933 lines
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933 lines
45 KiB
Plaintext
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 6, Number 5
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September-October, 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 downloading from the website
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http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online
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The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
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courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
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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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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"Lines on Sand," haiku
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Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith
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"The Shark," a short story
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Yitzhak Herrera
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"Good-bye, Felipe," an excerpt (chapter 16) from
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the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
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William Ramsay
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"No Way Out," part 7 (conclusion) of the play, "Julie"
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Otho Eskin
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=================================================
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CONTRIBUTORS
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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 Folder Library in
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Washington. He is currently at work on a mystery novel set in high
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circles in Washington.
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NIGEL AND WENDY HAMMERSMITH, originally from the Isle of
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Wight, now live on Martha's Vineyard. In addition to writing poetry,
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Wendy teaches high-school French and Nigel is a cabinetmaker.
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YITZHAK HERRERA, formerly a lieutenant in the Israeli Army, now
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is a writer and export-import consultant in New York.
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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 playwright and his play,
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"Through the Wormhole," will be read this fall as part of the Woolly
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Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series.
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LINES ON SAND
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by Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith
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1.
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House among the pines
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Gray waves plunge across the bay
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Clinking of halyards.
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2.
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Shallow boat harbor
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Sea grass doubled in water
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Dock pilings intrude.
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3.
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Red-striped umbrella
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Black-speckled sand oasis
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Green surf threatening.
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4.
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Clearing after storm
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White clouds drift -- the sea is still
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Bright stripes bloom on sand.
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5.
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Lobster and champagne
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As we toast the fleeting years
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Sunset tints the sky.
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Sundown: Martha's Vineyard,
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July, 1999
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Haze blends sea and sky
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A tiny plane points straight down
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Gay Head Light -- so far!
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======================================================================
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THE SHARK
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by Yitzhak Herrera
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It had been a good day. Snorkeling in the lustrous waters of the
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Indian Ocean. And some fun people to talk to. Like Julia, the singer,
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and her husband Palmer. As long as you could avoid the duds -- like
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the retired high-school biology teacher from Kearney, Nebraska, who
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had talked of himself and Jim as "colleagues." Poor old guy.
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A good day. In fact, Jim had only thought about the co-enzyme
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project once. Looking out at the sea that afternoon during whale-
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watching had made him realize the project -- or ex-project -- didn't
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matter. The cruise had been a great birthday present for him -- it had
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definitely taken the sting out of getting to be fifty.
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He was just pouring out the Chardonnay into the tulip-shaped
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glasses on their table. Suddenly, Claire said, "What was that?" Her
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china-blue eyes looked alarmed.
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Voices were coming from aft. The maitre d' and another
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passenger walked by them headed for the outside lounge deck. A
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woman on the other side of the dining saloon said loudly, "Shark."
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People began to get up from their tables. A crush formed at the
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door leading outside.
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"A shark," Claire said.
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"Let's see," said Jim, thinking that nighttime fish viewing
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sounded crazy.
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A gentle wind blew over the lounge deck. Jim heard the flap,
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flap before he saw the compact broad little fish, about four feet long,
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doing its acrobatic dance in front of a line of deck chairs. The fish's
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head jerked and Jim saw the line tighten on the rod a young seaman
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was holding. The rod bent again. The small shark showed his pointed
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teeth in his blunt jaw, he twisted like a gazelle tormented by a hyena,
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jumping in circles, in ellipses. Jim felt his back tense as he watched the
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struggle for life he felt the shark's longing to attack, to rip, to tear.
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"Oh God, someone said. It was Julia Galbraith, her dark curls
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awry, her slender body in a half crouch. She turned to Jim. "This is
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just like a Bunuel movie."
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"I can't stand it," Claire said. She turned her head away and
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moved back and opened the door of the dining saloon and went back
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inside.
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Jim didn't know whether he ought to go back in too. The
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flipflopping of the tortured animal mesmerized him.
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"Not a very big one," said Palmer, putting his ham-fisted hand
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on Julia's shoulder. "I've caught bigger."
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"I suppose," said Jim. Jim fished for trout in Colorado in the
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summers. Standing in the dappled shade of the willows hemming in a
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mountain stream, struggling with the lines hooked inot the lips of the
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cutthroats and rainbows. Fouling his line in the same damned willows.
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Dumping his creel on the riverbank, cutting the bellies open, starting
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close to the anus and forward to the gills. The smell of the camp cook
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frying them over the lonesome campfire.
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The shark weakened, then gave a desperate gigantic leap and
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flopped, quivering.
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Come on, Julia," Palmer said. "Our dinner's getting cold."
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"You go on, I want to see this."
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Palmer's face flushed. He stood looking at her for a moment,
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then turned and went back inside.
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Flop, flop, losing energy. Jim looked at the faces of the people
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who were still watching raised eyebrows, faint smiles. Clenched
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teeth.
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"He's brave," Julia said.
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"He has no choice," Jim said. "Maybe we should go back
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inside."
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"Are our chef's efforts as much fun as this?"
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The shark was lying still. Then he flipped once more and lay
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still again.
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"I'm going back inside," Jim, said.
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Julia nodded.
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As he opened the saloon door, he looked back. She was staring
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fixedly at the shark. It twitched twice. She bit her lip.
