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1400 lines
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 6, Number 6
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November-December, 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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=================================================
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"Fugitives," a poem
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Wendy Hammersmith
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"Etude," a short story
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Yitzhak Herrera
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"Sierra de Cristal," an excerpt (chapter 17) from the novel
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"Ay, Chucho!"
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William Ramsay
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"Suites," part 1 of the play, "Shell Game"
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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
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affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
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and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
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has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the 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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WENDY HAMMERSMITH, originally from the Isle of Wight, now
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lives on Martha's Vineyard. In addition to writing poetry, she teaches
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high-school French and German.
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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," was read this fall as part of the Woolly
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Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series.
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=================================================================
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FUGITIVES
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By Wendy Hamnmersmith
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(After L. Rellstab)
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Damned
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Fleeing from the scumbag city
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Hating mother, despising father
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Deserting the friends who deserted him
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Forgetting the whole son-of-a-bitch country
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Damned
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He is damned.
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Lonely
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Shedding hot tears
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Longing for him to return
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Hating herself for her weakness
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Watching the cars pass below the apartment window
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Caressing no one except herself
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Lonely
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She is lonely.
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Indifferent
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Sending clouds with no beauty and no rain
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Lighting with a haloed moon the travel poster on the apartment wall
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Blowing harsh wind on the coatless exile
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Rolling waves into shore for squealing little boys
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Growing veins to feed neoplasms
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Indifferent
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It is indifferent.
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===================================================
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ETUDE
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by Yitzhak Herrera
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Alfred hadn't been looking forward to this at all. The doctor
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had told them there would be an awkward recovery period of the best
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part of a week. All kinds of dressings to change and Sarah wouldn't be
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able to show herself in public for ten days or so. Worst of all, success
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was not guaranteed.
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He fidgeted, in the overly overstuffed chair in the waiting room
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and wished he hadn't given up smoking three months ago. Why give up
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smoking when you're sixty-four years old? A woman in her seventies
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sat just opposite him on a long blue couch. Her face was lined with
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spidery networks of wrinkles. That's exactly what Sarah had been
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fearing as she faced the big six-oh coming up in November. You had to
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sympathize. He felt his own face. When he brushed it with his
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fingertips, it felt smooth, but he knew that in the mirror he would see
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the lines, narrowly running down his cheeks, his chin -- and one from his
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nose partially hidden one under his white mustache. Men had to settle
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for getting old. Well.
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After they had called him into the recovery room, he took her
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long, graceful fingers in his hand and asked her how she was.
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"Pretty awful, right now."
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"I'm sorry," he said, looking down at the lively blue eyes
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peeking out of her gauze- and tape-covered face.
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"Maybe I should be sorry, not to have gone to Dr. Hanford in
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San Francisco instead so that I could have recovered in her halfway
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house there -- that would have spared you all this."
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"I didn't ask to be spared." Alfred warmed to the thought of his
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caring for Sarah, his wife. Twenty-three years.
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She pressed his hand. "Never mind, it's in a good cause. I'll be
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more like the girl you married."
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Alfred wondered about the "boy" of forty-one she had married,
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in what was a second try for them both.
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"Don't look so forlorn. After all, men can get them too."
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"So I've heard." The idea was bizarre.
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The recovery process was a mess, but it was a mess Alfred could
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handle. He was used to fielding artists' problems in his role as Vice-
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President of a Music Production Company. His clients would require
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anything from the firm, help with a flat tire, getting into a detox ward,
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Alfred found that taking care of his wife was like mothering an
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especially important client.
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Just over a week later, it seemed as if it had all been worth it.
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Sarah's face had emerged from the bandages, the wrinkles greatly
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reduced, the skin around the eyes smoothed out, the cheeks pinker from
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the laser treatment. Most of all, Alfred had been impressed by seeing
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his wife staring in the mirror, smiling a soft cat smile, her shoulders
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raised, lifting her chin to examine her neck -- proud, proud.
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"Is it still a face you want to love, Al?" she said.
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Alfred could only smile. "More than ever, darling."
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That night, after watching an eighteenth-century sea saga on
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public television, they went to bed and made love. Alfred felt his body
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quivering with stage fright. Sarah, her new face frowning, lips gasping,
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was able to achieve her orgasm, but Alfred, panting, his heart throbbing,
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felt his penis weaken and die. Sarah kissed him and told him he was
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tired, everything was all right.
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As she went to sleep on her back, her elegant hawk-nosed
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profile glowing in the moonlight, he gazed curiously at the strange
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smooth face.
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Then the next morning, as he watched her reading the paper
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over breakfast, and she smiled with her brand new smile he thought
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how delightful! That night he brought her home a bouquet of ageratums
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and carnations. It was as almost like starting a new love affair. This
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proud new woman with the faraway look in her eye was the woman he
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loved. The woman who loved him.
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Last night didn't matter there would be other nights.
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The trouble started with Chopin. Chopin's real name was
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Frederic Coutant, but everybody called him by the name of the
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composer. He was Sarah's boss, the VP in charge of trade books at
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Mopress, one of the big conglomerate media firms. Chopin was fifty,
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had long curly hair, was single after several reportedly disastrous
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marriages, and had the reputation of being what Alfred and his
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grammar-school friends back in Queens used to call a C-man -- C for
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cunt. Chopin and Sarah had always been on friendly terms, but Alfred
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had gotten the idea from Sarah that Chopin was only interested in
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women a decade or more younger than he.
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It was a Tuesday, a month or so after the operation, that Alfred
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put in his daily telephone call to Sarah at about one thirty in the
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afternoon. Usually his wife ate a sandwich at her desk or caught a fast
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meal in the company cafeteria, so he expected to find her in. But all he
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got was her voice mail, and he left a message telling her she needn't call
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back. Probably she had gone out to lunch with someone -- it didn't
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matter. In fact when he saw her that night, Alfred forgot to ask her
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about where she had been. Then Thursday he made another call, this
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time at two fifteen. No Sarah. He tried again at 2:45 -- no luck. It was
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funny -- she could have been at a meeting, but most meetings at
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Mopress were in the morning, not the afternoon. Then he got involved
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with trying to straighten out the schedule of Slimy Fruit, one of his
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firm's high-profile rock stars, and didn't get time to call back again.
