmitter's frequencies. Fortunately,
|
|
though, they were compatible with them. In other words, if we added an
|
|
extra circuit board to each of the ten sample phones, we were in business.
|
|
Unfortunately, the circuit boards we needed would take several weeks
|
|
to get -- if we were lucky. So in order to be sure of making the units
|
|
work, I chose instead to change the crystals and rework the antenna array
|
|
for the main transmitter. It was more involved and expensive, but the
|
|
changes could be made in a couple of days of hard work. And with the
|
|
help of Baez, my morose engineer, my friend Apodaca from the
|
|
university, and of course Eddy, we were able to carry it off. Fidel, a photo
|
|
bug, dropped in unexpectedly one day and snapped pictures of me and the
|
|
computer and the main equipment rack. He patted me on the back and
|
|
gave me a cologned abrazo. "On time, right?" he said gleefully.
|
|
I said yes, sure, Comandante -- not so gleefully.
|
|
One day, I met Amelia for a mojito at the Capri. Rain came down in
|
|
sheets just outside the open end of the veranda, and her lilac perfume cut
|
|
through the moldy dampness in the air. She had just come from visiting
|
|
my father in prison.
|
|
"Is he still the loyal fidelista?" I said.
|
|
"No, not any more."
|
|
"What happened?"
|
|
"Elena. He's furious about her arrest. He says that Fidel has
|
|
besmirched the family honor, that the Revolution should never touch the
|
|
sanctity of Cuban womanhood."
|
|
I tried to think of my mother as the archetype of Pure Cuban
|
|
Womanhood and failed. I shook my head. "He's crazy," I said.
|
|
"It should be a straightforward matter to get him out now. At least
|
|
in theory."
|
|
"Oh, 'the easy way,'" I said.
|
|
"You are so simple-minded sometimes, Chucho," she said, picking
|
|
up her drink. "Come on, let's dance." Amelia prided herself on her
|
|
mambo. After dancing with Valeska, though, Amelia felt like leading a
|
|
smooth-running machine around the floor. Precision, rhythm -- but her
|
|
soul wasn't in it.
|
|
I visited my father again in La Cabana and found that Amelia was
|
|
right about his change in attitude.
|
|
"Beasts, that's what they are, Chucho, beasts!" He pounded his fist
|
|
on the little wooden table that separated us -- I was amazed by his energy
|
|
and the bristling look in his eye.
|
|
"Shh, papacito, shh, not so loud. And not 'Chucho,' please, at least
|
|
so loud."
|
|
"It makes me think differently about a lot of things. I've been
|
|
talking in the exercise yard to your friend Pillo, and I've come to respect
|
|
his viewpoint."
|
|
"You do? A right-winger?"
|
|
"Respect, son." He raised a finger. "I didn't say I agreed with him.
|
|
But his ideas are very moderate in some ways, and we both agree on
|
|
Castro's misuse of power."
|
|
I could tell things had changed if it was now 'Castro' and not 'Fidel.'
|
|
"That's good, I'm glad you've made contact. It may be useful." "I
|
|
think he has integrity, he's the kind of man you could trust -- I'm sure of
|
|
that."
|
|
"Well," I said, "you can't really trust anybody completely, Father."
|
|
He sighed and stared, looking through me with his heavy eyeglasses.
|
|
"I used to think that under Marxism all of humanity would come to
|
|
experience mutual universal trust."
|
|
"Yeah, well," I said.
|
|
As I left the damp halls of the prison, I was at least glad that my
|
|
father had made the contact with Pillo. I still couldn't see how I'd be able
|
|
to get Fidel to let my father and Pillo out at the same time -- dammit.
|
|
During that time, I also received an unexpectedly friendly letter from
|
|
Pepita, hoping that I would be able to get back "home" soon. She didn't
|
|
know if she'd get another chance to visit Cuba. Imagine, there I was,
|
|
juggling Valeska and Amelia, all I needed was Pepita too!
