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Fiction-Online Volume 1 Number 1
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 1, Number 1
Spring, 1994
EDITOR'S NOTES:
FICTION-ONLINE is a new quarterly literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the internet. The magazine will
include short stories, play scripts or excerpts of plays, excerpts
of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to
the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and
publishes material from other sources and solicits works from the
public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to "ngwazi@clark.net" (no quotes). To submit
manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to
copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give
readings or to stage performances or filmings or video recording,
or for any other use not explicitly licensed, will be in violation
of the authors' copyrights.
William Ramsay, Editor
ngwazi@clark.net
=================================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Three Portraits": verses
Joseph Forsthoffer
"Ginger Doll," a short-short story
George Howell
"Detente," a short story
Judith Greenwood
"Boy," an excerpt (chapter 1) from the novel "In Search of
Mozart"
William Ramsay
"A New Prometheus," a ten-minute play
Otho Eskin
=================================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington,
including "Murder is a Fine Art," "Duet," and "Season in Hell."
"The New Prometheus" was produced at the Source Theater Festival in
1993.
JOSEPH FORSTHOFFER is a writer living in Salisbury, Maryland.
"Small Town Lives" consists of three poems taken from his verse
drama, "The Fosters Chronicle."
JUDITH GREENWOOD, international interior and garden designer and
West Virginia farmer, also writes fiction. She was the founder of
the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC.
GEORGE HOWELL is a fiction writer living in Takoma Park, Maryland.
He has written art reviews for "Eyewash" and the "Washington
Review."
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy
problems. He recently published a short story, "Heritage," in
"Nebo." He is on the Board of Directors of the Writer's Center,
Bethesda, Maryland.
=================================================================
THREE PORTRAITS
by Joseph Forsthoffer
The Jilted Bridegroom
Last night, carrying groceries
from the car, I was struck
by the silence. Yesterday's frost
had killed the last crickets.
The sense of loss still haunts me, a sudden
and recurring revelation of absence.
I stayed home this morning
listening to the furnace
cycle off and on, expecting
to see you cross the room,
the wake from your body
disturbing the dust floating
in a slanted column of sunlight.
The Sunday School Teacher
It was all so simple once:
God was the yellow crayon
beams of sunlight drawn
on blue-lined notebook paper.
The children glue together
construction paper cut-outs
of Joseph and Mary and never
question the glances that pass
between a man and a woman.
No one noticed when I stayed late
to type his sermons. I was surprised
to find his hands so cold, the taste
of bourbon on his lips so sweet.
The Mathematician
As a child, I stood in darkened fields on moonless nights,
under the cold, black dome of a winter sky, to learn
the patterns of stars. I traced their movements and took comfort
in the mathematical precision of the heavens. The universe,
I decided, was a perpetual motion machine whose blueprint
could be found in numbers and geometry.
But now, at night, I hear the machinery creak and groan:
a lone cricket, somehow surviving into November,
rubs his legs and gains no response in the chill night.
And I sit until 3 a.m. ordering coffee and donuts
from a woman with a slender waist and red hair
who will never ask my name.
=================================================================
GINGER DOLL
by George Howell
Along dusty sidewalks uprooted by big trees, in front of tiny
storefronts garlanded with blossoms, crowds wander, crowds of
lovers, business men, high school girls and priests. And down
little alleyways, dark even in the middle of the day, intrigue
calls, adventure calls.
I have returned to the scene of the crime. Sober now, I
wander the narrow streets of the Vieux Carre, wander the streets of
New Orleans. But the noise makes me nostalgic, reminds me of
drunken walks, together, in the noisy crowd. She died. I sobered
up, she died. Simple as that.
Little plazas lead to shops, bookstores, bars. The stale odor
of spilled beer mixes with sickly sweet blossoms crushed on broken
sidewalks, a swirl of aromas. I walk through bookstores, browse
through thick volumes of picture books -- the river, mansions --
browse portfolios of decaying menus. I am nostalgic. I sobered
up, she died.
I follow a walkway past pink wisteria, through a dark
courtyard, to the doll shop. With her hair pulled back in a tangle
of dark braids, her skin brown as the bark of blossoming trees
guarding her shop, the sales girl smiles as she talks.
"These are traditional dolls," she explains. "And this is
Ginger Doll." She holds up a small brown cloth figure -- no face,
no eyes, no mouth, four thin stumps for arms and legs, a blue and
white checkered apron hanging from the limp brown doll. "She's the
kind of doll a child would need to forget her harsh and cruel
surroundings." The sales girl smiles as she tells her tale. How
can I refuse? I buy Ginger Doll, carry her under my arm, back to
my hotel.
Pages drift in a gentle breeze, drift from the bed to the
unpolished floor. Ginger Doll can't see the pages drift, can't
hear the pages rustle on the floor. No eyes, no ears, no mouth.
I can't read this letter from a dead girl to a doll with no ears.
I can't see my memories in a doll with no eyes. A doll that takes
in nothing, gives nothing in return.
I could take her into bars, prop her up against half-drunk
bottles. I'd drink cokes and tell her about adventures, tell her
about love and intrigue down narrow alleyways, in shady courtyards.
I could stuff her in my suitcase, dump her at the airport.
Some small child, lonely and frightened in the corridors of glass
and busy feet, could find her, find some happiness in Ginger Doll.
I could burn her. Smoke drifts up old grey walls, curls above
the window. Ginger Doll, in flames, in the waste basket. An empty
face devoured by flames. A moment of peace and forgetting.
I will leave soon, leave this old hotel, but what can I do
with Ginger Doll? Outside these dusty windows, crowds shuffle
along old broken sidewalks, loud, robust, alive. But inside, the
room is silent and, for once, I am at peace. I'll leave her here
in this silent room, leave Ginger Doll here.
I make a shrine for Ginger Doll. Prop up the doll on the
wooden dresser, half open the dusty louvered blinds. Vanilla bars
of street light fall across a bowl of candy on a doily. Something
to please a child, make a child's toy rejoice. But how can Ginger
Doll rejoice -- no eyes, no ears, no mouth, a sad bag of cotton
with a blue and white apron?
No more adventures call, no more restless walks through dusty
courtyards and sad plazas. I will give this doll a face. A black
stitch for a mouth, two buttons from my shirt for eyes. Fold her
arms around a letter, put my memories in the arms of a doll. Take
a piece of candy and watch the sun rise. I can leave soon. I
sobered up, she died.
=================================================================
DETENTE
by Judith Greenwood
A dingy gray sky fills the bedroom window and the
local weatherman uses his minute of breakaway time during
the Today show to say nothing will happen today. No sun.
No rain. No wind. No thunderstorm. Nothing to vary the
mild, gray nothingness of seventy-five degrees and low
clouds.
And everything else will stay the same. Nothing will
come over the phone or in the mail or down the street to
alter a gray life. Hope seems over. In less than two
weeks a few people will gather in a courtroom to
formalize the dissolution of hope. A few weeks after
that she will receive a certified letter announcing that
man has put asunder...
How bright the sun had been the day the promises were
made. She had photographs to prove it. Over the months
she looked at them and cried for the girl in embroidered
white organdy and the man in the gray cutaway and all the
beautiful youngsters in morning coats and pastel dresses
who'd believed in forever then.
He'd called at seven. She'd come home early with
live lobsters and Montrachet, and the call surprised her.
"I forgot to tell you I'm going to a seminar directly
from here," he said.
"Oh, David," she protested, "I came home early to
make dinner."
"Go ahead without me. I'll grab something on the
way."
"But it's your birthday!" she cried. "I don't want
to eat your birthday dinner. I'll wait for you. Come as
early as you can."
There was a long and oddly silent pause. The
suspicion that he wasn't at his office flickered through
her mind. His office was never that quiet. He chuckled.
"Leave it to you to remember. I've written the date all
day and didn't think a thing of it. I thought we'd
celebrate this weekend, so I mentally moved the birthday
to then -- like George Washington."
"Well, it's today."