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Claire grabbed her glass of wine and drank a third of it.
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"Disgusting."
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"Oh, I don't know. It's like all fishing, I suppose." Jim sipper
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from his own glass. He hoped the salmon would be good. He dug into
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his salad.
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"I don't understand watching something suffer and die. Men
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love killing, I think."
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"Death is part of life."
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"Oh do spare me!" She shook her head. "And where the hell's
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our entree?"
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Later, at the bar, Jim and Claire found two seats next to Palmer
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and Claire.
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Palmer flicked his fingernail against his glass of gin and tonic.
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"Not much of a specimen, I'd say."
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"Still, you wouldn't want to meet him out there when you're
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snorkeling, would you?" Jim said.
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"You won't see that poor thing again," Claire said.
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Julia laughed. Her laughter sounded like a glass breaking. "No,
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Dimitrios told me that the officers are having it cut into steaks right
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now."
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"All's well that ends well," Jim said. "Death for a purpose."
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Palmer shoiok his head. "And a little side show for the
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tourists."
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Later, Jim sat undressing in the cramped cabin with its one
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porthole looking our on the blankness of the black sky and sea.
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Claire pulled on her black nightgown. "I won't be able to
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sleep."
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Jim felt the anger crawl up his throat like hot bile. "Jesus, you
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had halibut for dinner. Where do you think that came from? It gets
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caught in nets, we raise steers for the hamburger you had at lunch.
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What the hell are you making such a fuss about?"
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He looked at Claire's face her bright eyes stared into his
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fixedly, as if she had caught him out in some criminal act. "You know
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that's not the point, don't you? You know."
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"I don't know any such thing."
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"Scientists."
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Jim got up and looked out the porthole. Women were from
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somewhere else. They lived in a fantasy, where you didn't have to
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make the logical connections between all your actions.
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Claire brushed out her long glossy hair. Her profile reminded
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him of a hawk, a dignified bird of prey. "I think scientists display the
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quintessential nature of man. all the worst aspects of machismo."
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"I suppose female yoga teachers display all the glory of
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womankind."
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"Women are more consistent."
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"Julia didn't seem to mind the shark."
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"Oh, so you've got your eye on her, do you?"
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Jim felt caught in a secret trap that he had hidden from himself.
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"Oh, for God's sake."
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"She's obviously used to being on stage --drama, drama
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everywhere. I know you like that kind of thing."
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"Oh, Claire. You know that's a pile of shit."
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She pouted. "Do I now."
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Jim put his arms around her and said that she did know that and
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that he loved her.
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After a moment: "Oh, you do know how much I love you, Jim,
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don't you?"
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"Yes. Yes," he said. "Yes, yes."
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Her body softened in his embrace. His stomach felt hollow. He
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squeezed his arms around hers. She put her lips to his bare, hairy arm
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and kissed it.
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He was drifting off to sleep.
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"Jim,."
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"Yes?"
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"It doesn't matte about the project. You've still go lots going
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for you."
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"Thanks," he said. He lay awake for a long time. At two
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o'clock he was waked by the sounds of rain on the porthole. He
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visualized Julia's face, taut with excitement and the shark flipping his
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way to eternity.
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After lunch the next day, Claire went for a nap and he found
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Julia sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck.
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"A beautiful scene," he said, looking out at the mountainous
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island and the greens and blues of the sea.
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"Yes, the sea. 'Et la mer efface sur le sable, Les pas des amants
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desunis,'" she sang, in a low vibrant alto.
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Jim asked how she had become a singer. It was her
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grandmother who had encouraged her, given her picture books on
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opera before she could read, later gotten her a teacher and paid for the
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lessons.
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"It helps that I'm just a natural ham," she said.
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"I envy you."
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"You, the scientist?"
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"I'm not all microbiologist."
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"I see that," she said, her brown eyes peering out at him.
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He looked away. "It does make you think about things."
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"Yes, doesn't it. Like the shark."
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"Wasn't it thrilling? I thought I was going to come."
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He looked at her again. She smiled. "Not quite." She touched
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the back of his hand with her fingertip.
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Jim shivered. God, can it really be true? My God. He felt his
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throat tighten. He lifted his hand and stroked her forearm. Her arm lay
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perfectly still under his caress.
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She took a deep breath. "The sea is really magnificent."
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Yes, it was, he thought. Magnificent. The sun slithered into a
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wisp of cloud, and as he watched, reemerged. The sea darkened and
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then became light again.
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The next day, Palmer had gone off on an excursion to another
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island. Jim, Claire, and Julia had lunch together. Afterward, Claire said
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she really needed her nap today. Jim said he was going to go to the
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lounge and work on his paper.
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"You see what it's like, being married to a microbiologist," said
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Claire.
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"Oh, well, men," said Julia. "I think I'll lie down for a while
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too."
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Jim searched Julia's face. She avoided his eyes as she got up
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from the table. But she stopped behind Claire as she left and made a
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puckish face at him.
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Jim felt his knee shaking. He went back to the cabin with
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Claire, picked up his notes and his laptop, and went to the lounge. He
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sat there for six minutes, feeling when he was five years old and it was
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Christmas morning. He looked at the notes for the experiment that
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would now never be funded. He imagined the lab and tried to imagine
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his life without it. Then he shuffled all the papers together, put them
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and laptop neatly on a table, and stood up.