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That night he made Sarah her usual Manhattan, with a Scotch
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for himself. She smiled at him and asked him what kind of day he'd had.
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"Oh, so-so, sometimes I get tired of musicians."
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'I think it's that you're not very musical yourself, so you lack
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sympathy."
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"How was your day?"
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"Fine."
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Did you have lunch with someone? I called and only got your
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voice mail."
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Sarah said she had gotten his message. Yes, she had had lunch
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with Chopin.
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"What's new with him?"
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She shrugged. The two of them had chitchatted about people --
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and Chopin had brought up the subject to the new slot opening up in
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audiobooks.
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"Oh." Sarah had long been angling for a Vice-Presidency, and
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she had told him that the audiobooks division job would be a plum for
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her. Alfred admired her for being ambitious. She should be, with her
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intelligence and Ph. D. in comparative literature from Yale. He looked
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out from their apartment window on the lights in the tall-towered office
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building across East 63rd Street. Lights of people still working. Soon
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he'd retire then what?
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"I was thinking about retirement."
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Sarah looked up, frowning. "Oh, you're too young for that."
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Alfred shrugged. He didn't have to retire next year, it was true.
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"Well, it has to happen sometime."
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"Yes, but New York is more fun -- as long as you're still
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working."
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Alfred pictured the rocky coves a t La Jolla, the cold shower
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from the breaking waves. "Maybe it would be fun to live some place
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else."
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Sarah smiled. "Oh, Alfred, let's enjoy New York while we're
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young -- that is, relatively young."
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"I suppose." But he thought suddenly she's much younger
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than I.
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How must it feel to look younger -- a lot younger -- than you
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really are?
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The next Monday, he got her voice mail. Feeling like a jerk, he
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called back Mopress and asked for Mr. Frederic Coutant. Voice mail
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again.
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That night, trying to go to sleep, he told himself to get a grip on
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himself. The next few days, he didn't call. Twice, Sarah called him
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instead.
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But the following Friday, he made the call and got her voice mail
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once again. This time he switched to her assistant and found out that
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Sarah would be at a meeting out of the building all afternoon.
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That night she said that she had gone that afternoon with Chopin
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to a one of the other presses, to see how their audiobooks departments
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were organized.
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"Oh, that sounds promising, I guess."
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"I'm certainly encouraged," she said, looking out over the city
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lights. "Um, Alfred?"
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"Yes?"
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"Chopin invited us to a party tomorrow night. It's for one of
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our authors. Should be fun, lots of younger people."
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It turned out that the author was Christabel McGee, who wrote
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books about pigs that spoke and engaged in PG-rated romances. At the
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party, Alfred found himself stuck in a corner behind a wing chair talking
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to the author, who was in her late forties, had a blonde crewcut striped
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with pink, and a hefty bosom that she had bared almost down to the
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nipples.
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"Don't you think Chopin is a charmer?" Her wide mouth
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looked hungry.
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"He's lovely," said Alfred. Sarah was in a group around Chopin,
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over by the picture window. Chopin had one arm around her shoulders
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as he gestured animatedly.
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Alfred extricated himself from the tip of the wing chair. "I need
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another drink."
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"Ooh. Get me one too."
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Maybe what he did next was a result of the hangover he had the
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next day. Perhaps the retained image of Christabel McGee, virtual
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nipples and all, also had something to do with it. Anyway, he found on
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wakening the next morning that he had decided. By the end of the next
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afternoon, he had arranged the whole thing.
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"You're going to San Francisco?" The light was just failing
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over the tower opposite. Sarah looked pained.
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"Yes. An emergency piece of babysitting for Rooty Toot
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Floot."
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"Those childish morons -- I'll bet they can't even read music.
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How long will you be gone?"
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"Maybe a week, ten days."
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"That long?"
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Alfred refilled her drink. "Sorry. I'll be moving around, so I
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can't give you a number, but I'll call in."
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The operation was more of an ordeal than he had expected. He
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hated hospitals anyway. As he left the recovery room, he found himself
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expecting Sarah to be there. But there was only Dr. Hanford, svelte in
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her greens, reassuring him that the procedure seemed to have been a
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success.
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The nurses at the halfway house were anal types they changed
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his dressings as if he were King Tut getting ready for burial. Outside,
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fog wisped and billowed over the base of Nob Hill. Life seemed very
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long. He rationed himself to one call a day to Sarah.
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"Is everything all right?" Sarah's voice was shrill, troubled.
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"Absolutely."
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"Well, that's good."
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"Having fun?'
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"The usual."
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Chopin, he thought. Chopin.
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Some days he had to leave a message on the voice mail.
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Chopin.
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He looked at his face in the dim light of the lavatory on the 727.
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The erasure of the wrinkles was great but the smoothing of the skin
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around the eyes was even better. As he made his way back to his seat,
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he felt a shiver at the sight of the head of the blonde Sylvia who had
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the seat next to him.
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He smiled at her as he sat down. "Can I buy you another
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drink?"
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She grinned back. "Sure, why not?"
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After the drinks came, she thanked him and then turned back to
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her copy of Vogue.
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After a long moment, he turned to her. "Let's have lunch
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sometime."
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She looked up from her magazine. "Absolutely."
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"I suppose financial consultants keep pretty busy."
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"Come on! Not that busy. Especially if they get a chance to
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hear the real scoop on Rooty Toot Floot."
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The apartment was dark when he got home. There was note
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from Sarah: "Home late love, love, love. F."
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"F"! When had she started with one letter? Did Chopin sign his
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notes "C? or "Ch"! Eff her!
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He made himself a drink. He looked at his watch. Only 7:03.
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Then he took out his little red notebook and looked up the number.
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Sylvia was delighted to hear from him. He took her to the Club
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Francais for dinner. Back at her apartment, it was plain sailing. Sylvia
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woke him up at 7:45 AM with a dry, soft kiss. They had breakfast
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together. When it was time for her to leave for work, he had decided it
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was best to spend the morning at the health club and maybe the
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afternoon at a museum then he'd go home in the late afternoon and
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would tell Sarah that he had stayed an extra day in San Francisco.
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"My God, what happened to you?" she said that night, looking
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at his face, startled, alarmed.
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"How do you like it -- the new me?"
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She took a deep breath. "Alfred, why would you do that
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without talking it over with me?