|
|
By the opening day of the conference, we had installed units in Fidel's
|
|
Alfa, in five MININT cars, and in four INIT (Tourist Ministry) vans, and
|
|
my assistant Baez sat at the console of the big transmitter on the roof of
|
|
the Habana Libre, looking more than ever as if his girl friend (if such a
|
|
person could actually exist) had just left him for a bus driver. The
|
|
morning of the demonstration was rainy, with fresh gusts of wind off the
|
|
sea, grayish-green whitecaps just visible through the murky skies over the
|
|
white and pastel block- like buildings of downtown Havana. I was so
|
|
busy, checking out each of the units, making test calls between the Alfa
|
|
and the MININT and INIT vehicles, running a status check and
|
|
debugging routine through the computer at the hotel, that I didn't have
|
|
time to notice whether I was soaked to the skin with rain or just sweating
|
|
up my own storm. The hotel lobby entrance was guarded by soldiers in
|
|
riot gear, shields and helmets with plastic face guards. Members of
|
|
delegations to the First Annual Latin American Rural Initiatives
|
|
Conference from Peru, Argentina, Panama, Honduras, passed in and out
|
|
again through the automatic doors -- which however were not in repair
|
|
and had to be operated manually. By the time I was introduced to the
|
|
delegates who would be carrying on the test conversations, the sky had
|
|
cleared, and sunlight lit up pearls of water hanging from the pale blue
|
|
canvas canopies covering the pool area. El Salvador had been invited to
|
|
send a delegation -- but of course the right-wing government had ignored
|
|
the offer -- which was just as well, in case someone should become too
|
|
curious about "Dr. Felipe Elizalde" and his new-found engineering career
|
|
in Cuba. The plan was this: the conference was going to open with a
|
|
plenary session. While the delegates were meeting, I would go out with
|
|
three of the MININT escorts -- at least one of which was G-2, I was sure,
|
|
and run a last-minute test. Then, after a big lunch, the delegates would be
|
|
driven around town, and during this excursion, a chosen few of them
|
|
would be properly impressed by the "first socialist cellular phone system
|
|
in the world."
|
|
Well, the preliminary tests went fine. I was relieved, needless to
|
|
say. I still had little appetite for lunch, but I managed to make my way
|
|
halfway through a plate of doughy "socialist spaghetti" with Professor
|
|
Apodaca and a couple of his students who were helping us out. The
|
|
students were thrilled. One quoted a saying of Fidel's: think development,
|
|
not consumption -- new technology plus a rigorously socialist attitude
|
|
leads to the creation of the New Man.
|
|
Well, I thought, I was going to give them the new technology, the
|
|
product of exploitative capitalism. Maybe with a the proper socialist
|
|
attitude they could cellular-talk their way into the Promised Land of Marx
|
|
and Engels. Engels reminded me of my father -- and the necessity for the
|
|
phone system to work, and work right!
|
|
I rode in the Alfa with Fidel. He had taken pictures of all of us,
|
|
including the Volga van full of bodyguards that rode behind us as we
|
|
headed out the Rampa toward the Malecon. The other cars in the test
|
|
were headed in different directions, one through the harbor tunnel to El
|
|
Morro castle, others south toward the Plaza de la Revolucion and the
|
|
zoo, still others west toward Miramar. The streets were full of people.
|
|
Everybody knew Fidel's car, and he stopped to shake hands and give
|
|
impromptu speeches. Soon the other cars had been gone over twenty
|
|
minutes, and still we hadn't reached the waterside, where we had planned
|
|
to test out the system. I squirmed. Fidel waved at the driver to stop
|
|
again.
|
|
"We have to move on, Comandante," I said. He glanced at me, but
|
|
then a young girl reached over to shake his hand and he pulled her close
|
|
and kissed her, making a loud smacking noise. "We can't let them get out
|
|
of range," I said.
|
|
He turned and made a face. "All right." He looked at his watch.
