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Fiction-Online Volume 2 Number 2
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 2, Number 2
March-April, 1995
EDITOR'S NOTES:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the internet on a bimonthly
basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or
excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems.
Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest
Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with
Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an
independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the
public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please
e-mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-
mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from
ftp.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. AOL users
will find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines."
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to
copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to
give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video
recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are
reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
ngwazi@clark.net
=================================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Lovers' Verses"
Diana Munson
"Douglas," short story
James Tillman
"Gods and Shepherdesses," an excerpt (chapter 5) from the
novel "In Search of Mozart"
William Ramsay
"Time Lapse," short story
Otho Eskin
=================================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington.
His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater
at the Folger Library.
DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C. She writes short
stories and has published numerous poems in journals and
anthologies.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the co-ordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.
JAMES TILLMAN is a freelance writer living in Tallahassee,
Florida. He is the publisher of "IN VIVO," a literary magazine
on the World Wide Web, located at
http://freenet3.scri.fsu.edu:81/users/jtillman/titlepage.html.
==============================================================
LOVERS' VERSES
by Diana Munson
THE PHONE CALL: A REMINDER
You tell me there was after all
a time when all things seemed possible,
a time when sweet lemons burst beneath the sun,
and nightingales shrieked naughtily in the night,
tomatoes were ever ripe
and wine glistened red at noon
in sweating, handmade glasses...
a time when one couldn't wait
and all life danced our dance.
Now only voices leap,
words conduct their way, across wires, over years.
What continent, what town,
what wife contains you now?
I ask about your life. You answer
but I hear only yesterday
beating its wings upon my ears.
LEAVES
We lie
in this dying time of year
and listen to the sounds of autumn;
the pear drops unseen, unplucked,
to rot in the sepia light,
the buzz of frantic flies
fleeing winter....
Becoming piece and part
with the smell of ripeness,
forgotten grapes, dusk and death,
and hill, brown earth, and dark,
shadows, and the silence of a battlefield
overgrown, smokey air heavy with
the memories of civil wars,
we lovers fuse in fondling grasses,
unseen hunters stalking fear
the only way we know
indistinguishable from leaves.
NIGHT THOUGHTS
Death is my aphrodisiac,
sex my correction,
for all that's wrong
with this connection.
It is a hemming of an endless scarf
to keep us covered, Adam and Eve,
in this tainted time,
this fallen world,
this "women's fault"
that's man's solution.
Death drives together only bone.
But that is better than... nothing.
=================================================================
DOUGLAS
by James Tillman
The sweat on my skin turned ice cold as I walked into the
bank. Lifting boxes all afternoon at Foster's Auto Warehouse had
left my clothing soaked. It had taken four weeks for me to hate
the job, but now I felt like not going back the next day, but I
needed the money for tuition. At least it was only for the
summer.
At the counter, I tapped my foot behind a stooped old man in
line. A spicy-sweet smell floated through the room, invisible
and sharp. When the old man shuffled away, I deposited my
paycheck and returned to the broiling world outside. Although I
was tired, having all that money in my account on a Friday
evening made me feel lighter. The balance was in my favor today.
I owed the world nothing.
I was just about to reach my car when I heard a voice behind
me.
"Sssir! Excuse me, sir." The old man was lisping at me
from the sidewalk as if he were drunk.
Yes?"
"Sir." He spat the word. "I hate to bother you, but could you
give me a ride?"
He began every word with a hum or buzz, like a faltering
machine. He wasn't old or drunk at all. His clothes were
rumpled and filthy and he stooped slightly, but he had a thick
mop of shaggy brown hair and ruddy, smooth skin. A pair of
glasses was slightly misaligned on his stubby nose. The thick
lenses magnified his dark, wide eyes into grotesque saucers. His
twisted lips were crusted with saliva. Was he just eccentric or
was he mentally handicapped?
"Which way?" I asked.
"I. . . I. . . live that way," he said and pointed west.
"How far?"
"Not far, just at Green Housing Project on Old Rivendell
Road."
Rivendell Road was all the way on the other side of town,
much further than I felt like going. I lived outside of town to
the east, so I had a perfect excuse to turn him down. And yet, I
suddenly felt benevolent. I was powerful. I could help
somebody. Why not? "O.K., hop in."
The spicy-sweet smell followed him. I pulled out onto the
street and tried to start a conversation.
"My name's Timmy, what's yours?"
"Douglas," he said. He looked at me. I kept my eyes on the
road, but could still see the large saucer eyes out of the corner
of my eye.
"Nice to meet you, Douglas."
"Nice to meet you, too. I need to stop at the Seven Eleven
store so I. . .I. . .can cash my check. Is that O.K.?"
"Sure, it's on the way."
I groped for a question to kill the silence that kept
creeping back. "Where do you work?"
"I draw disability. I have muscular dystrophy."
"Oh, sorry to hear that." That explained the slurred speech.