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"I thought it should be a surprise."
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"Well, I'm surprised all right." She sat down heavily on the
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sofa. "I need a drink."
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Alfred went to the bar and made her one. "You don't like it."
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She hesitated. "No, it looks good. Weren't you supposed to
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be back last night?"
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"Delayed."
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"You could have left a message."
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He told her he had tried, but there was something wrong with
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the machine. He described the San Francisco procedure and the halfway
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house.
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"I can't get used to it."
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"I got used to yours fine."
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"I know."
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She sighed and hoped that dinner home was all right. They went
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to bed early. Alfred moved close to her, but she pulled away.
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"I'm awfully tired."
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So am I, he thought, tired of the whole thing.
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The next day was a long one. He had to endure the bold or
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furtive stares of people who didn't know him well enough to ask him
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about the facelift. And to his friends, he had to explain that he was "Just
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trying to keep up with my wife." After lunch, he picked up the phone
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to call Sarah's office -- then he put it down again.
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That night life in the apartment seemed back to normal except
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in bed. They made love again, this time he came but it was different.
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He found himself thinking about Sylvia who or what Sarah was
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thinking about, he could only guess -- and he didn't want to.
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The ritual of daily calls started, as if by themselves Sometimes
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she was in -- sometimes not. The following Wednesday, he didn't call
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he spent the afternoon having lunch at Sylvia's apartment -- and bed
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afterwards.
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Sarah made vice-president. Chopin was throwing her a party.
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As they dressed, she looked at him. "That tie is awfully square why
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don't you buy yourself one of those Ferragamo's, like Chopin wears?"
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"Fuck Chopin and his ties." He heard the ugly rasp in his voice.
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"You don't have to blow my head off. I thought you liked
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Chopin."
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"What gave you that idea?"
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"Oh, please, Alfred, don't spoil my evening." Tears formed in
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her eyes. He hugged her carefully. "Please, Al."
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"Of course," he said.
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But when he saw her standing at the party, grinning foolishly at
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Chopin, who had his arms around two blondes but was staring
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lasciviously at Sarah, he felt something inside breaking. He went over
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to Sarah and told her he was going home.
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"Are you sick, darling? The party's just started."
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"Sorry about that. But you're right, I am feeling awful."
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She kissed him. "Go right to bed -- take care of yourself."
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He called up Sylvia from his cell phone. She wasn't in he tried
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her on her "cell."
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"Well, I am having dinner at I Preggi right now. Can I call you
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later at home?"
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They met in the bar of the Westmont-Crillon down the street
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from his apartment.
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"It's all the facelift business, it's ruined everything."
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Sylvia shook her head, swishing her long dark blonde hair.
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"Well, I didn't know you before, Alfy, so I can't say."
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"It's spooky, it really is."
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"Poor guy, you need someone to hold your hand."
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He spent the night at her place again. He wasn't feeling very
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potent, but Sylvia seemed to know ways to fix that. He left for work
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directly from her place in the morning, experiencing the different kind of
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rush hour commute from the West Side.
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Sarah called after lunch.
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"Are you all right? I was frantic when you didn't come home."
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"I was fine. How's Chopin?"
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"Chopin." A long pause. He could hear her breathing. "I think
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we'd better talk tonight."
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He agreed and then slammed down the phone.
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They faced each other over the dinner table. The fish hand
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stirfry had been cleared away and she was drinking tea. Alfred was
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spooning the froth up from his cappuccino.
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"Alfred. I'd like to be able to convince you that there's nothing
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between me and Chopin."
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"I used to be able to read your face, Sarah. But not now."
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"It's the same face fewer wrinkles, smoother skin, no bags
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under the eyes but otherwise it's the same."
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He sipped at his coffee. "Is the heart the same?"
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"The truth is, I can't absolutely convince you because, well,
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there has been a little something."
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"A little, you say."
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"Just a little -- nothing, really." She bit her lip. "But if you
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insist -- intimate."
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"I see."
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"Al, I came out of the bandages feeling that I'd gained ten years,
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and suddenly I looked into your face and saw that the ten years were a
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lie. And I didn't want to face up to the lie. I wanted to keep on feeling
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really younger."
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"And so Chopin."
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|
"And so Chopin or somebody, it didn't matter. And then when
|
|
you sprang your own operation on me, it felt like a double lie, and that I
|
|
had committed a crime against you besides. I've been overwhelmed by
|
|
guilt."
|
|
"I'm all right -- you don't have to pity me."
|
|
"I can't read your face either. But I know you didn't come
|
|
home at all last night."
|
|
"I guess we both have some decisions to make about the ten
|
|
missing or found years."
|
|
She picked up her teacup but didn't drink. "It's not just about
|
|
the facelifts, is it?"
|
|
"I don't think so. It's not about the ten found years. It must be
|
|
about those others -- the twenty-three."
|
|
"Were those years lost, Alfred?"
|
|
He knocked over his cappuccino cup. The dregs of the pale
|
|
brown liquid made a small pool on the table. Sarah looked at the pool
|
|
but didn't move. Neither did Alfred.
|
|
"It never occurred to me to ask before."
|
|
"But now you have to, I suppose."
|
|
Alfred smiled. "It sounds like we both have to." He stood up.
|
|
"Are you going out tonight?" she said.
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
"I won't wait up."
|
|
"No."
|
|
"As a matter of fact, you'd better not come home not for a
|
|
while, anyway."
|
|
Alfred wiped up the pool of coffee with his napkin. He turned
|
|
and threw the wadded napkin toward the couch, hard. It only made it
|
|
halfway and flopped limply onto the oriental. He pulled on his coat and
|
|
walked to the door, head down, not seeing at anything, imagining but
|
|
not looking at Sarah's new face. He opened the door and walked out.
|
|
The heavy metal door slammed automatically shut behind him. The
|
|
clang of the door seemed to vibrate through his skull. It was gloomy in
|
|
the sparsely lit hallway as he stepped slowly toward the other end. A
|
|
few doors down, a window gazed out into the light-speckled darkness
|
|
of the night. He saw a pale smooth face faintly mirrored in the window.
|
|
He averted his eyes and strode on down toward the elevator.