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The key to the door of the Galbraith's cabin was in the door.
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The shining rod of stainless steel stood out perpendicularly, breaking
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the line of the flat corridor walls and recessed doors. Jim stood
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looking at it a moment, feeling that his feet were made of lead. Then he
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turned the key and pushed the door open. She lay on her back under
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the covers in the far bunk under a single sheet. She smiled at nothing
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and turned her head toward the wall. He sat down on the empty bunk
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and began taking off his shoes.
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As he eased his now naked body in behind her, she whispered.
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"My little shark."
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Jim gasped.
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"Oh," she said, finally. "Yes, that's the way. Oh. No, harder,
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harder." Jim, sweating, felt himself coming.
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"No, not yet, don't leave ne hanging. Oh, shit!"
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When he woke up, she was in the bathroom. Jim felt the word
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"Sorry" coming to his lips, and he stepped on the impulse. "Julia?"
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After a moment, she came out, a towel draped to cover one
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breast and her torso. "Did you want some more?"
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"Well I..."
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"No, not at our age, I would think."
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"Julia..."
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"Everything's all right You can use the shower, but hurry."
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Jim felt as if he were talking to his kindergarten teacher, Miss
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Knobe. "I don't know what to say."
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"Did you get what you wanted?"
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Jim wondered to himself what exactly he had wanted.
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She smiled tightly. "Maybe you don't know what you wanted.
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As for me, I got what I wanted -- or almost. It was nice. Now get a
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move on. We'll see you at dinner."
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Dinner seemed to last forever. Palmer talked about his trip in
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the rubber zodiac to the bird sanctuary.
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"We had a dull day, didn't we darling?" Claire said.
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Jim mentioned the pelicans they had seen at teatime. Julia
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raised one eyebrow. "Well, that's what I like about cruises. Something
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new every day."
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"Like the shark last night," Palmer said.
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"Yes," Julia said. "That won't happen again. One little shark is
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enough, I think."
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"You said it was like a Bunuel movie," Jim said.
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"Oh, I still believe that -- after all, Bunuel deals in absurdities."
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"It wasn't absurd, it was sadistic," said Claire.
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"Well, it could have been both, couldn't it?" Palmer said.
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Jim felt the darkness of the sea outside gathering about him.
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His stomach glowed with wine. His mind ached with desire for
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something unattainable.
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========================================================================
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GOOD-BYE, FELIPE
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by William Ramsay
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(Note: the is chapter 16 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
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I should have known that trying to make Amelia do this or not do
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that was an impossibility. But I was dumb, I was too busy
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congratulating myself on finding a relatively safe place to keep my
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father. I was only hoping that I could keep him pacified for a while, so
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that he didn't gum up my plans -- plans which I didn't have yet. He had
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had a rest and his bath and a shave, and he had put on a shirt and a pair
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of trousers borrowed from Mr. Gupta, Valeska's neighbor. He looked
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at himself in the mirror, cursed Fidel again, and said he was ready to go
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out and demonstrate in the streets. I pointed out to him that that had
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been tried -- by Mama, who Amelia told me was in a padded cell in the
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psychiatric hospital at Palma Grande.
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"They can't keep her under restraint," said my father. "It's unheard
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of!"
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I said that I thought she was safe enough in the hands of Fidel's
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psychiatrists -- it was better than being in one of MININT's prisons.
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"What have you heard about Pillo?" he said.
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"He's supposed to be with friends, we'll be in contact."
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"I want to see Paco's sister, Miss Santos."
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I sure didn't look forward to Amelia's showing up at Luz Street,
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and I finally convinced my father it was impossible. Maybe in
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retrospect I shouldn't have been so sure that I had scotched that idea.
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But what could I do? I couldn't stay there forever and I couldn't keep
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total control of the situation from a distance. I had to be careful with
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my visits, so as not to make G-2 suspicious about Valeska's place: I
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didn't think that Pineda had clued in the grunts on his staff on my
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actual name -- but I couldn't be sure. My G-2 shadows were used to
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my visiting Luz Street fairly often, but I didn't dare change the pattern
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too much. So I had to depend on Paco to keep contact with my father,
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while I tried to arrange some safe way to get him out of the country.
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As a start, I left a message for Dominguez that night in the soda bottle
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in the park.
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The next afternoon, coming out of the hotel and crossing between
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the two massive stone Indian caciques riding dolphins that led into the
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park, an ice cream vendor awkwardly pedaling a rickety bicycle came
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up behind me. I waved him away. He made a hissing noise. I stopped
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and saw that it was Mr. Marcus, in a black curly wig. On a bench on
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the other side of the lily pool, I saw my G-2 shadow.
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The hiss grew louder and became words. "Don't stop here." The
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bicycle cart moved away quickly, I followed it off through the grove
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of fig trees. Marcus had stopped in the middle of the grove. A young
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girl, running up to buy an ice cream, was the only person in sight.
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"You've got him?" he said.
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I nodded. "Don't you feel ridiculous in that getup, Mr. Marcus?"