|
|
"But we should still have plenty of time, Comrade Elizalde."
|
|
The car started again, but an old man selling cloth remnants stood
|
|
directly in front of the car and we shuddered to a halt.
|
|
"Comandante," I said.
|
|
"Never mind, Just a minute."
|
|
A young soldier came up and wanted to talk to Fidel about getting
|
|
into the technical institute after his military service. My squirming was
|
|
making the car seat damp underneath me. Fidel had his Minolta out and
|
|
was taking the soldier's picture. He looked like a friendly Santa Claus in
|
|
olive-drab. "I'm going to try to call somebody up at the ordinary
|
|
phone at the Havana Libre," I said. "Just a check."
|
|
Fidel's head, bent over the camera, jerked up. "No, no, not a good
|
|
idea. Don't worry." He patted the soldier on the shoulder and motioned
|
|
to the driver. "We'll get going."
|
|
I told him it would be a good time to check out the signal
|
|
transmission. But Fidel was insisting on the first call being vehicle-to-
|
|
vehicle communication between him and the Mexican Minister of
|
|
Agriculture in the car heading toward El Morro. He was afraid the
|
|
Minister would call him first and might find the line busy.
|
|
He waved an arm in the familiar sweeping gesture, as adapted for the
|
|
inside of a car. "We know the system will work between vehicles and
|
|
stationary phones, don't we?"
|
|
"It will work for all phones," I said, crossing my fingers and hoping
|
|
that I was right. Actually, it was conceivable that problems might arise
|
|
even with the stationary-link switching -- but I sure hoped not. The Alfa
|
|
accelerated, Fidel waved idly at the crowds. We reached the shoreline and
|
|
pulled over. Fidel picked up the phone set and looked questioningly at
|
|
me. I nodded my head. He rang the number of the Minister's auto, we
|
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got a faint sound of ringing and then the flat, nasal "out-of-range" buzz.
|
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|
"They've gone too far east," I said, "that must be it."
|
|
Fidel scowled. "It doesn't work."
|
|
"It works, Comandante, they must have gone too far, our last cell
|
|
covers only the harbor area.
|
|
Fidel's scowl turned into pensiveness. "He did want to see
|
|
Varadero."
|
|
Varadero Beach was 100 kilometers from Havana, impossibly far
|
|
away. I suggested we try calling another car.
|
|
Fidel shook his head. "It doesn't work."
|
|
Just then the phone rang. "You see, you're wrong, it does work," I
|
|
said. "To hell with Mexican ministers, it works!"
|
|
Fidel stopped the car and picked up the phone and listened. I didn't
|
|
care about Fidel's stubborn insistence on calling one particular car, I didn't
|
|
care about anything but that it worked, this crazy system that I'd had to
|
|
build practically out of number 12 wire and discarded circuit boards. Let
|
|
them put me and my whole family in jail in Cuba, at that moment it didn't
|
|
matter, the system was working under a real field test -- and to hell with
|
|
anything else!
|
|
"What?" he said. "What was that, Pineda?"
|
|
Pineda was back at the G-2 offices so I figured that the stationary
|
|
link worked fine.
|
|
Fidel pulled the phone away from his mouth.
|
|
"It works!" I said. "Our first call!"
|
|
"Comrade Elizalde," he said, looking at the driver and his bodyguard.
|
|
"This ingenious system of yours works perfectly."
|
|
Me: I knew it would, I knew it!"
|
|
Him: Your phone has just relayed a very interesting piece of news.
|
|
Me: Good, good, the system should turn out to be extremely useful,
|
|
Comandante, you'll see."
|
|
Him: You may be interested to learn that Federico Revueltos and
|
|
another man have escaped from La Cabana and are at large somewhere
|
|
in the vicinity of Havana.
|
|
Me: (total silence, a cold lump forming in my belly.)