|
|
|
|
===================================================
|
|
|
|
|
|
SIERRA DE CRISTAL
|
|
|
|
by William Ramsay
|
|
|
|
(Note: the is chapter 17 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
|
|
|
|
|
|
I finished shaving. I picked up the cloudy pan of tepid water and
|
|
threw it into a little gully that ran down to the edge of the cliff that
|
|
dropped several hundred feet down into a forest of pine. It was three
|
|
days since I had left Havana, the rattles in Pierre's old Ford pursuing us
|
|
along the Malecon, under the tunnel and past El Morro. At Alamar, the
|
|
gigantic housing project east of the city, we left Jerry off somewhere
|
|
inside the maze of five- story concrete buildings. Then we headed south
|
|
along the expressway to Santa Clara and onto the N1 to Ciego de
|
|
Avila. A fitful morning sleep there, napping, elbows and knees pressing
|
|
into hard blocks of wood in a shed behind a general store with two
|
|
grimy gas pumps -- one broken -- in front. I peeked out through the
|
|
cardboard that covered the broken window -- window glass is another
|
|
scarce item in my native land -- and envied the calm of the three men
|
|
who sat in shirtsleeves, playing dominoes at a restaurant across the
|
|
way. Then off again in the afternoon, and by that evening through
|
|
Holguin and taking a turn off the highway onto a narrow, potholed
|
|
blacktop southwest toward the mountains looming ahead in the
|
|
moonlight. We stopped at a "friend"'s bohio along the Mayari-Moa
|
|
road and drank orange soda and waited. Pierre had to wake me up
|
|
when the jeep arrived to take us up the dirt roads and trails into the
|
|
camp near the crest of the Sierra de Cristal -- the Crystal Range.
|
|
As I looked to the north, beyond the pines of the foothills, the bay
|
|
of Nipe shone like a fleck of mica in the midst of a green and beige sea
|
|
of sugar fields and the great brown pustule of the open-pit nickel mines
|
|
near Moa. Just out of sight over a small ridge to the west lay Angel
|
|
Castro's ranch, near Biran, where Fidel had spent his childhood. It was
|
|
hard to believe that Pierre and his "Anarcho-Syndicalist Front" fighters
|
|
had been able to hole up in the midst of Socialist Cuba, even among the
|
|
bare precipices, brush-choked canyons, and dense forests of the Sierra.
|
|
But of course in first weeks after December 2, 1956, only Fidel Castro
|
|
believed that fifteen men would be able to survive in those same sierras,
|
|
hunted down by Batista's troops and constantly betrayed by local spies.
|
|
I said as much to Pierre as he came out of the cabin, his tall bulgy frame
|
|
bent, carrying Kropotkin as if the animal too were made of crystal.
|
|
"Yes, Chucho, and there were anti-Castro rebels right here in the
|
|
'60's, as well as ours with 'Comandante Augusto' in the Sierra
|
|
Escambray. He was a man. Your friend Pillo was with us then."
|
|
Pierre sighed. "And some of our comrades were active just west of
|
|
here not so long ago -- 'Granma' just doesn't take the trouble to write
|
|
them up."
|
|
The air at 1000 meters was cool, and I pulled an old sweater
|
|
around my shoulders. "So now there's another rebellion going --
|
|
yours."
|
|
Pierre shook his head, a blond strand of hair waggled free. "No,
|
|
no. No rebellion. We aren't interested right now in fighting Castro --
|
|
we are merely establishing an alternative to him -- setting up an
|
|
anarchist presence."
|
|
"By robbing banks."
|
|
Pierre smiled. Kropotkin lurched in his arms, jumped down, and
|
|
stretched like a tired businessman on a massage table. "An anarchist
|
|
tradition, the idea plagiarized later by that pseudo-communist
|
|
opportunist Stalin. The communists pretend that they invented the
|
|
phrase 'expropriating the expropriators' -- but it was great men like
|
|
Nechaev, Bakunin, and even, I suspect, the highly respectable
|
|
Kropotkin himself who had the real vision of beginning the
|
|
redistribution of wealth by peaceful anarchist means."
|
|
"Peaceful?"
|
|
"We haven't killed one person in the last two months."
|
|
"And before that?"
|
|
Pierre shrugged. "There are incidents -- accidents. Felipe --
|
|
Chucho -- I hear your ignorant bourgeois background speaking. You
|
|
should make use of your time here now to learn a few things about
|
|
political realities."
|
|
"We'll probably all get shot before I get a chance
|
|
to learn much about anything."
|
|
The sun was now touching the pines on the ridge opposite.
|
|
"Negative, thinking, Comrade. Now that I've heard your whole
|
|
story..."
|
|
"Oh?" I said.
|
|
"Your friend Paco Santos confided in Valeska. Valeska has been
|
|
my eyes and ears in Havana, I'm going to miss her, now that she's
|
|
deserted us for the pleasures of San Salvador." He squatted down and
|
|
patted Kropotkin. He shook his head. "El Salvador -- I miss the
|
|
amenities in the capitalist world, Felipito, old boy, but my heart belongs
|
|
in Cuba."
|
|
"Where the bank accounts are."
|
|
His face became grave and he told me that if I thought that finding
|
|
caches of gold or dollars in Cuba was an easy task nowadays, I was out
|
|
of my mind. He operated in Cuba because it was home. "And," he
|
|
said, staring out toward the now hazy blue of the distant bay, "the
|
|
economic situation has degenerated so much lately here that it isn't hard
|
|
to grease a few palms -- we have inside help on all our bank and credit
|
|
union jobs. There's nothing as crooked as a greedy socialist ideologue,
|
|
I find."
|
|
He lowered his head, brushing his chin on Kropotkin's back, then
|
|
raised his head: "Besides, I have a very nice conduit to the Cayman
|
|
Islands here." He smiled. "You know, I don't trust Cuban banks."
|
|
Within a few days, I started to feel a little more secure about our
|
|
sojourn in the Sierra de Cristal, with its long quiet days and sharp still
|
|
nights, only the occasional airliner or a military jet rumbling far above
|
|
us. We had to move once, however, because of approaching Army
|
|
patrols. Our new camp was set up in tents, down in a ravine on the
|
|
northern side of the range. Pierre remained calm. I remember telling
|
|
myself mornings, when I awoke to the bird songs and the scent of the
|
|
smoke from the small open fire, that at the very least I was alive. I
|
|
tried to put out of my mind the thought that I was almost as much of a
|
|
prisoner here as my parents were in Havana -- stuck in a wilderness in
|
|
the middle of an island with the Cuban G-2 and the C.I.A. and the
|
|
Association all looking for me.