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"Shh!" he said. Then he looked up. My shadow, in a gray
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tee-shirt and sunglasses, appeared behind us. "Move on, see you by
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the pool," said Marcus, and I continued walking out from the shadow
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of the figs. Marcus started to entreat the girl to buy an ice cream,
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waving his arms rather wildly. She smiled fearfully, edging away from
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him. She almost bumped into my G-2 fellow. Marcus switched
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targets, riding up to "Senor G-2" and loudly yelling "Ice Cream." I
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plunged through the lantana bushes beside the path and jogged along a
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muddy stretch of ground. As I came out on the other side, next to the
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pool, I looked down at the splashes of mud on my trousers and
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remembered that the gardens in Havana were said to be in bad shape
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because the gardeners were all released political prisoners. A moment
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later, Marcus came around the turning of the path cycling like mad.
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He passed by me, hissing "Pillo?" I threw up my arms, indicating I
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didn't know where Pillo was. Gray tee-shirt came around the corner,
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Marcus turned and headed for him rapidly, shouting "Ice Cream!" The
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man ducked and Marcus squealed into a tight circle and came back past
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me: "Should be hearing..."
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Presumably he was going to say "from him," but at that moment
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the cycle struck an ornamental plant in a large pot and veered off
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toward the pool. The G-2 man fell over getting out of the way,
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Marcus lurched and skidded full tilt into the pool. A giant splash.
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When the water cleared, there was Marcus, sitting in three feet of
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water -- which was turning strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate in
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spiraling swirls. The G-2 man was lying flat on his back. His beeper
|
|
was beeping. Marcus was trying to get his legs out from under the
|
|
overturned cycle.
|
|
It was a good time for me to leave. I caught a dollar cab to the
|
|
intersection closest to Valeska's, thinking along the way that I could
|
|
have used some real help from the C.I.A. now, and if Marcus was all
|
|
there was to the Agency, I was in lots of trouble.
|
|
Marcus' little charade had also just made me speculate that Pillo
|
|
might not be just any old rightist -- he was quite likely Company,
|
|
somebody Marcus really felt obligated to spring from Fidel's embrace.
|
|
Inside the Luz Street apartment, Valeska gestured to me to be
|
|
quiet. My father was asleep on the couch, the Moscow version of a
|
|
Spanish-language "Reader's Digest" lying open on his chest. Valeska
|
|
was in her robe, a thin blue taffeta gown with gold Chinese dragons.
|
|
Her golden-brown skin glowed like a rosewood carving. She moved
|
|
close to me.
|
|
"No," I said, "not now, not here." My father turned in his sleep
|
|
and snorted.
|
|
Valeska smiled and shook her head. "I'm stressed," she said. She
|
|
began to undo my trousers.
|
|
"What did you see that you liked in the store window today?" I
|
|
said as she pulled my trousers down.
|
|
When I awoke, the light from the Chinese restaurant across the
|
|
road was shining on my face. I heard knocking at the door again.
|
|
Valeska lay beside me, snoring. I heard the knocking again and my
|
|
father grumbling, "Just a minute!"
|
|
"No, no," I yelled. The light went on. My father, in his shorts,
|
|
was opening the door. I jumped up, pulling a sheet up to cover myself.
|
|
Thank God, it was only Paco. I dropped the sheet.
|
|
"Hey, Chucho!"
|
|
Valeska raised herself in the bed, one round breast peeking out
|
|
from the sheet. "Why is it always 'Chucho', Flip? What's going on?"
|
|
"Amelia insisted, I'm sorry." he said.
|
|
I started to pull up my shorts. "Amelia what? Jesus, it's past
|
|
one."
|
|
"She said she has to talk to Don Federico."
|
|
"But she can't," I said, "not here," I said. I stuck my foot in the
|
|
other leg of the shorts.
|
|
"It's O.K., I didn't tell her where you were, I left her down at the
|
|
bodega on the corner."
|
|
"Oh, good," I sat down. I told Valeska to go back to sleep. And
|
|
my father too. I pulled my knees up to get into a posture I could try to
|
|
think in.
|
|
Paco strolled around the room, looking for a bottle, determinedly
|
|
shaking a couple of empties on the window sill. He explained that
|
|
Amelia had talked to the Minister of Justice and the government was
|
|
considering a deal involving an exchange for the tapes on the Lenin
|
|
Park incident for letting my mother go and commuting my father's term
|
|
to an eighteen-month spell on a work farm.
|
|
"Did they say anything about the money in New York?"
|
|
"What money in New York?" said Valeska.
|
|
I explained to her to shut up for Christ's sake.
|
|
Paco said they hadn't, which I thought was strange.
|
|
"Well," I said, "we've got to get Dad and Amelia together, but not
|
|
here."
|
|
"Why not here?" said Amelia's voice. Amelia herself, dressed in a
|
|
neat gray suit, appeared in the doorway. My father pulled on one of
|
|
Valeska's robes, the little white pompoms on the hem trembling in the
|
|
draft from the open windows.
|
|
"Who's this, who's Amelia?" said Valeska.
|
|
"Wait," I said.
|
|
"Who's she?" said Amelia, nodding her head at Valeska. "Oh, I
|
|
recognize you."