|
|
Him (speaking to an officer standing beside the Alfa): Drop
|
|
Comrade Elizalde off at G-2 headquarters. (He put his mouth to the
|
|
phone again and talked. Then he talked to me, his eyes staring away, out
|
|
to sea.) I've told Colonel Pineda to expect you. (He shrugged,
|
|
scrunching his massive shoulders up toward his big ears.) Too bad!
|
|
Me (in my quiet-as-a-mouse voice): Too bad what? (My stomach
|
|
had grown as empty as a Cuban grocery store as the officer took me by
|
|
the arm to lead me away.)
|
|
Him: You were doing so well. So well, Comrade Elizalde. Too bad
|
|
you couldn't wait and do things the easy way.
|
|
==================================================
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|
PLANS
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by Otho Eskin
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(Part 5 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a
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new version by Otho Eskin)
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CHARACTERS:
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MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of a "patrician"
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family in the deep south
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RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur.
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CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook.
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PLACE:
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The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep South.
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One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to Cora's
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bedroom.
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TIME:
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Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's Night
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(June 23). At Rise: the sky, seen through the doors, is still light. As the
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play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again with morning.
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AT RISE: The kitchen, immediately afterward. RANSOM and JULIE.
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RANSOM has just taken a revolver from a cupboard.
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JULIE
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That's my father's old gun, isn't it?
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RANSOM
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Pick it up. I won' stop you. You can shoot me if that what you want. It's
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loaded.
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(JULIE stares at the gun.)
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RANSOM
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(Continued)
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It wouldn' really be murder. I'm just a uppity nigger. You just tell the
|
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sheriff I tried to lay a hand on you. No one'd blame you for shootin' me.
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They'd all say you did the right thing defendin' yore honor from a black
|
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man. No one would do anything to you.
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(JULIE pours another glass of
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brandy, drains it.)
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JULIE
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I think we'd better leave if we're going to catch that bus for Memphis.
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RANSOM
|
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Then you decided to go north with me?
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JULIE
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What choice do I have?
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RANSOM
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I'm not sure I want to go wit' you. Just to spend the rest of our lives
|
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makin' one another miserable.
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JULIE
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Maybe we could give one another a little pleasure for a few days a few
|
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weeks.
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RANSOM
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An' what happens after that?
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JULIE
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We die.
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RANSOM
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We die? That crazy! I rather live.
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JULIE
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You don't want to die with me?
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RANSOM
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I don' wan' to die at all. With you or nobody else. I like bein' alive.
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JULIE
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What are you going to do?
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RANSOM
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I don' understand.
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JULIE
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You've ruined me. You owe me something.
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(RANSOM takes some coins
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from his pocket and tosses them
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on the table.)
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RANSOM
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I don't wan' to be in nobody's debt.
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JULIE
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We've got to get married. That could solve everything.
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RANSOM
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What if I say no?
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JULIE
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You wouldn't.
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RANSOM
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You think the chance to marry you so good I couldn' turn you down just
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'cause you white. You know what I think? I think if I married you I'd be
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comin' down in the world.
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JULIE
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How can you say that?
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RANSOM
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I know all 'bout yore family. Everyone in the county know. You put on
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airs an' you ack like aristocracy
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JULIE
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How dare you talk to me that way!
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RANSOM
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Yore family pretend you live here from way back in plantation times. But
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everyone know yore great grandaddy was a dirt farmer who made a
|
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fortune sellin' shoddy goods to the Confederate Army.
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JULIE
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Don't do this.
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RANSOM
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Those boys were dyin' 'cause the guns he sold wouldn' shoot. That yore
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great, aristocratic family. Yore great grandaddy bought this place from his
|
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profits after the War along with all the old furniture an' paintin's an'
|
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silver.
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JULIE
|
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Why are you hurting me like this?
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RANSOM
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I don' got any fine family tree with no oil paintin's. My people were
|
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slaves. I'd say they's a lot more honor in my family than yore's.
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JULIE
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You know nothing about me.
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RANSOM
|
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I know all I need to know.