|
|
One night, I was finishing up, with outdoorsman gusto, a meal of
|
|
beans, together with rice splashed with a dollop of strong-smelling goat
|
|
stew. Pierre walked up and stood over me. I looked up. He thunked
|
|
me with one of his giant knees, motioning for me to come along. We
|
|
went down to a large rock at the edge of the campsite, where in the
|
|
daytime when it was clear you could see a blue slice of the Atlantic to
|
|
the east. Tonight, only one light was visible in the misty, moonless
|
|
dark, a bright twinkle up toward Moa.
|
|
"I've been thinking about your problem," he said.
|
|
I asked him which of my many problems he was talking about.
|
|
"The main problem, of course. Getting your mother and father
|
|
out."
|
|
"Yes?"
|
|
"I've got an idea."
|
|
I waved to him to go on.
|
|
He smiled as if I were a bank teller and he were holding a
|
|
Kalashnikov on me. "Everybody has a soft spot for something, you
|
|
know."
|
|
"Yes, yes."
|
|
"Even Fidel Castro."
|
|
"Yes, yes."
|
|
"He's only human, you know."
|
|
I felt like strangling Pierre -- for a man of action, he was a hell
|
|
of a windbag sometimes. I told him to get to the point.
|
|
"What's your hurry?" He waved at the faint shadows of the pines
|
|
and the lines of rocky outcrops. "Felipe, Chucho, this is heaven
|
|
compared to La Cabana -- or the paredon."
|
|
"I'm in ecstasy," I said.
|
|
Pierre snorted and started in talking about natural man and the joys
|
|
of a simple existence, good old William Morris again and his ideas
|
|
about the simple life, artsy-craftsy bullshit. He cuffed me playfully on
|
|
the head -- I pulled away and pushed my hair back into place. "You're
|
|
still nervous, Chucho, anxious, a child of the city. Look! All this
|
|
beauty of Creation lies here at your feet." The moon was just rising, a
|
|
misty glow over Punta Guarico.
|
|
"Is that what you anarchists believe in, 'Creation'?"
|
|
"The human spirit, Felipe, that's what we have faith in, the human
|
|
spirit."
|
|
"And money."
|
|
He made a face. "Money is power, power to be shared. Like your
|
|
father's money."
|
|
"My father's money." In the darkness of the night, moonlight was
|
|
beginning to dawn.
|
|
He waved his hand in the direction of Nipe, as if consigning all
|
|
problems to the world below the heights of the Sierra Cristal. "We can
|
|
talk about that later. First let's discuss the abduction."
|
|
"You can't 'abduct' my father, we've tried that. You may
|
|
remember, it didn't work out too well."
|
|
Not your father, I meant that Fidel..."
|
|
"Fidel? You are crazy. The man with a hundred homes and a
|
|
thousand bodyguards. They say even his bodyguards have
|
|
bodyguards." I gritted my teeth, this man wasn't just wild, he was
|
|
insane.
|
|
"Not Fidel himself."
|
|
"Not Fidel?"
|
|
"Not Fidel. Do you see that road that runs from Mayari south
|
|
down the river valley, and that cluster of huts just before the road
|
|
disappears into the hills?"
|
|
"I see the road." It was just a black streak against the moonlit
|
|
grayness of the fields. I thought I could make out some shapes that
|
|
might have been huts.
|
|
"That's Bajo Cedro. Do you know who lives there?"
|
|
"Fidel's mother?"
|
|
Pierre looked startled. I didn't know why I'd said that. "No, not
|
|
her, idiot, she's been dead for years. But maybe almost as good. His
|
|
old nanny."
|
|
"His nanny!"
|
|
"Yes, the old nanny, the ama for the Castro family lives down there
|
|
in Bajo Cedro. All alone, no guards, seventy-eight years old. Delia.
|
|
Black, supposed to keep herself busy with santeria. Fidel has chickens,
|
|
hams, blouses, necklaces sent to her. She won't leave her bohio, so he
|
|
doesn't see her very often -- but they say old Delia is the only person in
|
|
the world Fidel Castro has ever really loved."
|
|
"I don't know," I said. "Who's 'they'?"
|
|
"One of my men, from Mayari. He's seen the official car from
|
|
Havana pull up to her hut."
|
|
"Does he know her?"
|
|
"He hears things."
|
|
"I don't know," I said. I had learned, I thought, not to trust
|
|
Pierre's enthusiasms. I didn't like kidnapping -- and especially an old
|
|
woman, maybe a frail or even sick old woman. But Pierre talked me
|
|
around: they would treat the old lady carefully, nothing to worry about.
|
|
He and his men could easily carry it off. Like Fidel's rebel group in the
|
|
Sierra Maestra in the '50's, Pierre's "army" consisted of only a handful,
|
|
nine men. But we wouldn't need even that many for the job. The
|
|
kidnapping was the only hope we had, he told me, and there was little
|
|
risk. Even if for some reason something did go wrong, all we were
|
|
doing was a "little kidnapping" of an old lady out in the country. And
|
|
nothing could go wrong. She would be unresisting, probably even
|
|
cooperative if we acted as gently as possible. The government would
|
|
likely never find her hidden away with our little band in the wilds of the
|
|
Sierra Cristal. They hadn't found Pierre's men yet, after three months
|
|
of Pierre's "expropriating the expropriators" all over Cuba. And the old
|
|
lady would surely be ransomed: my father and mother were an
|
|
embarrassment to Fidel anyway by now, he'd surely be ready to use
|
|
them to save the old woman who had nursed him as a boy.
|
|
But I still didn't like the idea of abducting a little old lady. A
|
|
little old lady with powerful friends.
|
|
Later, I lay in my tent, the kerosene lamp turned low, trying to
|
|
read myself to sleep with John Le Carre's latest. I could see the glow
|
|
of the Coleman lantern through the canvas of Pierre's tent, and the
|
|
sound of typing. My tentmate, another Felipe, lay sleeping, half-waking
|
|
and snorting or clearing his throat from time to time. I finally put down
|
|
the book and went outside. The moon was well into the third quarter,
|
|
shining on the Cauto River that wound down on this side of Bajo
|
|
Cedro. I heard the crunch of a heavy zipper, and Pierre emerged, his
|
|
giant hand holding a manila folder. "Ah, Felipe. Come sit over here."