"I'm sorry, Laura, but don't wait for me. You know
how these things are. I need the contacts I make at
these things. Don't wait up; we'll do something this
weekend." After she hung up the phone, she stared at it
as if David were inside. In a sudden leap of intuition
that was unlike her, she knew David was lying. He
hadn't forgot his birthday, and he knew she'd remember,
too. She was so sure of it that for a minute she thought
of getting in her car and finding him, feeling that her
certainty would lead her to him, wherever he was.
She didn't do it, of course. She cooked the
lobsters, carefully picked the meat out and put it away
in the refrigerator. The unusual domesticity calmed her
a little, although she still felt shaky as she searched
for clues from recent life to what or who was so
important to David that he'd lie and convince himself
that she'd buy the lie.
She drank the Montrachet and paced the kitchen,
trying to think of what to do next.
David had a secret. She was aware of it all the
time. There were no more gross slips like the birthday,
but Laura felt it lying between them in bed. She heard
it like an intruding voice from another table when they
met for dinner. She sometimes smelled it on him when he
came home, the sensation as ugly as the clinging odor of
burnt hair. Oh, most of the time he really did go where
he said he did. She might see him at the tennis courts
when she drove by on her way to the hairdresser on
Saturday. And yet he would come in reeking of his
secret. She tried to be more attentive to him; she
brought work home or sent someone else on a trip in her
place. She couldn't think of what else to do, so she
hoped it would just go away. Oddly enough, it was at
their own annual Christmas party that she found out
David's secret. No one told her. No one was caught
hiding in the bedroom piled with coats. There weren't
any intercepted guilty looks. The clue was something
that was missing. David was avoiding someone. A silly,
flirtatious, normal repartee between David and Sharon had
become cool distance. Her face jerked away from them as
if she'd been slapped; she caught Marion's . Hot shame
flooded her. Marion knew! Did everyone know? Everyone
but Laura?
The next morning she dug out the white leather
wedding album. There they were: David -- Laura -- and
Sharon, dressed in bridesmaid pink. She hadn't caught
the bouquet.
Sharon and David? Not possible! There had to be
another explanation. Sharon was her best and oldest
friend!
She blundered along in a daze until February. No one
meant to hurt her; it was the last thing they'd meant to
do. That's what he said. It was just that once when she
was away, they'd run into each other in a bar, and
sometime during the scotch and water their eyes met...
They'd tried, but it was no use. Now they had experience
and memory to which Laura was not a party. "She wants
you to know how sorry she is, Laura. You don't know how
unhappy she is about it. We're both miserable. We
didn't want you to know, because we hoped we'd get over
it." Laura looked at him with swollen eyes and a
tear-streaked face, unable to comprehend how David could
say something so thick-headed and think it made a
difference to her. Did he expect her to be sorry for
Sharon's guilty conscience?
Sharon from French Club in high school, in the next
shower stall in gym. Sharon, the one she told when she
finally "did it". Sharon, who confessed to Laura that
"it" hurt and was a big disappointment. Sharon gave the
bridal shower. Sharon knew how hard it was for Laura to
wait, as they'd agreed to, to start a baby. Sharon was
one of their tennis crowd. Sharon was at their friends'
parties when Laura was traveling. Sharon, Sharon, always
there, always everywhere -- and Laura's friends knew.
Laura lost the privilege of looking into a friend's eyes
and taking loyalty for granted. Betrayed. When David
left her, she didn't know whom to call. If she
confided, would her words later be used against her?
They were choosing sides. Who was choosing Laura? Might
they later change sides and expose her to the others?
Whom could she trust? Where was truth and where was
danger? Utterly alone, she spent weeks picking through
the wreckage. Half the memories from half her life
included David or Sharon. She'd have to take herself
apart to find all the useless shreds of her love for
them.
Laura decided to jettison Sharon and try to save her
marriage. "Help me, David! Help salvage us! This is a
nightmare. We have to try, babe. Please." She pled
history, love, and (in degrading moments she hated to
recall) economics. Nothing moved him.
The salt of swallowed tears turned to a bitter gripe
in her throat. She rushed home from work with fresh
flowers and spent hours polishing silver and cooking food
she couldn't eat. David wouldn't talk. He didn't even
see the new Laura. She sat on the floor one night,
looking through a glass of Cabernet at the fire she'd lit
and she thought about it.
Housekeeping hadn't won him, and it wouldn't win him
back. I don't run my business like this, she thought,
giving the customer what he doesn't want. What does he
want? Why did he love me?
He liked my organization and my drive. He was proud
of me. And sex. Once he'd wanted sex with Laura more
than anything.
David was no adventurer. He didn't just leave; he
made sure there was somewhere to go first. She realized
that she might be braver than he, and she knew she was a
little more successful than David.
She resolved to plan and execute a campaign to get
him back. It was what she was best-suited to do, and
would use all the qualities that set her apart from other
women. A few days later, she sent him by courier a list
of all their marital assets, divided and disposed with
unerring sense and accuracy. She changed the locks on
the doors. He called.
"Why do we have to sell the growth stocks?" David
asked. "And the cars, how did you decide I get the
Honda?"
"If I take the house, I get the mortgage, and I just
don't want the car loan on the Honda," she replied.
"With the stocks it's a valuation problem. They're down.
Would you take them valued at what we paid for them?"
"That's hardly fair, is it?"
"Well, if you take them at their present value and
sell them when they go up, then I've taken the entire
loss. So I figure the only fair way to settle it is to
sell and split the proceeds and the loss. That seems
fair."
"You've got it all laid out, haven't you? Pretty
cold-blooded, isn't it?"
Laura said nothing for a while. "I don't feel the
least bit cold-blooded about it, David. Not about any of
it."
There was silence again, and then, "What's the
matter? Are you there? Laura? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, David. Listen, this isn't working over
the phone. Write up your own version and I'll consider
it." Weeks went by with no response. She heard that
Sharon was in London. She called David and asked when
she could expect his settlement offer.
He hadn't accomplished a thing. He'd taken it all
apart. He'd looked at the pieces and tried to glue them
back together, but it was the kind of thing David had
never been good at. His intuitive, expressive strengths
didn't transfer to the analysis of their assets and the
decisive slashing apart required. And reading lists of
things they'd bought together and lived with depressed
him. It was exactly what Laura had expected.
She offered to meet with him to work it out. They
planned to meet at the house. She dressed in a severe
suit with a silk teddy underneath, and she made hazelnut
coffee, which David didn't really like. She told herself
that one way or the other, it was over.
He stayed.
The agreeable Laura radiated strength and warmth.
She was the image of decisive flexibility, the
negotiator, listening to his view and then transforming
it into a fair proposal. "We bought the growth stocks to
pay for the children's education," she gently reminded
him, "now there won't be any children."
"Take what you want, David, furniture, books, music,"
she offered, "but I have to have the house." She didn't
give a reason, but she insisted. She was logical, kind,
female. He was fascinated again, and couldn't seem to
remember why leaving had been so important.
But when Sharon came back, their careful, slightly
jerky detente failed.
He didn't walk out. He lay in bed with his back to
her. Sometimes she woke up when the bed shook with his
silent sobs. She pressed her pelvis into the mattress,
looking for heat she couldn't find. Even the quantities
of scotch he drank at night didn't help.
It made her sick. He made her sick with his weakness
and lies and drinking and silence when she tried to talk
about what was happening to them. She told him, "You're
selfish and childish and tiresome! You've got to have
what you want, the way you want it, or make me pay!"
It was during that time that Laura began to talk to a
voice in her head. The voice asked cruel questions that
hurt to answer.
_Who is Laura_? it asked one lonely night. "I am a
moderately successful, modestly attractive woman of
thirty-two," she answered herself, "who will have this
man and this marriage even if I never have another
carefree day, another intimacy or another minute of fun.
I am a scorned woman who uses anger and trickery to tie
his unwilling body to an eight year memory." She let him
go. For one blind week she hated them both so much she
wanted to kill them.