|
|
"Sorry," Paco said. "My sister," he said to my father, bowing as if
|
|
he were making an introduction at court.
|
|
"I remember you too -- the schoolteacher," said Valeska.
|
|
My father bowed slightly and reached out his hand gingerly, so as not
|
|
to disarrange the frilly robe. "How do you do?" he said to Amelia.
|
|
Valeska jumped up in the bed, the old springs wobbling beneath
|
|
her. She raised her arms. "Hell, I'm awake now, Felipe, get everybody
|
|
a drink -- especially your girl friend there.
|
|
"Amelia," I said, "This is Valeska, a friend of mine."
|
|
"Oh," said Amelia. Her cheeks seemed to turn to porcelain.
|
|
Paco grinned, embarrassed. "Amelia has to talk to don Federico
|
|
about Elena. The government is offering her a deal."
|
|
"Damn it, Paco, at least close the door, will you?" I said.
|
|
"Don't bother, I'm going," said Amelia. She pulled at the door
|
|
handle. As she opened it, a man half-fell in. It was Arnoldo. "Come
|
|
in," said Amelia to him. She turned to us. "I met this nice gentleman
|
|
in the cafe and when I mentioned 'Felipe Elizalde,' he showed me the
|
|
way."
|
|
"'Comrade," not 'gentleman,'" said Arnoldo.
|
|
"I thought you were playing tonight to cover for Jaime," said
|
|
Valeska. Arnoldo half-turned his face away, as if he were expecting
|
|
someone to slap it. Then he moved his arms as if he were going to do
|
|
the slapping. "Jaime got better. Unfortunately." His eyes began to
|
|
squint and his mouth hardened. He raised his hand, but as he started to
|
|
swing, my father jumped up and grabbed him. Arnoldo gave him a
|
|
heavily-muscled shove and papacito fell over.
|
|
"Hey," said Paco. I leaped on Arnoldo but he brushed me off and
|
|
headed for Valeska, who ran naked toward the bathroom, holding her
|
|
wobbling breasts in her hands. Suddenly Amelia brought up her foot
|
|
sharply into his crotch and Arnoldo yelled "Ay" and fell over onto the
|
|
bed. Amelia kicked him again with her high heel and he moaned and
|
|
clutched his belly.
|
|
"Dr. Revueltos," she said to Arnoldo, "has suffered enough from
|
|
you damned comrades, and he's not going to take any more."
|
|
"Yeah, twenty years in La Cabana is enough," said Paco.
|
|
"Oh," said Arnoldo, sitting up. He moaned once, then he said
|
|
something about 'that green-haired bitch.'" Finally he frowned and
|
|
said, "La Cabana?"
|
|
"Well," said Amelia, "I'll leave you lovers alone. "Dr. Revueltos,
|
|
I'll see you later when it isn't so much of a madhouse. I'll call or send a
|
|
message."
|
|
"Amelia," I said.
|
|
"'Felipe,'" she said, imitating the whine of my voice, "your ass is
|
|
showing," and turned on her heel and left.
|
|
Valeska had come out of the bathroom, draped in a towel, and
|
|
Arnoldo flung himself out of the bed and prostrated himself at her feet.
|
|
He tried to kiss her toe.
|
|
"No," she said.
|
|
"Yes," he said. His sobbing grew loud. "Give that foreigner up,
|
|
darling."
|
|
"No," she said.
|
|
"Yes!" he said.
|
|
She made a face. "You look like an awful mess. Felipe, check to
|
|
see if he's all right."
|
|
"I'm a doctor," said my father.
|
|
"So is he," said Valeska."
|
|
"What?" said my father, staring at me.
|
|
I smiled and shrugged. I reached down to feel Arnoldo's pulse.
|
|
"Don't touch me, creep." Arnoldo pulled himself upright. He
|
|
took a deep breath.
|
|
"Arnoldo!" she said.
|
|
Another breath. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, sweetheart," Arnoldo
|
|
said, lifting himself to his feet.
|
|
"Go home, we'll see."
|
|
"And leave you here with him?"
|
|
"Go home!"
|
|
He went to the door. "Querida, please!"
|
|
She shook her head.
|
|
Arnoldo, looking as if he were going to be sick, walked to the
|
|
door. There he turned, raised his head high and said, "My pride has
|
|
been injured." He opened the door and stomped out, muttering,
|
|
"Betrayal, betrayal."
|
|
"I'm confused," said my father.
|
|
"Join the crowd," I said.
|
|
"I'm not," said Paco. "I don't think I am, anyway. I'm not sure."
|
|
"I'm going next door and see if Gupta is awake," said my father. "I
|
|
need some advice." He grimaced. "Everything has changed."
|
|
"Yes, hasn't it?" I said. Miami, Florida, U.S.A. seemed like a lot
|
|
farther than ninety miles away. I felt like Ronald Colman in the last reel
|
|
of "Lost Horizon," searching for the pass back to Shangri-La. The
|
|
next day, I was too distracted to worry about Valeska and Arnoldo. I
|
|
had other things on my mind, like trying to retrieve my position,
|
|
whatever it was, with Amelia.