I turned onto Main Street, but not in the direction I really
wanted to go. But again I was a powerful, giving man. It wasn't
so bad to help this poor guy out.
"Yeah," he said. "I have a speech problem. Tell me the
truth, Jimmy, do you think my speech is bad?"
Had he misunderstood my name? I decided it wasn't worth the
trouble to correct him.
"I have no trouble understanding you."
It was the truth, after all.
"People think I'm retarded sometimes when they hear me."
"You don't sound retarded to me, you just have a speech
impediment."
Douglas looked at me and furrowed his brow. I realized he
might not know what the word impediment meant.
"I hate it," he said.
"Well, you seem to be able to say what you need to say just
fine."
"Yeah, but I'm not normal."
How was someone supposed to respond to that?
"Nobody's normal, Douglas. Everybody has some obstacle they
have to deal with in life. Yours is a very big thing that you
have to overcome."
That sounded like something from a feel-good television
interview. I felt strangely defeated. My power waned a bit.
"I have to wear diapers," he said.
"Really?" I hoped he wouldn't lose control in my car and
then hated myself for thinking it.
"Yeah, and my doctor won't let me potty train myself."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
We had reached the store so I turned into the parking lot.
Douglas groped for the door latch.
"Wait for me, Jimmy, and I'll be right back."
After he climbed out, he leaned into the car.
"You won't leave will you?"
"No!" I said and laughed. "Of course not, go cash your check
and I'll take you home. Promise."
No matter how hard I tried not to, I wished I hadn't picked
him up. His handicap wasn't uncomfortable. But the things he
said. And the way he was saying them. Sick and sorry words.
People were supposed to be strong, weren't they? At least this
tense rapport would end when I dropped him off. I was feeling
less and less giving and powerful.
Five minutes later, Douglas was still in the store. Had he
left me? I got out of the car and looked in through the store
window. He was standing at the counter, not even in line. He
tried to lay his check on the counter and the obese woman cashier
pointed at the line of people. Her expression was not friendly.
Douglas moved slowly to the end of the line, head down. When
he finally came out, he seemed at ease.
"Do you have a girlfriend, Jimmy?"
"Yeah."
"I'm trying to find me a girl, too."
I pulled out onto the street again.
"That's definitely normal."
"Have you had lots of them?"
Douglas was turned, all of his attention focused on me. I
was gripping the steering wheel more tightly than usual.
"No, not really," I said.
"Do you think I should try to potty train myself?"
Where had that come from?
"I guess so, if you can do it, I suppose you should."
"I've got better at it. The diapers the doctor makes me use
cost a lot. Sometimes I don't use them because I don't have the
money."
Oh, dear God, he was going to ask me for diaper money. I
could feel it coming. I stopped at Old Rivendell Road and he
pointed to the right.
"So I use towels instead," Douglas said. "My roommate. . .
he puts them on me because I can't."
"It's good he helps you that way."
Better him than me.
"I kicked him out because he wouldn't pay the phone bill. He
ran up a big one."
There was a moment of silence while I tried to think of
something to say.
"I let him come back," he said. "He paid it. But I still
have a problem."
"What's that?"
"No, I couldn't ask you that."
"What?"
"See, my roommate has to work late tonight. And. . . I was
wondering if you could put it on me."
I felt something that reminded me of an electric shock. I
glanced out the window at a little boy who was riding a bicycle
up a large pile of sand on the side of the road. The bike was
much too big for him.
"You mean pin the towel on you?"
"Yeah. Forget it. I don't want you to do it."
"No, look. . . ."
Pinning a towel on this man meant he would be naked. I
didn't like the idea of being in the same room with a naked man I
didn't know. He might be homosexual, or psychotic. He moved
slow, and I could probably get away if he tried anything, but
this was too strange. He was watching me with his huge saucer
eyes. I gripped the steering wheel and pushed myself back into
the seat.
"I'll do it."
We reached the end of the road.
"Where's your place?" I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you to turn back there."
"No problem," I said and turned the car around. "This time
show me."
I had no reason whatsoever to offer my help. No reason to
put myself into any more danger than I already had. Why had I
said yes? Was it too late to back out?
Douglas guided me into his housing project and I pulled up in
front of his apartment. Small children were running down the
sidewalk and screaming. I was really ready to go home.
"Do you still want me to help you?" I asked.
"You don't mind?"
"No."
His apartment was more organized than I had expected: a
couch in one corner and an easy chair in front of the television,
a table covered in old newspapers, a china cabinet doubling as a
knickknack shelf. Birthday cards had been carefully placed on
top of the cabinet in a row. There was a ship in a bottle behind
the cards, beached in a sea of years.
"Hey, Douglas, did you know there's a spider in your
ship-bottle?" He was in the next room.
"Yeah. I like spiders. They make pretty webs. I let him
stay because he doesn't cause any trouble."
The spider's web ran parallel to the mainsail. He wasn't
going to catch many flies in there.