And then for a while, when the lawyers had taken
over, she dreamed that he came back. He appeared in
landscapes of flowering trees and early grass, and they
fell together in sensual embraces. She woke up sweating
and empty. The dreams dwindled away in the petty
meanness of legal moves. When she cleared his closets,
she got boxes from the Safeway. She threw his Brooks
Brothers suits, the Polo weekend wear, the Turnbull and
Asser shirts into the boxes. Cufflinks and tie clasps
fell among the shambled clothes. Shoes and tennis balls
went in at random. Without a conscious thought, she
started to throw some of her own clothes on top. In went
anything pale and gauzy. Silk nightgowns and ruffled
sundresses lay like cake frosting over layers of wool and
gabardine. She ripped bright little cashmere nothings
off padded hangers and flung them across the room where
they caught on the cartons and punctuated his grays and
navies.
She stood, panting a little, in front of her closet
when it was over, and saw nothing there but what might be
armor.
She'd bought wide strapping tape with nylon threads
in it. She punched the garments down, closed the flaps
and sealed them with the indestructible tape. The next
day a mover collected the cartons and David was gone.
She settled down to learn how to live alone and the
gray came over her windows. It would be six months from
separation to severance. She had the time for anything,
if she knew what it ought to be.
_Laura, Laura, who are you now_?
"I," she answered, "am a woman coming to terms with
disillusion. I am free to discover what sex feels like.
I can climb a mountain, go to Africa or make a pile of
money. I'll learn to make small talk, meet strangers and
learn to take the best of what I find and not pine for
what I don't have."
_Laura, what will become of you_?
"I don't know! Don't torture me with unanswerable
questions! Who ever knows just who she is? I'm Laura.
That's enough!"
_It wasn't for David_.
"Maybe it was too much for David -- did you ever
think of that?"
This morning she gets out of bed and goes to the
window. In her bed she could see only the gray sky, but
from here she sees the trees and the houses that hem it.
This is Laura's neighborhood. This is Laura's house.
This is Laura. If there is a house, a neighborhood, a
body; if Bryant Gumbel speaks to her from Radio City, if
she hears, there must be a Laura. There'll be a desk at
nine o'clock in a room with a window that is Laura's
office, a woman who is Laura's secretary: there must be
a Laura.
_What will you do_?
She shivers and turns toward the bathroom where Mr.
Coffee has brewed while she slept. "I don't need you, go
away. I'm going to live!" she says to nobody.
=======================================================
BOY
by William Ramsay
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 1 of the novel "In
Search of Mozart"]
The lights! It was fantastically, wonderfully
bright. He had never seen so many candles in his life.
He was alone in the luminous glare -- alone at the
keyboard, waiting, eyeing the fat lady with the slit-
mouthed smile who stared at him from the dark painting
beside the window.
"Think about the music, Wolferl, the music comes
from God and the Blessed Virgin, imagine that you're in
church, that you're facing the altar."
"And don't forget to count!" his father had added.
He was always telling him that.
He recalled his father's words in the coach from
Salzburg to Munich: "You will be doing something sacred -
- just like the priest at the altar. He can't worry
about the people in the church. He's turned away from
them, facing the holy place."
Well, that part was the same, thought Wolfgang. He
couldn't see the people behind him -- but that didn't
mean that he didn't worry about them. He looked down at
the keyboard and then up, over the top of the music stand
to the wall beyond and a cluster of golden-edged pictures
of people with shifty eyes and long, dark wigs.
His stomach felt empty and cold. The little finger
on his left hand quivered. This gigantic palace and all
the important people-- counts and dukes, and one fat old
man in a bright yellow suit who Papa had told him was a
real prince. What if he should freeze up now, miss the
notes, and the dukes and the Prince should frown?
A million chandeliers were sparkling in the mirrors
lining the mustard-yellow walls of the immense room.
It was not that he wasn't used to playing before an
audience. Father was always bringing home people who
wanted to hear him play. But other people didn't
criticize him as his family did, so usually it was easier
to play before strangers than it was to play just for his
parents and his sister Nannerl. But tonight! So many
people, so many beautiful things, furniture, paintings --
such gigantic rooms! He glanced around. His father,
sitting chin in hand, was fidgeting. Something bitter
rose in Wolfgang's throat. He was suddenly afraid he was
going to throw up.
He began the counting to lead into the first measure
of the Handel. Eins, zwo, drei, vier, eins, zwo, drei,
vier... "Don't cheat on the counting," and "Count out
loud half the time," and -- oh, he got awfully tired of
hearing about counting!
Beautiful ladies wore jewels covering their white
throats -- the glistening specks of light from the
diamonds and rubies were sharp and clear as raindrops.
He began. The first notes echoed, twinkling,
clinking with the slight, piercing sound of the bright-
toned harpsichord.
"The people sitting behind you," his father had
said, "Even if they're great princes and ladies, are all
there to hear you. But God will be the most important
person, your gift is from Him, your talent is one of His
works. He will be there to see if you're making good use
of that gift. Do your duty to Him."
Suddenly his mind went blank -- what was the next
measure? He shut his mind off and let his fingers go.
His fingers knew the way -- on, on, into the ritornello!
Glimpses through the tall windows. The world was
sparkling outside, the light from the full moon shone on
the icy lawns of the palace gardens.
Eins, zwo, drei, vier, eins, zwo...
It was really frightening to think of God and the
Virgin listening to him play. But when he imagined how
he felt when he was hearing mass, then he thought he
understood his father. Music was like the mass. It was
always easy to concentrate on it because there was always
a new way of hearing it.
"Brhhhmmmhhh!" Someone behind him coughed.
Never mind. It was his duty to perform well.
Concentrate on making each note sound just as beautiful
as he could. His father was right. His father was
always right.
He finished his first piece. The clapping broke
like a deafening torrent behind him. He turned and saw
a mist of brightness and smiles. His father motioned to
him. He wanted to wipe his forehead, but he didn't dare.
He bowed deeply. Blood rushed to his head, he became
slightly giddy. The big fat Prince in the bright yellow
suit with all the ribbons and medals and jewels called
him over: "Wonderful, extraordinary, I've never heard
such playing in my life! And from such a tiny little
maestro. Five years old. Imagine!" Pat, pat on his
head, the impacts muffled by his periwig.
The Handel had gone well. His father hugged him and
gave him a wet kiss on his cheek. A terrible desire
arose, to lay his head down on the harpsichord and close
his eyes. But it was almost time to play again.
Scarlatti this time. He remembered how a few weeks ago
he had given Scarlatti the "tin soldier" treatment -- he
would hit all the right notes and keep the rhythm -- but
still play badly. He called this playing like a tin
soldier, because he would pretend in his mind that his
arms and legs were stiff and hard, and that he couldn't
think at all beneath his imaginary tin helmet. Papa
would get upset and bewildered, and yet he wouldn't be
able to put his finger on what was wrong. It served Papa
right! Him and his constant "Don't forget to count!"
Tonight he felt unable to pretend anything. His
chest seemed to tremble, his face felt hot.
More applause for Scarlatti.
And now his own sonata. The ladies "ooh"-ed and
"aah"-ed at his having composed a sonata. My goodness,
he had written that back last summer. He could do much
better now. Didn't anybody realize that?
Six eighths.
Eins, zwo, drei, vier, fuenf, sechs, eins, zwo,...
He remembered just a few weeks before, Abbe
Bullinger sitting sprawled in the great oak chair in the
Mozart parlor in Salzburg, listening to him play this
sonata while his father read sermons.
"Oh, Wolferl, that's a lovely cadenza," said the
Abbe. "Whose is it? Vivaldi's?"
"No, I made it up."
"It sounds so familiar."
"It's mine."
"You're sure you aren't teasing me, Wolferl?" said
the Abbe. "I know I recognize it."
"It's mine, it's mine! You don't know anything!"
The Abbe opened his mouth wide, then he shut it
again and shifted his gigantic body, rocking the folds of
black cloth that spilled out over the edges of the chair.
Wolfgang saw his father's face turn red. "Wolferl, go to
your room -- immediately!"
The tears were dry on his cheeks by the time his
father knocked on his bedroom door. His father sat down
on the bed and motioned to him to lean over. Then Papa
took him by the shoulder, bent him down, and spanked him
hard, twice. Then he picked him up and shook him so
that, when he set him down again, his eyes blurred.