|
|
I heard from Paco that his sister had met with my father, down at
|
|
a cantina on a callejuela off Merced Street, but he hadn't liked Fidel's
|
|
deal. I wanted badly to point out to him that any deal getting my
|
|
mother out might well be a good one, if he was going to hang around
|
|
in cantinas where he was liable to get picked up by the G-2. And if, as
|
|
it seemed, the Cubans weren't hungry any more for the bearer bonds in
|
|
the New York safety deposit box -- all the better. I also had heard that
|
|
Marcus had finally heard from Pillo, which I suppose made him feel
|
|
better and certainly made it easier for us to arrange a deal that might
|
|
satisfy both the Americans and the Cubans.
|
|
But no, Father kept refusing, saying that his outlook on things had
|
|
changed, and that he violently objected to this deal. Too bad, I
|
|
thought. I knew that while we were happily fiddling around, taking
|
|
our own sweet time about things, Fidel's boys would be looking hard
|
|
for my dad. And I was getting nervous about keeping my father at
|
|
Valeska's. Too many people were involved, including my G-2 tails.
|
|
Amelia suggested contacting Pillo, and I didn't have any better ideas.
|
|
So after a couple of telephone calls, Father was sent off with a suitcase
|
|
to a "meet" with Pillo at the old Hotel Inglaterra downtown.
|
|
Next day I was working in my office at the Hilton, trying to
|
|
troubleshoot a few bugs in the cellular system, when Paco called around noon.
|
|
"Chucho!" he whispered.
|
|
What was it? I asked him.
|
|
"Problems. Stay away from Valeska's -- the cops have been
|
|
there." As he told it, a policeman and a guy in sunglasses had banged
|
|
on the door of Valeska's apartment at ten that morning. Paco and
|
|
Valeska heard them from next door, where they were playing Parchesi
|
|
with Gupta, and they slipped out through a back window. From the
|
|
alley down the street, they could see police and presumably G-2 men
|
|
standing talking with Arnoldo. It was a case of jealousy leading to
|
|
betrayal -- almost like Doug Fairbanks and Raymond Massey in
|
|
"Prisoner of Zenda."
|
|
"Thank God we got my father out in time."
|
|
"Yeah, let's hope he has better luck at the Inglaterra.""
|
|
How about Valeska?"
|
|
"She's O.K."
|
|
"Be careful," I said. "Both of you."
|
|
I tried to go back to work. Then I noticed it was noon and I tried
|
|
to eat lunch. Not much appetite. I was getting sick of shrimp, rice and
|
|
beans anyway, which seemed to be the main rations for the week at the
|
|
Havana Libre. I had just gotten back to the lab upstairs, when the
|
|
phone rang again.
|
|
"Chucho!" Paco's whisper was even shriller than before.
|
|
"Yes!" I said.
|
|
"They've picked up your father and Pillo -- I just got a message
|
|
from Marcus."
|
|
"Shit!" I said. "How did that happen?"
|
|
"I suppose they were tailing him, who knows?"
|
|
"Shit!" I said.
|
|
"Kind of blows it, doesn't it?" he said. "What do they know
|
|
about you and me, do you think?"
|
|
I told him I didn't know and I asked him what he was going to do.
|
|
He told me he was trying to get out. To Miami? I asked. To El
|
|
Salvador, he said.
|
|
"Things have gotten so screwed up here, Chucho, I think I'd better
|
|
let Gomez and the other Men cool off a bit before I hit Miami."
|
|
"I hope we haven't gotten Valeska into bad trouble," I said. There was a
|
|
long silence.
|
|
"Where is she?" I said.
|
|
"Well, Chucho." The smirk seemed to leak out over the wire. "I
|
|
thought it was best if she came along with me to El Salvador, you
|
|
know, what with this crazy jai-alai player after her and so on."
|
|
"Oh," I said.
|
|
"Hey, I knew you wanted her to be safe, and she's a good kid.
|
|
Never been out of Cuba, she's as excited as a little girl. I picked up a
|
|
Nicaraguan passport she can use for herself and another for her kid if
|
|
she needs to. We'll try to get the Company to get us out, a small plane
|
|
or a boat."
|
|
"Yeah," I said.
|
|
"And hey, don't worry about Amelia. She'll come around, I'm
|
|
sure."
|
|
"Amelia? What's happened to her?"
|
|
"Flew back to Miami. Never mind, she just got excited, she may
|
|
have said wild things like she hopes Fidel hangs you up by the gonads
|
|
-- because that's your toughest part. But she doesn't mean it, you
|
|
know. When she gets back, try talking to her again."
|
|
It turned out that Amelia had told Paco she could do more good
|
|
for my mother and father from Stateside -- and that anyway she didn't
|
|
give a damn what happened or didn't happen to me.
|
|
I suppose there had been other low points in my life -- really low,
|
|
low, low points -- but I couldn't think of a lower-down one. There I
|
|
was, my father and my mother in custody. And I didn't know, after the
|
|
raid on Luz Street and my father's arrest, how soon the criminal police
|
|
would be after me too. If they and Pineda were on speaking terms, it
|
|
would be sooner rather than later. I had nowhere to go in Cuba and no
|
|
motivation to return to the States and the fond embrace of Mr. Gomez.