|
|
He went inside and fetched the Coleman, and put it next to the mats by
|
|
the campfire site. As we sat down, he handed me a paper. It read:
|
|
|
|
Dear Comandante,
|
|
We have Delia safe, she will not be harmed if you agree to our
|
|
terms. The anarchist struggle does not countenance needlessly
|
|
attacking the innocent. Our fight is with the forces of totalitarianism,
|
|
whether from the left or the right. As our great theorist Kropotkin said
|
|
more than one hundred years ago...
|
|
|
|
There was more in that vein, then the text went on to say that there
|
|
must be a prompt exchange for Pillo and the Revueltoses, conditions to
|
|
be arranged, safe conducts out of Cuba, and an "expense allowance" of
|
|
$100,000 in convertible currency.
|
|
"'Expenses'?" I said.
|
|
Pierre smiled, a faint darkening of his cheek in the dim light might
|
|
or might not have been a blush. "Well, of course."
|
|
But I talked him down on that one -- one hundred thousand was
|
|
too small to help us much, it made us look like petty crooks, and asking
|
|
for a lot of money might imperil the whole scheme. I suggested
|
|
twenty-five as a realistic amount for our escape requirements -- we
|
|
settled on fifty.
|
|
"'Petty crooks'," he said.
|
|
"Well. Not so petty, partner."
|
|
He handed me another paper and a blue card. "Sign at the x's," he
|
|
said.
|
|
I peered at them, turning them toward the lantern. The heading
|
|
read: Bank of Cheshire and Grand Cayman. The paper was an
|
|
application to open an account, and the blue card was a signature card.
|
|
Pierre had already signed, and from what he had typed into the blanks,
|
|
it was evident that the account was to be in both our names.
|
|
"For receiving the proceeds," he said. "I like offshore accounts.
|
|
Discreet."
|
|
"What proceeds?"
|
|
"Surely we're going to be partners in this, Chucho, I mean, when
|
|
your father opens the box in New York, you won't want not to share it
|
|
with me -- that is, with my movement?"
|
|
"Oh." I hadn't been thinking about money, but I could see that
|
|
Pierre would want to be rewarded for his efforts. Pierre had picked up
|
|
a half-burned stick and was looking at it closely.
|
|
"I don't know," I said.
|
|
"What don't you know? You certainly know that you need our
|
|
help. Don't be greedy, Felipe."
|
|
He was right about the help. "O.K.," I said, "I suppose we can
|
|
work something out."
|
|
He handed me another paper. "It's already worked out. The
|
|
money is to go into this account, and just so that we can be easy about
|
|
our financial relationship, there's this."
|
|
It was a note for $250,000, payable to Pierre from me -- payable
|
|
on demand. That's all I needed, I thought, another debt. Although why
|
|
worry about that, a thousand meters up in the mountains in the middle
|
|
of Cuba?
|
|
"Naturally, the note's only payable in practice when we get the
|
|
money." He dug around with the stick in the warm ashes of the fire.
|
|
"I'm sure you'll find the amount reasonable."
|
|
"It's a lot."
|
|
"What you'll have left is a lot more than what you've got now."
|
|
|
|
I had to admit to myself that he had a point. And I couldn't very
|
|
well do anything without him and his men and vehicles. I signed the
|
|
note.
|
|
Signing this bizarrely pedestrian document by Coleman lantern on
|
|
a mat smelling of water-logged campfire ashes, in the midst of a gang
|
|
of terrorists, with me myself on the run from the authorities, seemed --
|
|
perversely -- to lend an official seal to our plans, as if my signature
|
|
were ensuring that the whole crazy scheme was really going to come
|
|
true.
|
|
|
|
(To be continued)
|
|
==================================================================
|
|
|
|
SUITES
|
|
|
|
by Otho Eskin
|
|
|
|
(This is the first part of the comedy "Shell Game")
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHARACTERS
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop.
|
|
|
|
HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress as
|
|
a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a woman
|
|
(Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed with
|
|
clothes, shopping and make-up.
|
|
|
|
HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special assistant.
|
|
Corliss is a closet gay.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat
|
|
dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her
|
|
wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
PLACE
|
|
|
|
Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very
|
|
expensive resort.
|
|
|
|
TIME
|
|
|
|
ACT I - The present
|
|
|
|
ACT II - One nanosecond after the end of Act I
|
|
|
|
ACT I
|
|
|
|
AT RISE: The living rooms of two adjoining, identical (mirror image)
|
|
suites (The Honeymoon Suite and the Empress Suite) at Shangri La -
|
|
West. Stage left and right are front doors leading to the outside
|
|
corridor. Upstage are French doors leading to a balcony. This balcony is
|
|
constructed so that one can enter each suite from it. There is a common
|
|
wall with a door between the two suites. There are two additional doors
|
|
in each suite: one leading to a bedroom, the other to a bathroom.
|
|
|
|
YURT (as HEIDI, dressed as a woman with blond wig,) enters the
|
|
Empress Suite followed by HIRSCHEL. YURT carries a large
|
|
cosmetics case. HIRSCHEL is dressed in a traditional bellhop uniform.
|
|
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
This could get me fired.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
It's just a bellhop job, Herschel.
|
|
|
|
(YURT moves around the room, nervously checking behind
|
|
doors.)
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I may be just a bellhop to you but it's an important career move for me.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I thought you wanted to become a Methodist bishop.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
That was last year. I've grown.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Herschel, it's time you settled down.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I'm going through a mid-life crisis.
|
|
|
|
(YURT pulls the curtains on the front windows carefully aside and
|
|
peeks out.)
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
You're seventy years old. You can't be going through a mid-life crisis.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
The word I hear is there are people after you..
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I just need a place to stay for a little while. This place is perfect.
|
|
They'll never think to look for me here at Shangri La. A resort filled
|
|
with aging Republicans and recovering alcoholic TV hosts. Please. Pretty
|
|
please.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
You can't stay here. I've already promised the rooms to someone else.
|
|
|
|
(YURT glances nervously around the suite.)