"When you grow up, Wolferl, then you can talk as much as
you want about how much you know. But in the meantime,
don't talk back to adults!"
He remembered the feel of the stinging in his
behind. Adults! They thought they were like kings, they
could do anything!
Clunk! Someone dropped something right behind him,
near where the Prince in his shining yellow suit was
sitting. It clinked merrily, like silver, a knife or
fork.
Keep counting, keep counting. Eins, zwo, drei,
vier, fuenf, sechs.
He finished playing his own sonata. Everybody
clapped loudly. His father hugged him. The Prince shook
his hand with a gentle, moist grasp. Ladies tried to
kiss him. One of them had a big black spot on her cheek.
Then his father told him that he could go ahead and eat
whatever he wanted from the big silver trays. There
were all sorts of lovely cakes, cookies, and candies. He
thought his father would tell him to stop after a while,
but he just kept on eating, and nobody told him not to.
All he wanted! And the beautiful ladies gave him little
kisses and stroked his face, and told him to take even
more cakes. He wanted to take some home to Salzburg to
Mama. He said so, and the ladies and gentlemen laughed.
He still would have, but his sister Nannerl told him very
sternly, no. Finally he nestled into the arms of a nice
lady in a marvelous, snow-like white dress and his eyes
grew heavier and heavier. He woke up with Nannerl
shaking him. "Wolferl, time to go home!" He heard one
of the ladies say, "The little angel," as he trotted
along, stumbling, holding onto his sister's hand.
Angels lived in Paradise, and that's certainly what
the palace felt like -- a bright heaven, full of lights.
He had played well. He had done his duty.
He started to wonder about this "duty" and why
exactly God was making him do it -- every day, and for so
many hours. But he was too tired to think -- all he
wanted was to go to sleep. And then after that -- to go
home, home to Salzburg!
#
Morning came, bright, chilly, and clear. He looked
out the window, leaning on the cold, frosty sill.
Munich! It had taken him a moment to realize that he
still wasn't home in Salzburg, he was in this marvelous
inn, where there were so many chickens -- he could make
them out in the coops behind the courtyard wall. He
wondered if the big brown pig with the long, drippy snout
would come around again and root some more in the garbage
scattered about the court below.
He wished father and Nannerl would get up. Maybe he
could go down to the kitchen and see Gertrude, with her
fat arms and her big smile with the two teeth missing in
the middle. She was so nice to him and might give him
cake to eat again. He loved Gertrude. The only thing
was, poor Mama.
Finally breakfast was over -- he had been too full
of cake to eat much. "I'm sorry Mama didn't come, Papa.
I miss her." He was playing with the little black dog
that belonged to the innkeeper, cuffing at it and then
pretending to feed it so that it would jump up at his
hand. He missed his dog, Bimperl.
"I'm sorry too, Wolferl." His father was busy
reading and just glanced up at him and then back at his
book. His father may have been sorry. But he was really
sorry.
"Why couldn't she come?" The dog slobbered on him
slightly. His hand turned warm and sticky.
"Next time, Wolferl, maybe she can come next time."
"Papa." Hot tears gathered on his left cheekbone
and then rolled down, some running onto his upper lip.
He licked at them.
"Oh, Wolferl!" said his sister. "Stop that!"
Nannerl took a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress
and helped him blow his nose.
Everything would be O.K. But he did miss Mama, he
did. He missed home.
He remembered Willy waving good-bye as the horses
started up and the coach lurched and began to jangle down
the Getreidegasse on the way out of Salzburg. He had
given Willy his best marble, the one with the yellow and
orange streaks in it. As a special going-away present.
Willy had made a little gasp, then his face had hardened,
and then he said that he couldn't take it. But finally,
his smile creasing his freckles, Willy opened his hand
and clasped the marble. Willy would remember him while
he was away.
#
The next day, after breakfast, his father took him
on his lap: "Son, I must talk to you."
Uh-oh. He thought he knew what was coming. "Are we
going to make a visit tonight?" He chewed on the stringy
end of a piece of goat cheese.
"No, no visit tonight. Wednesday -- and you'll have
to practice hard. Wolferl, I have something very
important to tell you. Pay attention!" his father said,
as Wolfgang turned to peek out the window at a dove
pecking away at a piece of grain in the courtyard.
"Remember at the Count's the other night? No more of
that!"
He remembered squirming on the hard, narrow bench in
the grand salon of the Count's mansion -- waiting,
waiting. It wasn't as big as the Prince's palace, but it
had a better harpsichord. When his father had signaled
him and he began, "One, two, three, one, two, three."
Just as he hit the first note of the Handel, someone
laughed. His finger slipped on the next arpeggio, and he
had to play the next measure faster, catching up to the
rhythm, and then a high, piercing female voice said,
"She'll never be able to show her face in Munich
again."
'Show her face?' What did that mean? His fingers
started to stumble again, but he caught up with the
rhythm again and threw himself into the playing. That
awful old Countess continued to talk. But he clenched
his teeth and didn't make any more mistakes. He finished
the piece, really drawing out the ritardando at the end.
He heard the hands clapping but saw only a blur of faces.
He leaped up from the keyboard and scurried over to his
father, wiping his eyes with his knuckles as he hid his
head in his father's lap.
"You mustn't cry when people talk while you're
playing," said his father. The dove in the courtyard
flapped and soared up to perch just below the roof.
"But I didn't cry! And besides, Papa, they should
have been listening."
"Wolferl, if the Countess" -- that ugly, silly old
lady, Wolfgang thought -- "wants to talk, it's her right.
It was her home."
"But Papa." The dove flew off, dark against the
bright sky.
"If you run off and cry like that again, people will
stop inviting us and there will be no more visits." His
father's mouth was pursed and his blue eyes looked angry.
"I don't care," he shouted. "I don't care!"
His father raised his hand, and Wolfgang felt tears
rise in his eyes. But the hand stopped in mid-air,
trembled, and slowly sank down. "Go practice your
violin."
"No!"
"Yes, right now!"
His father took hold of his shirt collar and led him
to the door and pushed him toward the bed and the
battered black violin case that lay beside it. As he
took out the violin and tuned it, he thought: suppose
there were no more visits, so what!
#
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's father, Leopold, told
himself he had cause to feel satisfied -- very satisfied.
It was Christmas, and there were wreaths up on the houses
as they returned to their inn in Munich in a small gig
from an afternoon visit to the Duke of Zweibruecken. It
was cold in the open air, and only his son's bright blue
eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible under the
folds of a thick brown wool scarf. The New Year, 1762,
was just around the corner, as well as his son's sixth
birthday. Who would have thought that he, the Deputy
Music Director at the court of the Prince-Archbishop of
Salzburg, would this Christmas be the guest of honor --
well, the father of the guests of honor -- at the court
of Maximilian III, the Electoral Prince of Bavaria? At
the age of forty-two, something was finally going right
for him in his life. For so many years he had been
resigned to the fact that his place was on the edges of
crowds of courtiers! But that first night at the palace:
"Herr Kapellmeister, right this way, bring the children
up close so that His Highness can get a good look at
them." The voice of the Prince's music director had been
sweet and charming as he waved his hand in an elaborate,
feminine gesture toward the Electoral throne. And then
later the Bishop of Chiemsee had leaned over to Leopold
during the concert: "Herr Mozart, how fortunate that your
children have had a father with such musical knowledge!
How lucky for the world!"
Just then, Wolfgang had made some awful mistakes,
two right in a row. Leopold felt a sharp pain in his
stomach. But he looked closely at the bishop's face,
with the pig-like but friendly little brown eyes set
deeply into fat cheeks -- it was impassive. The lady on
his other side with the large beauty spot on her cheek
was staring straight ahead, eyelids half-lowered.
Leopold looked over at the slim little figure in the
periwig, perched up on two pillows on the harpsichord
bench. Wolferl had played through his mistakes, keeping
up the tempo -- good boy! The bishop turned and smiled
at him, making a silent gesture of applause. Leopold
smiled back. But as he stretched his lips in a display
of satisfaction, the thought of Wolferl's mistakes
chilled his heart. He couldn't depend on audience
ignorance forever. Perfection, that must be their goal.