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JULIE
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You must understand who I am.
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RANSOM
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I don' think you should tell me this.
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JULIE
|
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You've heard about the great fire everyone in the county knows about
|
|
it. Father's warehouse in town the machine shop, the
|
|
factory everything destroyed. The sheriff suspected arson but could
|
|
never prove anything. I know you've heard the story: the fire happened
|
|
on the very day the insurance had to be paid. My father thought he had
|
|
sent his check for the premium but somehow the check was not mailed in
|
|
time.
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(JULIE pours herself another
|
|
drink.)
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RANSOM
|
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I don' wan' you to drink no more.
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JULIE
|
|
After the fire, we were ruined. Father tried to barrow money from the
|
|
bank to rebuild the factory but he couldn't pay the interest. Then my
|
|
mother suggested that my father borrow the money from an old friend of
|
|
hers a businessman from Nashville. Father went to this man and he
|
|
gave him the loan. So he was able to rebuild the business. You want to
|
|
know who set the fire? My own mother. She hated my father. But that
|
|
wasn't the end of her revenge. You want to know who this generous
|
|
businessman was? Mother's lover. Afterward she told my father about
|
|
where the money came from. It almost destroyed him. You've heard the
|
|
story about what happened. Everyone knows that story. Father got an
|
|
old service revolver which had belonged to his father that one lying on
|
|
the table there and he locked himself in his study. He told the servants
|
|
not to disturb him. He stayed there all night and most of the next day.
|
|
But he couldn't do it. He lost his nerve. Father told me in the morning he
|
|
opened the window and threw the gun into the garden. Father and mother
|
|
never talked to one another after that. They lived together for another ten
|
|
years but never exchanged a word. Sometimes mother would sit for hours
|
|
in the gazebo sometimes all night. He never forgave her for
|
|
dishonoring him by taking a lover. She never forgave him for dishonoring
|
|
her by not having the courage to kill himself.
|
|
|
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RANSOM
|
|
I warned you not to drink so much. When you drink, you talk.
|
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JULIE
|
|
You make me so ashamed. If only you loved me.
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RANSOM
|
|
What you wan' me to do? You wan' me to jump over yore ridin' crop?
|
|
What you want? I don' understand you. In my world we don' have scenes
|
|
like this. We don' go 'round hatin' each other. We gotta work all day an'
|
|
most of the night too. We don' got time for this. When we got time, we
|
|
make love. But we don' go on an' on talkin' 'bout it day an' night.
|
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JULIE
|
|
Be kind to me. Tell me what to do! Father will be back any moment.
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RANSOM
|
|
We gotta get out of here. Right now. It's almost daylight.
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JULIE
|
|
I remember other Midsummer days. When I was little. Flowers and dinner
|
|
parties. When I was happy. However far we run, there will always be
|
|
memories. And shame and remorse and guilt.
|
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RANSOM
|
|
Stop talkin' like that..
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|
JULIE
|
|
I can't go. I can't stay. Give me orders. Tell me what to do. I can't
|
|
think any more.
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RANSOM
|
|
You weak! All yore kind are weak. You pretend to be bett'r'n everybody
|
|
else but you can't do nothin'. Just like yore daddy. Awright, you want
|
|
orders, I'll give you orders. Go upstairs. Get dressed. Find some money.
|
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|
JULIE
|
|
I don't have any...
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|
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|
RANSOM
|
|
Yore daddy got any hidden away somewhere?
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JULIE
|
|
I think so... in his desk maybe.
|
|
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RANSOM
|
|
Get it!
|
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JULIE
|
|
He keeps it locked...
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Get the money anyway you can. Then come back here.
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Come with me.
|
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RANSOM
|
|
To yore room? You really crazy. No.
|
|
|
|
(RANSOM leads JULIE toward
|
|
the front door.)