|
|
But you know, in some way it was having hurt Amelia that was
|
|
the worst. I know, that may it sound fishy. I hadn't been exactly the
|
|
ideal boy friend over the past six months. Well, she hadn't been the
|
|
easiest person to get along with either. But behind the "Why don't you
|
|
do this?" and "Why don't you do that?" I still felt, well, that she was
|
|
always really concerned about me. Now suddenly she was shoving me
|
|
out of her life. It gave me an awful feeling -- like falling on your belly
|
|
and having your breath knocked out. You can imagine it was difficult
|
|
to concentrate on cellular phones after all this. I sat staring out the
|
|
window at the traffic down on the Rampa and then at the corner of the
|
|
park showing from my window, where I could just make out from my
|
|
window the beginning of the path to the Copelia cafe. I struggled with
|
|
the hunger for Amelia -- and, when I thought about the G-2, another
|
|
sensation that was more like heartburn.
|
|
I knew I should probably do something, get out of town, go into
|
|
hiding - - like Bogart in Key Largo. Or maybe it would be best to ask
|
|
for an interview with Pineda -- or even with Fidel -- and try to clear
|
|
myself. After all, I really hadn't been involved in the escape plan. Of
|
|
course, getting them to believe me would be another matter -- and I
|
|
was an accomplice after the fact.
|
|
As is usual when I get caught up in such a complicated problem, I
|
|
have a tendency to do none of them. I wanted to talk it over with
|
|
Eddy, but I was afraid to get him involved, both for his own sake --
|
|
and maybe for my own. After all, how far would his loyalty go?
|
|
Anyway, a few hours later, out of ideas, I was on my way out of
|
|
reception area and into the outer lobby of the Havana Libre. Eddy was
|
|
with me. I had promised him a ride downtown in my MININT vehicle.
|
|
It was just getting dark, but I saw in the lights over the loading area,
|
|
standing on the other side of the cab rank, my old G-2 friend with the
|
|
sensitive irises. Today he was wearing a pink shirt whose tail stuck out
|
|
in back in the Mr. Marcus style, and he was talking to a policeman.
|
|
Another policeman stood behind him. Well, I thought, here it is, I
|
|
guess maybe I'll get that talk with Pineda sooner rather than later.
|
|
Then I heard someone call my name -- "Felipe."
|
|
The voice was hoarse. I looked around -- down a hallway leading
|
|
off the lobby, and saw Jerry standing there. Or rather, he wasn't
|
|
exactly standing, he was doing a sort of cross between a shimmy and a
|
|
St. Vitus dance, nodding his outsized head and motioning for me with
|
|
his pudgy little hand to follow him. I took a look outside and saw my
|
|
man from G-2 glance in my direction. I looked at Jerry. He leaped
|
|
forward toward me, grabbed my hand with his thick, moist little paw,
|
|
pulling me away from Eddy. Quick, we've got to get out."
|
|
"But..." I started to say.
|
|
"What's wrong?" said Eddy.
|
|
"Come on," said Jerry. "We have to run for it!"
|
|
But run where? I thought. They'd be sure to catch up with us,
|
|
there were a lot more of them than there were of us.
|
|
"Come on!" said Jerry, pulling harder.
|
|
But not so many of them yet, I thought. "Eddy, run back upstairs
|
|
and give them the salsa across all three channels in turn, now's your
|
|
chance.
|
|
"His eyebrows rose and he smiled. "Sure, ingeniero." I pushed
|
|
him toward the elevator. He held me back by the arms. "Just kiss me
|
|
good-bye," he said.
|
|
Outside, the pink shirt was pacing, head lowered.
|
|
I gave Eddy a quick abrazo.
|
|
"No," he said, "A real kiss good-bye. Quick."
|
|
"Oh, for God's sake!"
|
|
A pouting expression on his wide, narrow lips. "You're not really
|
|
my friend!"
|
|
"No! Eddy!"
|
|
Jerry yanked at my hand. "Kiss him!"
|
|
"No!"
|
|
Jerry giggled. "Close your eyes and think of Fidel!"
|
|
So I reached up and put my lips to Eddy's. He gave me a large,
|
|
moist kiss. For a split second I spaced out, trying to think about
|
|
Amelia. I pushed Eddy away and followed Jerry. As I looked back, I
|
|
saw the pink shirt heading for the front door, followed by the two
|
|
policemen -- they weren't exactly running, but they weren't standing
|
|
still either. Eddy had already entered the nearest elevator. Jerry began
|
|
to run, loping with a swaying wobble, and I jogged along. We went
|
|
through a gray door toward the middle of the hall, through a room full
|
|
of air conditioning equipment, passing by another room with stacked
|
|
cans of paint. Through a swinging door, and then we were out on a
|
|
loading dock, and before I knew what was happening, Jerry had jumped
|
|
into the back seat of an old Ford with tail fins that was sitting there,
|
|
motor running, and I had gotten into the front next to the driver, and
|
|
we were speeding down an alley. I was breathing hard, my eyes
|
|
watering, it was dark in the car, and it was only when the alley
|
|
debouched onto 25th Street that I saw there was someone else in the
|
|
back seat. I heard the meow first. Then I looked. A major portion of
|
|
the back seat was occupied by a bulky figure holding a white cat.