Nannerl was coming along fine. But Wolferl must be
disciplined to practice. At home, it was easy, the child
loved the harpsichord, he could hardly be kept away from
it -- except when the other boys came around pestering
him to come out and play. But when they were traveling,
there were so many distractions. After all, when the
Duke's daughter invited Wolferl to go on an outing with
her that afternoon, who could have refused her? His son
came back from the excursion, his periwig askew, his
normally white cheeks flushed pink with excitement,
bubbling over with all the wonderful things he had seen,
the tame deer, the windmill, the twin calves. How could
a father begrudge him that -- especially when the blonde
little seven-year-old duchess held his son so tightly by
the hand and whispered in his ear as if they had known
each other forever? His son bouncing up and down on the
seat cushions.
"You had fun, today, didn't you, Wolferl?"
"Oh yes, Papa, she showed me all kinds of things!"
He patted his son on the head. As they reentered
the courtyard of the inn, Wolfgang jumped out of the
carriage before him and started to run across the court.
"Wolferl, where are you going?"
"Nowhere, Papi."
Leopold could see where two boards were missing in
the back fence to a small field beyond. Two boys in
woolen breeches and heavy blouses were standing tossing
a ball back and forth. "Time to practice."
"Oh, Papi, not now. I'm tired."
"Not too tired to play ball, I suppose."
"Oh, Papi."
"An hour with the violin, then you can play ball."
"A half hour?" Wolfgang looked at the two other
boys.
"An hour."
His son walked off, head hanging. Leopold went into
the public room, ordered a glass of stout, and listened.
The sounds of the violin scales came from the room above.
Faster and faster the notes came. One mistake, then
another, then his son settled down. Soon the sweet
sounds of a Vivaldi sonata reached him. He reached into
the purse containing their earnings from this tour and
tipped the waitress a silver thaler.
A good boy. But, associating with little duchesses,
would he learn not to talk back to the aristocrats, not
to care if the old Countess blathered on during his
performances? Wolferl was only five years old. Still,
if he didn't learn something about tact, and fast, he
could ruin everything -- everything!
#
It was the most beautiful spring day Leopold had
ever seen in Salzburg. Well, a touch of mist, but
nothing much. A soothing chill touched the air.
"Leo, I've never seen you look so happy." Abbe
Bullinger's bulging cassock looked like a small black
mountain, with enough wool in it to have made up clothing
for two ordinary-sized priests.
Leopold smiled, and rubbed the shiny knee of his
third-best suit. He had bought it when he was twenty-
five, but it still fit perfectly. Maybe now he could
afford a new best suit. "Yes, it was an experience."
"How did the children stand all the excitement?"
Leopold took another sip of coffee and stretched out
his long legs under the table in the coffee house.
"Well, Wolferl was a little wild at times, but
really he was very good."
"How did he play? Our little music machine, as
usual."
"No, no, don't even say that in fun, Sepp! Not a
machine. He's sensitive, a more sensitive musician even
than I am. Well, I suppose that's what you'd expect.
But he did play like a -- well, like a performer. Of
course, so did Nannerl."
"He has plenty of self-confidence, I can attest to
that." The Abbe put on a comical face.
"I punished him for talking back to you about the
cadenza, Sepp, it won't happen again."
"Oh, I don't mind. I like being treated like
family. But it's going to be difficult for a child with
his talent and his temperament not to rub people the
wrong way."
"I'll teach him, Sepp, don't worry."
"You can't drive him too hard, though, Leo."
"I won't."
"You don't realize the power you have over him.
I've never forgotten when he was only four, I was
questioning him about God and Christ and the Virgin
Mary, and he told me that God was first, but after God
came Papa."
They both laughed.
"I know what you mean, Sepp, I understand the
responsibility."
"Let him be a boy, Leo."
"Of course, of course. But he has to be a musician
too."
"You can't ever give him back his childhood, Leo."
Sepp didn't seem to understand. He hadn't seen the
expression on the face of Maximilian III. "Oh, Sepp! If
Wolferl works hard, he could be great -- my little boy
could be a great man!"
#
Marianne Mozart was in the parlor, crocheting a
bright red scarf, using the new skeins of wool that her
husband had brought her from Munich. She looked up over
at him, where he sat in his favorite rocking chair,
tuning his violin. His profile, with its decisive chin,
looked handsome against the sunlight from the narrow
window looking out onto the Getreidegasse.
"Mozart, I found the money on my dressing table.
Five ducats!"
He smiled. "Go buy yourself something pretty,
Marianne." Marianne Pertl Mozart's plump face blushed,
she pulled at the prominent, fleshy nose that she called
her 'Pertl dowry,' and said, "But five ducats!"
"Marianne, we made 175 ducats in just three weeks in
Bavaria. More than twice my annual salary."
"But shouldn't we be saving something for the
future?"
"No, what we have to do right now is to spend, we
need clothes, wigs, I'm even going to buy a portable
keyboard so that the children don't miss practicing when
we travel."
She straightened her brown muslin skirt. "Spend
more money? Leopold!"
He leaned forward and pounded on the table, knocking
off a hymnal. She leaned over and picked it up, placing
it reverently out of the way. "Fame, Marianne. That's
what we must aim for, fame! We must display the children
to the whole world. First, here in Germany. This fall,
we'll go to Vienna for the start of the winter season.
The children must play for the Emperor." Marianne felt
a hollowness in her stomach. "Oh, Mozart! Not again,
not another trip."
He grinned at her. "Don't worry, we'll all go this
time, the whole family, we all missed you in Munich."
She smiled and blushed, and he kissed her hand.
"I hope We won't have to be parted, the four of us,
ever!"
"Oh, Marianne, we can't say that, who knows what
will happen? The important thing is to make a reputation
in the capital, before the Emperor and the Empress.
Their Imperial Majesties, think of it!"
"Oh. Yes, of course."
"The children will have to practice hard. This is
our big chance."
"Yes, Mozart, I understand." She looked away, her
lips pressed together. He patted her on the shoulder and
walked away. She picked up her crochet work and began to
work again on the red scarf for her son.
Vienna might well be only the beginning. Her
husband had also talked about a Grand Tour of Europe the
following year -- if Their Imperial Majesties were
pleased. Wolferl would need more than scarves -- he'd
need the red-blooded strength of the Pertls to survive
this new life of theirs.
#
Wolfgang was tired of the summer. The heat was
awful. And he'd cut his left shin in two places slipping
on a rock up on the back slope of Castle Hill. The scab
was peeling off and it had started to bleed at the left
edge.
Papa said they were going away again. Vienna this
time. The capital of the Empire. In pictures, Vienna
had been very bright, people dressed in fur coats, lots
of snow. Would it be winter there already? And how
could they go there in a big boat? The Salzach looked to
be too small to get a big boat on it. Would the boat
break up going down the rapids? That would be cold.
They'd freeze!
It was worrying. Did they speak German in Vienna?
Or Turkish? If it was Turkish, how would he be able to
ask for anything? Did Papa speak Turkish? Probably.
Did you say "Giddyup" and "Whoa" to Turkish horses? How
did you say C major in Turkish?
What do you say to Turkish horses, anyway?
#
They weren't freezing at all -- and it was a big
river -- the Danube. It was early morning, the air crisp
with the feel of autumn. He and his sister watched the
waters of the Danube slowly ripple around the stern as a
brisk wind filled the sails.
"Watch closely, now, keep a sharp eye out." The
bearded captain leaned over him. A big puff of smoke
from his pipe made Wolfgang cough.
"What?" he said.
"Just watch, as we go around this bend."
"Yes, don't talk so much, Wolferl, just watch, like
I do!" said his sister.
The river was straightening out again. He saw the
spires! Off to the right, back some distance from the
banks of the river, first one, then two or three, then
finally a forest of church steeples over the intervening
trees -- it was Vienna! It sat like a little toy town,
shining and sparkling on the green plain leading from
the river to the city.