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Please be kind, Ransom.
|
|
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|
RANSOM
|
|
Orders always sound unkind. 'bout time you learnt that.
|
|
|
|
(JULIE leaves. Outside, dawn
|
|
begins to break. CORA enters.)
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
Look at the time. (SHE looks around the kitchen) Lord Almighty! What
|
|
you been up to, Ransom?
|
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RANSOM
|
|
Nothin'.
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CORA
|
|
I musta fallen to sleep. Maybe it escapin' yore memory, Ransom, but you
|
|
promise to take me to church this mornin' an' you not even ready.
|
|
|
|
(CORA gets RANSOM's coat and
|
|
tie.)
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
You look a mess. You sleep last night?
|
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|
RANSOM
|
|
I guess not.
|
|
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|
CORA
|
|
What on earth you been doin', Ransom?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Talkin' to Miss Julie.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
What you talkin' 'bout?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Nothin' important.
|
|
|
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CORA
|
|
You been drinkin'. The two of you drinkin'. Together.
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|
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|
RANSOM
|
|
What of it?
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
Look me in the eye, Ransom. Did you? Tell me honest. Did you an' her?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Why you commin' on so high an' mighty, Sugar? It done mean nothin'.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
Nigger, you bin actin' like a damn fool! How could you do such a fool
|
|
thing!?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
You jealous?
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
Of Miss Julie? No way I be jealous a' her. But I sure be mad you. You
|
|
think you can treat me like some common girl from Track Street? You
|
|
think can treat me like dirt? I got my pride, Ransome.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
I tol' you it don' mean nothing. Jus' forget it.
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|
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|
CORA
|
|
Forget it? I'm not gonna forget it. An I'm not gonna let you forget it
|
|
neither. An' another thing, I'm not gone' to stay in this house 'nother day.
|
|
I won't stay in a house where the servants don't know they place. Where
|
|
white folks ain't shown proper respect.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Why should we respect them? They don' deserve no respect.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
Well, Mr. Smarty, Mr. Been-to-the-big-city-know-it-all, if you right, I
|
|
won't stay in the service of people who ain't respectable. I won' demean
|
|
myself.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Ain't it fine to find out they no better'n us?
|
|
|
|
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|
CORA
|
|
If they no better 'n us, then they's nothin' for us to aspire to.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
You talkin' nonsense, girl.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
I givin' my notice soon as the judge come back. I cain't stay here knowin'
|
|
Miss Julie, who so proud, who hated all men, give herself to you no
|
|
better'n a field hand.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
There's no call for you to leave, Cora....
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
An' you gotta leave too. You should be lookin' for another position. You
|
|
cain't stay here. Not after what happened.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
I can't go back to workin' the farm.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
They's that tire plant over at Sultan. They say they hirin'. Good benefits.
|
|
Even a 'tirement plan.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
I'm too young to start thinkin' 'bout 'tirement. I'm not gonna settle into
|
|
some dumb job for the rest of my life. I got bigger plans.
|
|
|
|
CORA
|
|
You and' yore plans! You been talkin' 'bout yore plans ever since I
|
|
knowd you an' ain't nothin' come of them yet. You all talk, Ransom.
|
|
Time you faced that. You gonna have obligations. It's time you started
|
|
thinkin' 'bout them.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Don' start hasslin' me 'bout my obligations, woman, hear? Now go on an'
|
|
get dressed for church.
|
|
|
|
(CORA exits. The sun has risen
|
|
and is slanting through the
|
|
windows. RANSOM goes to the
|
|
door and gestures for JULIE to
|
|
enter. JULIE enters, dressed in
|
|
traveling clothes and carrying a
|
|
bird cage)
|
|
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
I'm ready.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Be quiet! Cora's awake.
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Does she suspect?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Not a thing. You white like a corpse.
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
The sun is up. That breaks the Midsummer's Night spell, they say.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
You get the money?
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Yes.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
How much you get?
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Enough for us to start a new life.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
We gotta hurry.
|
|
|
|
|
|
===================================================
|
|
=================================================
|