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I thought you said this suite was empty.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
There's a friend...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Who is this ...this person?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
She's a young girl... Zenobia Birdsong. I've known her since she was
|
|
little. She's an orphan, with no family, no one to look after her. She's
|
|
here to audition for a gig in the Moon Pool Room. Until last week she
|
|
was in the chorus at the Ding-a-Ling Club in Las Vegas.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Just give me a couple of hours to make some phone calls. I've got
|
|
friends all over the country who are eager eager to help me. People
|
|
who owe me big time. There's no problem.
|
|
|
|
(YURT goes into the bedroom.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Rapturously - Off Stage)
|
|
Oooooh! Just my size. Neeto!
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Don't touch those things! They belong to Zenobia. I told her she could
|
|
keep her things here 'till she finds out whether she gets the job.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Taffeta! I love taffeta.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Put those back!
|
|
|
|
(YURT returns to the living room)
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
You're in trouble again. I know it.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Innocently)
|
|
Trouble? Trouble? My goodness, what could you possibly
|
|
mean trouble?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I can't help remembering Tahoe.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I was young and foolish, Hirsch.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
And then there was Atlantic City...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I don't want to talk about that. Please. Just a few hours. I'll be gone
|
|
tomorrow morning. I promise I'll be good.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
That's what you said in Miami...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
This time it's true. I've finally scored.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
That's what you always say.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I can pull it off, I know it. From now on I'm on easy street. I can buy
|
|
all the shoes I want. .
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
OK. Just a few hours. But this is the last time.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
You're a darling! I just love you to pieces.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Don't you dare kiss me! I've told you a hundred times don't ever kiss
|
|
me!
|
|
|
|
(YURT tries the door leading to the Honeymoon Suite and
|
|
finds it locked.)
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
What's in there?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
That's the Honeymoon Suite. Been reserved by some bigwig. Arriving
|
|
any minute now. (HIRSCHEL goes to the front door.) I've got a really
|
|
bad feeling about this. I know I'm going to regret it. I just know it.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
|
|
|
|
(YURT blows HIRSCHEL and kiss. HIRSCHEL exits. YURT
|
|
puts the cosmetics case on the floor, kicks off her shoes and
|
|
removes her wig, revealing YURT is a man. YURT takes a pistol
|
|
from a purse and begins a search of the suite, looking into closets,
|
|
checking behind furniture. While this is going on, the door to the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite opens and HIRSCHEL, staggering under the
|
|
weight of several pieces of heavy luggage enters, followed by
|
|
CORLISS SHAW, also carrying luggage, and SENATOR
|
|
HORATIO TREADWELL. TREADWELL examines the suite
|
|
critically.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
This the best you have?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
(Gasping for breath)
|
|
The Honeymoon Suite is the finest in the resort. I'm sure you'll be very
|
|
pleased.
|
|
|
|
(In the Empress Suite, YURT steps into the bathroom.
|
|
Immediately the front door of the Empress Suite opens and
|
|
ZENOBIA BIRDSONG enters. She has blond hair cut in
|
|
the same manner as YURT's wig; she wears glasses and
|
|
carries a cosmetics case identical to YURT's. ZENOBIA
|
|
puts the case on the floor and goes into the bedroom.
|
|
YURT emerges from the bathroom and steps onto the
|
|
balcony. In the Honeymoon Suite, HIRSCHEL staggers
|
|
with his load of luggage into the bedroom.)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Senator, I appeal to you once again, don't do this thing...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Don't you ever presume to tell me what to do. Is that clear? If you
|
|
were as smart as me you wouldn't be in your job.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
|
|
(HIRSCHEL returns.)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
(Pointing to the door to the adjacent suite)
|
|
What's that?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
That's the door to the Empress Suite.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Who's there now?
|
|
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
There's... there's no one registered at the moment, Mr. Shaw.
|
|
|
|
(ZENOBIA rushes out of the bedroom, having put on a
|
|
white, sequined sweater.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(Pointing to Corliss)
|
|
That's Shaw over there. (To CORLISS) Check the windows.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
|
|
(ZENOBIA takes off her glasses, puts them in her purse,
|
|
then snatches up the wrong cosmetics case and leaves the
|
|
Empress Suite. The instant ZENOBIA walks out, YURT
|
|
returns from the balcony and goes to the phone. At the
|
|
same time CORLISS goes to the windows of the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite and looks out.)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
It's OK. We're nine stories high. No one can see in.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(To HIRSCHEL)
|
|
You have movie channels?
|
|
|
|
(YURT dials the phone.)
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Of course, sir. Thirteen channels. We also have stereo. CD's. Fax...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(As HEIDI)
|
|
I would like to speak to Beaverman...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You have adult films?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
What do you mean, "who is this"? It's Heidi.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, Mr... eh ..eh.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Never mind my name.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Please! I really must speak to him....
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
How many adult channels?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
It's something of an emergency. Do be a sweetie and tell him I'm on the
|
|
phone.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Six, sir. I'm told there's a fine collection...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Hurt)
|
|
What do you mean he doesn't want to talk to me? ...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
There's a girl here at Shangri La West. Just arrived. That right, Shaw?
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Correct, sir. Probably yesterday.
|
|
|
|
(YURT slams the phone down. Thinks. Dials again.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Her name's Zenobia. Zenobia Something.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Birdsong.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
She's a very old, very personal friend. You know her?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Speaking as HENRY- in a male voice)
|
|
Boots!! It's me... Henry Yurt. How the hell are you, ol' buddy?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Well, sir. Maybe I do.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Where is she?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
No, I'm not in town...
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Last time I saw her she was in the Moon Pool Room waiting for the
|
|
auditions to begin.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
What do you mean, "thank God"?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Tell her she should be ready for a real good time. Her friend Horatio...
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
(Anxious)
|
|
Sir!
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(To HIRSCHEL)
|
|
Never mind. Shaw will take care of the details.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I can't believe you said that....You shittin' me, Boots? You shittin'
|
|
me?... Remember all those great times we used to have?... All right so
|
|
there was one time. But it was fuckin' great! Tijuana? ...The booze.
|
|
The girls. ... How could I have known she was a cop?...Boots? ...Boots?
|
|
... Hello! ...Hello!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(To HIRSCHEL)
|
|
Now beat it!
|
|
|
|
(YURT hangs up. Re-dials. CORLISS goes with
|
|
HIRSCHEL to the front door. HE peels off several bills
|
|
from a roll of bills and gives HIRSCHEL a tip)
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
(To CORLISS)
|
|
Isn't that.. ? Isn't that the famous Senator Treadwell?