They docked, with a loud thump, and he ran down
right behind Nannerl as soon as the gangplank was down.
Two men in the blue uniforms picked up their luggage and
began looking through it.
"What are they looking for, Papa?"
One of the customs officials, a short man with a red
face, answered, "We're just looking to see what you've
got, young fellow."
"I've got my clothes and some toys and my music and
my violin."
"Oh, so you play the fiddle, do you?" The official
screwed up his face and winked.
Wolfgang looked up, "Of course, it's mine, why would
I be carrying it around if I didn't play it? I've been
playing for years and years!
"A good trick that is!" said the red-faced official,
looking down at him kindly. "Well, you can bring your
fiddle into Vienna if you can prove it's yours. Play us
a tune."
Wolfgang frowned. Not his fiddle! He grabbed his
violin, tuned it hastily, and struck up an easy minuet.
A crowd had begun to gather. A couple of boys his own
age, wearing flat blue caps, stared at him. He bet that
they couldn't play the violin! Everyone applauded loudly
and then cheered when he started yet another minuet, and
then another. Finally, a very tall dark man in a blue
uniform picked him up, gave him a big kiss on both
cheeks. Wolfgang didn't usually mind kissing, but he was
tired. His eyes began to sting. He didn't want to cry,
he was embarrassed. Papa took him from the arms of the
strange men, put him on his feet, and whispered to him:
"Stop crying, Wolferl. Pull yourself together, smile,
and make a bow to the gentlemen."
"But they aren't gentlemen," he whispered loudly in
his father's ear. "They aren't wearing stockings."
His father looked at him oddly. "Any appreciative
listener is a gentleman," he whispered. "Bow! Low!"
He wiped his nose with his fingers and bowed.
"And smile, Wolferl, don't forget to smile!"
He gritted his teeth and smiled at those men in the
dirty leggings. They looked all right, but they
certainly weren't gentlemen. Why did people always tell
such lies?
As they walked out to find a carriage, Nannerl
pulling him by one hand, all Wolfgang heard were people
speaking German. So Vienna was not full of Turks after
all, there were just a lot of Germans pretty much like
those at home. But there were so many of them. So many
people, so many horses -- but they weren't Turkish, just
plain German horses -- and many carts pulled by animals
and others pushed by people. Papa, sweat marks showing
on the armpits of his coat, hustled them into a
carriage. They jounced along some of the narrow streets
until they came to their lodgings. The street was called
the Ditch, and they were just down the street from the
Cathedral of St. Stephen. They went up some rather steep
stairs into a suite of mustard-colored rooms. Papa
lifted him up onto a bed and pulled off his dusty black
shoes, and he immediately fell fast asleep.
When he awoke, it was dark, but candles had been
lit, and he could see that Father had already found them
a clavichord. He had missed the clavichord these last
days, since they had left the palace of Count
Schlecklischluckli [Schlick] in Linz. He got up, sat
down at the keyboard, and threw himself into it. He
played some of the familiar pieces that he knew well,
especially some dance suites that Papa had told him
people in Vienna would like. Then he set himself to
practice his scales -- D, A. He imagined the power that
he would have in his fingers when he had become strong
enough to master the B-flat minor scale. And his trills
and bass figures, he worked on those too.
The trills were sounding better. Father should be
pleased. Maybe if Papa heard his trills, he wouldn't be
so worried about going to the palace. It was so good to
play again! He was well into his new pieces,
experimenting with one of the minuets he had been playing
at the customs shed, making up what his father called
"variations," when his mother came in, pulling her
wrapper about herself. She grabbed him by the ear.
"Wolferl, do you know what time it is?"
"But Mama!"
"To bed, now. Now!" She helped him take off his
clothes and tucked him under the feather bed. He
started to fall asleep. He felt wonderful. He looked up
at his mother standing over his bed and saw that her brow
was wrinkled up and her mouth looked sad. He didn't
understand. He felt so happy! All of them together, in
Vienna, with a clavichord -- and Papa would be so happy
about the trills.
#
Giant walls loomed up ahead as their coach
approached the entrance to the palace. A large crowd was
gathered in front of the gates. They shouted at the
coach, some of them in words that Wolfgang didn't
understand. One of them stuck his face and his hand
inside, almost in Nannerl's face, his toothless mouth
gaping, and croaked out: "A penny, please, Miss, for the
love of God."
"'Love of God,' I'll teach you, you worthless, lazy
scum!" said his father, swinging at the man's hand with
his gilt-headed cane, but missing. Wolfgang ducked. The
man moved away. Wolfgang raised his head. He felt
trapped in the coach, afraid that the people outside
would try to force their way in and maybe hurt them, even
kill them. And Papa was so angry, muttering "miserable
rabble" and "ungrateful swine." Wolfgang didn't know
what they were supposed to be grateful about. Grateful
because they could stand there and talk to people, even
put their arms inside coaches?
"Why is that man begging for a penny, Papa?"
"Because he's lazy, that's why, lazy rabble."
"Could I beg for a penny too?"
His father grasped his arm tightly. "Never! No son
of mine will ever beg. Never, never, never! No Mozart
ever has and no Mozart ever will!"
Just then the gates were opened for them, and they
entered the grounds of Schoenbrunn Palace. They passed
by buildings with rows of tall windows, servants in gold-
embroidered livery, vast beds of mums and asters.
Here they were! The palace!
#
Leopold was glad he had hired the fanciest coach
available and that he had dressed out Wolfgang in his
first really fine suit, white moire silk with doubly
embroidered gold facings. If the suit made his son feel
like a prince, that would help when he had to meet real
princes. After all, it would be a daunting experience
for a boy that age to be meeting such exalted personages.
He felt uneasy enough himself -- if they failed today, it
would be the end of his dreams of glory.
#
When they were ushered into the waiting rooms for
the royal suite, Wolfgang thought the people standing
around were all princes and nobles. Imagine! It turned
out they were just servants! Finally the door opened,
and they walked inside. The doors were gold and white
and taller than any he had ever seen. And inside, the
Emperor and the Empress were sitting there, waiting for
them.
She seemed so warm and motherly, and she had on the
most beautiful pale blue dress, just like the Queen of
the Fairies in the picture in the Archbishop's palace in
Salzburg. The Empress, Maria Theresa. What a nice,
singing name!
#
"Mozart, Mozart!" Marianne Mozart whispered
urgently into her husband's ear as they stood
respectfully at a distance of some twenty feet from the
throne-like chairs where the Imperial party sat.
"Shhhhhh!"
"He's climbing onto the Empress' lap!"
"Shhhh!"
"But Mozart!" He placed his finger over his lips
and bowed his head low. She shrugged. The world had
gone crazy.
#
The Empress smiled at him. He told her how much he
liked the trip on the river. She said she liked the
river too. He told some of the stories the sailors had
told him about elves and river maidens. She seemed
interested, opening her mouth wide and saying, "Oh, my!"
Then he tried to climb down.
"No," she said. "Sit here while the Emperor plays."
The Emperor played the harpsichord. A piece by
Bach. He was pretty awful. Wolfgang looked up at the
ceiling and saw golden cherubs looking down on him from
a blue sky. Then the Archduke Joseph, the Crown Prince,
began to play. He was even worse. Wolfgang kicked his
foot idly, back and forth, looking around the room at all
the people. A tall man in a purple suit leaned over and
pushed at Wolfgang's foot to stop the kicking. He
squirmed away from the hand and slipped slowly off the
blue silk lap. The Empress patted his head. When the
Crown Prince finally stopped playing, Wolfgang ran over
to his father. Suddenly he slipped on the shiny waxed
floor. The world turned upside down. He was on his back
and he was dizzy. It was hard to breathe and his chest
hurt. The tall little girl, the Archduchess Antonia,
kneeled down beside him and pulled his head onto her lap.
"There," she said. "Are you all right?" The man in
the purple suit came over and tried to pull her away.