|
|
"Felipe!" the high-pitched throaty voice of Pierre Diaz-Ginsburg
|
|
sang out. "I was afraid we were going to lose you."
|
|
As we raced down 25th Street, I said, "What the hell?"
|
|
Pierre ifted Kropotkin up as he ran one hand over her tawny fur.
|
|
Don't worry. We'll lose them instead." A streetlight shone off his
|
|
bald spot. He looked less comical with his natural hair and no mustache.
|
|
"Where are we going, Pierre?" I realized Valeska must have
|
|
gotten word to him.
|
|
He pursed his lips. "Back to the fight, Felipe, back to the fight."
|
|
Shades of "Casablanca," I thought.
|
|
We turned the corner at the Malecon and headed east along the
|
|
water. Light from the first quarter moon behind us glinted white on
|
|
the breakers along the beach. The sea looked like a dark blanket on a
|
|
bed in a dimly lit room. We passed several cars and a truck but no sign
|
|
of the cops. Eddy must have done his job.
|
|
"All right, Felipe?" said Jerry.
|
|
"'Felipe' be damned," I said. Call me Chucho!"
|
|
==================================================
|
|
|
|
NO WAY OUT
|
|
|
|
by Otho Eskin
|
|
|
|
|
|
(Part 7, the conclusion of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by
|
|
August Strindberg, a new version by Otho Eskin)
|
|
|
|
CHARACTERS:
|
|
|
|
MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of
|
|
a "patrician" family in the deep south
|
|
|
|
RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
PLACE:
|
|
|
|
The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep
|
|
South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to
|
|
Cora's bedroom.
|
|
|
|
TIME:
|
|
|
|
Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's
|
|
|
|
AT RISE:
|
|
|
|
MISS JULIE and RANSOM in the kitchen. He has just refused to
|
|
leave with her. The sky is quite light now.
|
|
|
|
|
|
SCENE
|
|
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
What can I do?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
There's always one way, if you had the courage.
|
|
|
|
(JULIE picks up the gun from
|
|
the sideboard.)
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
You mean this?
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Me, I wouldn' do that. That's not the way I am. That the difference
|
|
between us.
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
Sometimes.. sometimes I'd like to. I've thought about it. A lot. But
|
|
I've never had the courage. That's what my father wanted. To end it
|
|
like that. Clean and neat. But he failed. He couldn't do it. He tried
|
|
once. He couldn't do it.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
Maybe he really didn't want to. Maybe he thought at the last minute it'd
|
|
be better to get revenge on yore mama than to blow his brains out for
|
|
her.
|
|
|
|
JULIE
|
|
It looks like my mother has the last word, though the final revenge
|
|
on him, through me.
|
|
|
|
RANSOM
|
|
I gotta go, Miss Julie. The judge be waitin'.
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JULIE
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Maybe all this is my mother's fault. Maybe my father's. I don't know.
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My own fault, I suppose. Should I make Jesus responsible, like Cora?
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|
I can't do that. That's all lies and fairy stories. I suppose it really
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|
doesn't matter whose fault it is. I don't know what to do. I can't run
|
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away. I can't stay. I can't live. I can't die. Help me, Ransom. Order
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me. You're the strong one. I'll obey you like a dog. Help me. You
|
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know what I have to do. But I don't have the courage. Order me to do
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it.
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RANSOM
|
|
I can't.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
Do me this one last service. Order me!
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RANSOM
|
|
I can't order you. I bin in service too long. If the judge appeared right
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|
now in this room an' told me to jump through the window I'd do it. I
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don't know no other way.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
Pretend you're a white man and I'm a field hand. Tell me what to do.
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|
Order me! Do it for me.
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
I can't, Miss Julie. I don't know how.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
You know what a hypnotist is, Ransom? The ones that come to the
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|
theater.
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
I know what a hypnotist is.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
A hypnotist says to someone "Take this broom" and he takes it. He
|
|
says "sweep" and he sweeps.
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
But the person gotta be asleep.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
(As if in a trance)
|
|
I am asleep. The whole room has turned to smoke. The stove there
|
|
looks like a man in black with a tall hat.. Your eyes are glowing like
|
|
coals when the fire is low...
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|
|
|
(The sunlight now has flooded
|
|
the kitchen.)
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|
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JULIE
|
|
(Continued)
|
|
How nice and warm it is. So light and peaceful.
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|
|
|
(RANSOM puts the revolver
|
|
into JULIE's hands.)
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
Go on now.
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|
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JULIE
|
|
Tell me that even the first can receive the gift of grace.
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|
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|
RANSOM
|
|
I can't tell you that.
|
|
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|
JULIE
|
|
I can't move. Tell me to go.
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
I can't
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|
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JULIE
|
|
And the first shall be the last.
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|
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|
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RANSOM
|
|
Don' think. Don' think. Yore takin' my strength away. Makin' me a
|
|
coward. I gotta go. The judge waitin' for me at the depot. He 'spectin'
|
|
me. I can't keep the man waitin', can I? There no other way, Miss
|
|
Julie.
|
|
|
|
(JULIE stands up, still holding
|
|
the gun, and walks out the door,
|
|
not looking back.)
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|
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CURTAIN
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|
=========================================================================
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=========================================================================
|