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I'd be very much obliged if you'd keep his presence at Shangri La-West
|
|
confidential.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I saw his profile on Current Affair just last week...
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
If anybody asks, just say I've taken the suite. Don't mention there is
|
|
anybody else here.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Into the phone - in a female voice, as HEIDI)
|
|
Frankie, darling! ...
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I want you to do me a favor.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Sir?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Of course it's me you silly old thing. ....
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
(Pointing to the common door.)
|
|
I need the key to that door.
|
|
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Very agitated - dropping the female voice)
|
|
What is it?... What have you been hearing?...
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I can't do that...
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Resuming his female voice.)
|
|
What do you mean, "Is there someone else on the line"?.... Of course
|
|
not.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
There are times when the Senator must be able to come and go by a
|
|
back door. You know how it is in politics.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I could get in trouble
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
You said there's nobody there. What harm would it do?
|
|
|
|
(CORLISS peels off a few more bills and presses them into
|
|
HERSCHEL's hand. HIRSCHEL removes a key from a ring
|
|
and gives it to CORLISS. CORLISS shows HIRSCHEL
|
|
out of the suite, closing the door behind him.)
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Contract? What kind of contract?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Corliss, get down to that bar. Find the girl. Bring her here.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Grupnik? He said that about me? A snowball's chance where...?
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Sir, if I may be permitted...
|
|
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Both the Newark and Philly organizations?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You think they have a waterbed?
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
This whole thing is a really bad idea, sir. The press is looking for you all
|
|
over the place.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Screw the press! And screw you. When I want your opinion I'll ask for
|
|
it.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I must remind you, the ethics hearings are coming up on the 15th of the
|
|
month.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Do be an angel, just forget I called. In case anybody asks, you never
|
|
heard of me. ... I don't see why you have to say it would be a pleasure.
|
|
|
|
(YURT hangs up. YURT rummages in the purse for an
|
|
address book; flips through the pages.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Don't sweat the hearings, Shaw. My boys aren't going to turn on me
|
|
after all these years.
|
|
|
|
(YURT dials)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
There are twenty-two angry women on the witness list. It won't be a
|
|
pretty sight.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Male voice)
|
|
Merrik... It's Henry Yurt here. ...Long time, no see..... Talk to me,
|
|
Buddy.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Who's going to pay attention to a bunch of hysterical women?
|
|
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
What do you mean "who is this"?.... Say it ain't so, Merrik! ....
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Know what's wrong with you, Shaw?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Unfortunately? What's this "unfortunately" shit? Remember I put
|
|
together that can't-fail deal with the North Korean transistors for you...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Know what's wrong with you? You worry too much.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
That's what you pay me for, Senator to worry for you.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Just do your job.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
There may come a time when I can't save you. Last time you
|
|
remember, the girl scout troop in Pasadena it was a very close thing.
|
|
Why do you chase after women like this? After all, you have your wife,
|
|
Mrs. Treadwell....
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Pah leese.!
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Why do you do it, Senator? You risk everything scandal, disgrace,
|
|
your marriage, your political career for what? For a two minute roll in
|
|
the hay?
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
So it didn't work out. We live in a fuckin' imperfect world.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I've got to have that girl what's her name? Zenobia.
|
|
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I thought when you saw her in Las Vegas last weekend she called you a
|
|
loathsome, scum-sucking toad.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
She was playing hard to get. You know how women are.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
Are you fuckin' kidding me? You fuckin' kidding me? We were
|
|
business partners almost. We were almost like fuckin' brothers in
|
|
arms. Know what I mean?
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
But then, again, I guess you wouldn't know how women are. I mean...
|
|
people like you.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
... You don't want me to call again? ... (Female voice) Ever? But...!
|
|
Hello? Hello?
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I beg your pardon!
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You know, fairies.. Queers. People like you. Don't understand women.
|
|
Not like real men.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Sir, I must tell you I don't like the word fairy, queer...
|
|
|
|
(YURT dials a number)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I'll be sure to let you know when I give a fuck what you don't like.
|
|
Know what's wrong with those women? They're not getting enough
|
|
nookie. If they got screwed regularly they wouldn't be going around
|
|
whining just because somebody wants to have a good time.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
(Male voice)
|
|
Big Al? Henry Yurt here.... Wait! Don't hang up!
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
And there's the matter of Mrs. Treadwell...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
No problemo. I told Cybil I'm attending a trade conference.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I got this great deal and I'm coming to you first. 'Cause you and I go
|
|
way back and I wanted to give you first crack at...
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
She says if she catches you with another woman again she'll shoot you
|
|
dead on sight.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I'll have her doctor increase her Prozac dosage..
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
I can't fuckin' believe you said that, Al. Can't fuckin' believe my ears.
|
|
After all we've meant to one another. We spent four months in the same
|
|
cell at San Quentin... That makes us like family.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Sir, this time she means it. She's hired a detective agency.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You take care of it, Shaw. Just like you've always done. Now get down
|
|
to the bar and find Miss Birdsong. Bring her here. Don't take no for an
|
|
answer.
|
|
|
|
YURT
|
|
What's the fuckin' world coming to I ask you when two old friends
|
|
can't even hold a decent conver...hello?... Al? Al?...
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
I think you'd better have the key to the door to the next suite. Just in
|
|
case.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I know the drill.
|
|
|
|
|
|
(CORLISS gives TREADWELL the key to the common
|
|
door, then leaves the Honeymoon Suite. In the Empress
|
|
Suite there is the sound of voices at the door. YURT grabs
|
|
the wig and shoes, makes a dash for the cosmetics case but
|
|
the door opens and he hides behind the curtains of the
|
|
French doors leading to the balcony leaving the case on the
|
|
floor. Just as he disappears through the curtains,
|
|
HIRSCHEL, carrying luggage, enters the Empress Suite
|
|
followed by BOOM-BOOM McKOOL.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
(End of Part One)
|
|
===================================================
|
|
===================================================
|