"Yes thanks." He recovered his breath. She looked
down at him. She was beautiful. "I'm going to marry you
when I grow up!" he said. She giggled. He heard the
Emperor laugh. The Crown Prince Joseph came over and
looked down at him. He was almost grown up and had a big
nose. His mouth was like a very thin straight line. He
pushed the Archduchess away and motioned for a servant
to help Wolfgang up. "Just horseplay. The little boy's
all right, Father," he said.
"More than all right, if he appreciates a pretty
girl already," said the Emperor.
After he had gotten up again, Herr Wagenseil came
forward and motioned for him to sit down and play at the
harpsichord. But first his father gestured for him to
come over to him and handed him the score for a piece
Herr Wagenseil had composed. He sat down at the
keyboard. His head still felt a little dizzy. "Herr
Wagenseil," he said, "I'm going to play one of your
pieces. Please turn the pages for me."
The Emperor and the Empress laughed. So did almost
everybody else -- except Herr Wagenseil and the Crown
Prince, who made a face. Wolfgang felt in a good mood,
and he knew he was playing well. He made one mistake
while trying a chord in the bass that was still too much
of a stretch for his hands. It jarred when he hit the D
instead of the C. But he played through, and nobody
seemed to notice -- except the Crown Prince, who winced
and shook his head.
Everybody clapped at the end. But the Crown Prince
didn't clap very hard, and he still looked sour. He felt
like telling the Crown Prince to count when he played,
for heaven's sake.
"Herr Mozart," said the Emperor, "how delighted we
are that you could bring these marvelous children here
today." As his father had taught him, Wolfgang bowed
very deeply, and the queue from his wig flapped over the
top of his head. As he straightened up, he felt his head
to be sure the queue was back in the right place. The
Crown Prince laughed. "A curious little boy," he said.
His father motioned to them and they all bowed again
and left the salon. As they walked back through the
giant halls of the palace, his father smiled and said,
"I thought the Empress was going to keep you for good!"
He caressed Wolfgang's head. "But, Wolferl. You may
have offended Herr Wagenseil. And I don't think the
Crown Prince liked your fidgeting while he was playing.
I've warned you about saying things about adults."
"But the Prince can't play at all!"
"A prince always plays well, Wolferl. Always."
Wolferl shook off his father's hand. "Why do we
have to go now, anyway?"
"We have to go home."
"Home, really home, to Salzburg?"
"No, here, to the inn on the Graben."
"I want to stay here in the palace."
"Only princes live here, dummy," said his sister.
He stuck out his tongue at her. "I could be a
prince too. Couldn't I, Papa?"
"Wolferl," said his mother. "Stop talking such
nonsense."
"Why can't I be a prince, Papa?"
"You can be something better," said his father.
"But what, Papa?"
"A dummy baby," said Nannerl. He jumped at her, but
she scrambled out of the way. He began to chase her, but
she ran faster than he could follow.
As they waited for the carriage, Wolfgang stood,
rubbing the head of a stone lion, and thought, "Prince
Wolfgang." He liked the sound of it. Princes could do
whatever they wanted to. Even play the harpsichord when
they didn't know how to. They didn't even have to count!
They could order people to bring them anything they
wanted. He didn't understand his father -- "something
better." What could be better than being a prince?
#
The children need a rest, thought Leopold, as they
climbed back into their carriage. What a day! The whole
sky seemed to sparkle. Schoenbrunn had been a triumph.
The Emperor had been insistent that they come again.
"Bring more music next time. We'll play some things
together!"
It had been the high point of his life. Nothing had
ever been equal to that moment, watching his son on the
Empress' lap. The Lord had been merciful to him, the son
of a bookbinder, the grandson of a peasant.
But it was going to mean even more work for the
children. It was God's will -- they must labor to
fulfill the genius he had vouchsafed them.
#
Back inside the grand salon of the palace, all the
guests from the soiree had left. Archduke Joseph said,
"Why did you let him sit on your lap, Maman?" As usual,
he spoke in French.
"Oh, he was such a cute little boy!" said Maria
Theresa.
"What's the matter, son," said the Emperor, his
father. "Did you find that undignified?"
"It certainly wasn't what I had expected." Joseph
frowned. "After all, they're just musicians."
"Well, when you get to be Emperor, you can see that
the Court is better behaved. Are we a little lax,
darling?" he said, turning to Joseph's mother.
"From time to time," said the Empress giggling.
"That boy said he was going to marry my sister," he
said.
"Don't worry about that," said his father. "I'm
sure Toni won't settle for less than a grand duke for a
husband."
"I'm going to marry a prince or a king -- and not
just any prince or king." His eight-year-old sister,
Archduchess Maria Antonia -- Marie-Antoinette -- held her
blonde head up proudly. "He'll have to be important."
"As long as it isn't some musician off the streets,"
he said.
"Don't worry, I won't forget I'm a Hapsburg." She
stroked her long blonde hair.
"Just don't forget that Hapsburgs are rulers, not
gods," said his father. "Some of our royal cousins
forgot that in the past and cam
e to grief."
Toni made a face. "That little boy might be nice as
a friend, though -- he's clever."
"'Friend'! I'd like to see a musician's snot-nosed
kid sit on my lap," said Joseph. "What a friend he would
be!"
"Just because you don't have any friends," said
Toni.
No friends -- so what! thought Joseph. "A prince
doesn't need any friends. He has a higher destiny."
"Nobody would be your friend!" she said.
"Children, children!" said his father. "Stop or
I'll take my cane and lower both your destinies a bit!"
#
Wolfgang sat at the clavichord in their rooms on the
Ditch, staring at the dark oak wall. into space. It had
been so wonderful. Herr Schmidt, the organist at
Schoenbrunn, had let him play the organ in the Emperor's
Chapel, and had shown him how to use all the stops.
Wait till he showed old Herr Dittmyer, the organist back
in Salzburg, about all he had learned on this trip.
But he'd have to be careful about showing people
things. Like the time the old Chief Kapellmeister at the
Residenz had asked him about chords. The old man had
said, "Do you know what this chord is -- in the key of
C?" playing on the organ a G, B, D, and F.
"Yes, the dominant seventh."
"And what does it resolve into?" he said, his
wrinkled old lips pursed up.
He thought a minute. "Well, lots of things, it
depends."
"No, it must resolve into the tonic."
"No, it doesn't have to."
The old man looked at him in disgust. "You need to
study more."
"No, you do, you're wrong!" he said loudly. Signor
Lolli raised his arm as if he would hit him, then lowered
it again. He got up hurriedly from the keyboard and went
off down the nave, his black and white robes swirling
behind him. Wolfgang stuck out his tongue at the Chief
Kapellmeister's back, as far as he could, until it hurt
at the roots.
His father beat him, three lashes with the wide
leather belt, when he heard about that. "Don't talk back
to adults."
Or at least don't get caught at it, thought
Wolfgang.
The dominant seventh. Of course often it didn't
always resolve into the tonic, not right away, or else
where would be the fun in the music? Sometimes it was
hard to remember what all the names of the chords were!
But not hard at all to remember the chords themselves,
they were just like individual people, with their own
personalities. Anyway, one chord might have one
personality when you put it in with one set of chords
around it, and entirely another kind of personality when
you put it with other ones. It was all so obvious! You
didn't have to know all those names, you could just hear
it! And nobody listened to him, they thought he didn't
know anything.
And his father kept at him to learn all the names of
the chords, and how to put them together -- then he got
mad when he told old stinky-pants Lolli he was wrong. It
wasn't fair!
"Don't talk back to adults."
Adults! He had to talk forward to adults all the
time, eat with them, play for them. Sometimes they
pretended he was a person. But it wasn't like being with
other kids -- the grown-ups treated him like a kind of
toy person. They never took him seriously. But someday
he'd be as big as anybody. Then they'd listen to him.
Someday.
He looked out the tiny four-paned window onto the
roofs of Vienna. It had started to rain, and the little
pop-pops on the copper roofing were accelerating into a
low drumming. He was tired of the toys Mama had found
for him here in Vienna. He wanted to go home, to see
Bimperl. And all the boys. He hadn't played ball since
forever. By this time Willy might not even be his best
friend anymore. When could they go home to Salzburg --
home to stay?
[CHAPTER TWO OF "IN SEARCH OF MOZART" WILL BE EXCERPTED
IN VOL.1, NO.2 OF "FICTION-ONLINE]
=======================================================
THE NEW PROMETHEUS
by Otho E. Eskin
CHARACTERS:
Dr. FRANKENSTEIN The mad doctor.
IGOR Moves around in a kind of crouch,
servile and groveling before Dr.
Frankenstein. Dressed in a
shapeless peasant outfit.
MISS LULU MILLSLIP A young woman, very businesslike
and earnest, dressed in sensible
clothes.
THE CREATURE Solid and inarticulate. Moves
stiffly. He is dressed in dark-
colored, ill-fitting clothes.
Ms. MONSTER The Bride of Frankenstein
Scene: Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.
=======================================================
AT RISE: Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. Ms. MONSTER
lies on an examination table. Hovering
around the table are Dr. FRANKENSTEIN and his
loyal assistant, IGOR. FRANKENSTEIN adjusts
wires and attachments while he gives orders
to IGOR. Outside there is the sound of
thunder and flashes of lightning.
FRANKENSTEIN
Is there enough power, Igor?
IGOR
Almost, Master.
FRANKENSTEIN
Are the chains and manacles in place?
IGOR
They are as you said, Master.
FRANKENSTEIN
Set the Neurostat to maximum.
(IGOR scurries about, doing
FRANKENSTEIN's bidding.)
FRANKENSTEIN
(Continued)
Adjust the Cell Modulator. Calibrate the Vector
Analyzer. Reset the Brezelor Counter.
IGOR
Yes, Master.
FRANKENSTEIN
When the storm reaches its zenith we will begin. With
the help of my loyal assistant, Igor, I will this night
achieve immortality. Then the world will know the
genius of Dr. Frankenstein. Are you ready, Igor?
IGOR
I am ready, Master.
(Enter LULU MILLSLIP. She holds a
clipboard in her hand.)
LULU
Hold it right there, buster!
FRANKENSTEIN
Who are you?
LULU
I'm Inspector Lulu Millslip. I represent the
Bureaucratic Enforcement Administration.
FRANKENSTEIN
(Screaming)
Get out of here!
LULU
Not so fast, Doctor. I must inform you that you are not
in compliance with applicable Federal and State
regulations.
FRANKENSTEIN
I don't care. I'm a genius.
LULU
You better care, buddy. You want to lose your NIH
grant?
FRANKENSTEIN
Igor, get rid of her.
(IGOR slouches toward LULU. LULU
suddenly turns on IGOR.)
LULU
OK, let's see your Green Card, Senor.
(IGOR recoils in fear.)
FRANKENSTEIN
Get out! Get out! With the help of my loyal assistant,
Igor, my life's work is about...
LULU
You are in violation of Occupational Safety reg 2798.4.
Your employee (LULU gestures toward Ms. MONSTER) is at
risk of being struck by lightning.
FRANKENSTEIN
She's supposed to be struck by lightning, you stupid
broad!
(FRANKENSTEIN gestures wildly at
IGOR to attack LULU.)
FRANKENSTEIN
Kill! Kill!
LULU
Have you had a peer group review for this project?
FRANKENSTEIN
I have no peers.
LULU
(Looking at her clipboard)
I'm going to have to see your EEO compliance records
for the last six years.
(THE CREATURE shuffles in.)
LULU
What's that?
FRANKENSTEIN
One of my first efforts. I'm afraid it's seriously
flawed.
LULU
You're kind of short for a monster.
(THE CREATURE looks slowly around
the laboratory, turns to IGOR, who
cowers before him, and reaches out
to touch IGOR's tunic.)
THE CREATURE
Don't you know -- nobody's wearing taupe this year.
(THE CREATURE looks around the laboratory.) Who
decorated this place? I adore the chains but you must
do something about this laboratory. Some hanging
plants and a few throw pillows would do wonders.
(There is a flash of lightning.
FRANKENSTEIN rushes to the table.)
FRANKENSTEIN
The time has come to complete my great experiment.
Tonight I will create my greatest achievement -- the
perfect woman.
(There is a second flash of
lightning and a crash of thunder.)
LULU
This is one of the most flagrant violations of the
Employment Rights Act I have ever seen. These manacles
are not in compliance with Occupational Safety and
Health Administration regulations.
(There is a flash of lightning and
Ms. MONSTER stirs.)
FRANKENSTEIN
It's alive! It's alive! Alive!
LULU
I'm going to have to cite you for over-acting, as well.
(Ms. MONSTER slowly climbs off the
table.)
FRANKENSTEIN
I've created new life out of clay and dead carcasses.
The elemental forces of nature have been unleashed to
form natural woman, uncorrupted by civilization. Listen
now to my slave, my love goddess. Listen to the words
of the new Eve.
MS. MONSTER
Can it, Meathead!
FRANKENSTEIN
Something seems to have gone wrong!
MS. MONSTER
Forget your pathetic male, chauvinist fantasies, baby.
If you think I'm going to be your slave, cleaning the
toilets and baking Goddamned cookies for you, you've
got the wrong creation.
FRANKENSTEIN
Igor, my loyal assistant, did you calibrate the Vector
Analyzer?
MS. MONSTER
And you can knock off the love goddess crap, too. Your
patriarchal, phallocentric attitude makes me sick.
FRANKENSTEIN
This is awful. Igor, my loyal assistant, did you remember to set
the Neurostat correctly?
IGOR
Yes, master.
FRANKENSTEIN
Then I think I had better talk to you about body parts.
LULU
(To MS. MONSTER)
I'm Inspector Lulu Millslip from the Bureaucratic Enforcement
Administration. I would like to know whether you have
experienced any untoward or inappropriate treatment or actions by
management or your colleagues.
MS. MONSTER
I'm glad you asked me that. This place is a disgrace. Most of
Frank's co-workers -- all the ghouls and vampires, werewolves and
zombies -- are kept in cells and bound with chains.
(LULU scribbles furiously in her notebook)
MS. MONSTER
(Continued)
There is entirely too much vulgar language around the laboratory
-- loose talk about Bunsen burners and rheostats. The worst of
it there is an absolute barrier to promotion.
LULU
Scandalous!
MS. MONSTER
Unless you happen to be male, white and a human being there is no
possibility of advancement.
LULU
I must report all this immediately.
MS. MONSTER
I have no chance to assume management responsibility simply
because I was created out of bits and pieces of discarded
corpses.
LULU
This is one of the most flagrant examples of anthropocentrism
I've ever encountered.
FRANKENSTEIN
(To LULU)
Lady, you can't...
LULU
You'll have your chance to answer these charges during the
hearings.
MS. MONSTER
This whole operation is a blatant effort to politically
marginalize the living dead.
LULU
I'm getting mad as hell!
THE CREATURE
Me too! Look at this outfit he's given me to wear. It's a
scandal! I can't be seen in public in sackcloth.
IGOR
What about me!? I haven't had a day off in seventeen years.
FRANKENSTEIN
You're interfering with important scientific research.
MS. MONSTER
We're going to put a stop to these outrages.
FRANKENSTEIN
Get out of my laboratory! All of you.
MS. MONSTER
We will defend the rights of the werewolves and those who are
hirsutedly disadvantaged.
THE CREATURE
Hear! Hear!
MS. MONSTER
We will fight for the protection of vampires and other creatures
who are dietarily challenged.
IGOR and THE CREATURE
All power to the undead!!
MS. MONSTER
Igor, call 60 Minutes and tell them to get a film crew down here
immediately. Creature, get some chains and attach yourself to
the front gate of the castle.
THE CREATURE
I love it.
FRANKENSTEIN
You can't do this to me! I haven't got tenure yet.
MS. MONSTER
Lulu, bring in as many lawyers and bureaucrats as you can find.
We're going to close this place down.
(MS MONSTER, LULU, IGOR and THE CREATURE
exit, singing "We Shall Overcome.")
FRANKENSTEIN
What have I done!? I've created a monster.
THE END
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