Through the doorway that led into the kitchen, I could see a
sink full of dirty dishes and an overturned box of corn flakes on
the counter. The whole apartment was filled with Douglas's
sweaty sweet odor. It smelled like an animal. I wanted to
leave.
"O.K." I said. "You just get the towel ready and I'll step
in and do it."
I definitely wasn't going to watch him undress or put the
towel on him. He could forget that.
Douglas rushed into the living room. "Shhh! The walls are
thin. People might hear us."
"Oh." Strange that he would care what other people thought
after years of knowing exactly what they were thinking about him
already.
While he undressed, I stood in the center of the living
room, too uncomfortable to sit down. A newspaper lay folded in
the chair and other magazines were scattered about. On the couch
was a dog-eared bible.
"I'm ready, Jimmy."
I stepped into the bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of
the bed. "Where are the pins?"
"They're in the jar on the shelf in the bathroom."
I found two large diaper pins.
"O.K., here we go."
"Oh, wait, Jimmy, I have to go to the bathroom."
He got up and ran into the bathroom while holding the towel
up on both sides. I went into the living room. This was taking
too long. I was tired and hungry and I was in a naked man's
apartment. What a day.
Douglas called me in. I went in and sat next to him on the
bed. It was about that time that I realized I had no idea how to
pin his towel.
"Get it really tight," he said. I pulled the two left
corners together.
"Tighter, tighter."
Was this some perverted game, after all? I was sure it was
too tight.
"Ow, oww!"
"Oh, sorry." I had stuck him with pin. "Almost done."
I finished as quickly as I could and went back into the living
room while he dressed. After a while, he came in.
"Jimmy, do you think I should potty train myself?"
"I think if you can, you should."
He paused a minute and looked at me. What did he want from
me?
"I'm going to take the towel off," he said. "Because I can
do it a little bit already."
"Sure, go ahead."
Why did I even help this guy in the first place? He went
into his bedroom and came back dressed a few minutes later.
"I need to be getting home, now," I said and turned toward the
door. Douglas started bouncing and flapping his hands. "Uh,
Jimmy, I think I should wear the towel. Could you put it back on
me?"
"What? No, I got to go."
"Please! I'm worried."
"O.K., yeah, just go get ready."
So this was the game. To see how long he could keep me here.
I had to pin that towel on and get out while I still could.
Douglas called me and I stepped into the bedroom. He was sitting
on the bed, but the towel wasn't pulled up. His penis was huge.
I ducked back around the corner and felt sick.
"Hold the towel up around yourself, Douglas. I don't want to
see you naked."
"O.K., Jimmy, sorry."
After a quick glance around the corner to be sure, I walked
over to the bed.
"This is the last time."
I pinned the towel and went into the living room. Douglas
came out a few minutes later.
"Thanks, Jimmy."
"That's all right. You needed somebody to help you."
"Shh!" He put his finger to his lips. "The walls are thin.
People can hear us. I don't want anyone to know."
"Yeah, all right. I won't tell a soul. I got to go home,
now."
"Do you think you might be able to come over sometime?" He
fidgeted, shaking his hands like an impatient child.
"Well, I'm usually pretty busy, so probably not. But maybe
I'll see you around town sometime."
I made a wish to never see him again.
"O.K." He lowered his eyes. This one motion, with the
weight of the last fifteen minutes, was enough to shatter my
belief in human possibilities. I felt as if there were a gaping
hole in my gut.
"Bye."
That night, my dreams were dark, full of old friends who
lisped and fumbled and chased me through hallways covered in
sticky webs. I ran and ran but eventually got stuck. Douglas
found me and insisted on helping me put on my diaper.
=================================================================
GODS AND SHEPHERDESSES
[Chapter five of "In Search of Mozart," a novel]
by William Ramsay
Yes, yes! The voices of the three singers blended together,
making one thundering blast of tone. The sound reverberated from
the vaults of the Salzburg cathedral. Then the organ swelled,
submerging the voices. The voices reappeared. Climaxes of
tenderness and longing. Climaxes. A flash of yellow three pews
down. Barbara von Moelk's long blonde hair swished in a
semicircle as she turned to talk to her father. That pompous old
fart -- von Moelk had his nerve to turn up his nose at the
Chevalier de Mozart!
The Miserere from his new Litaniae Lauretanae ended. His
father put his arm around him.
"I detect Martini's influence," said his father.
"Of course, I only steal from the best," he said
automatically. Did she really, really like him? He caught sight
of Barbara, already leaving the church, her hips swaying under
the fabric of her skirt.
"It combines the best of the old and the new -- a longing
after a better world."
"I have to go, Father."
"We can walk out together, can't we?"
I have to go." He jumped up and pushed his way through the
crowd.
"May I walk with you, Barbara?" asked Wolfgang, gasping from
his run. It was a bright Sunday in July.
She nodded slightly, not looking at him. "Congratulations
on your music."
"Thank you," he said.
She pulled her dark green loden jacket up around her white
shirtwaist to cover her large breasts more closely. A few
strands of shining hair caught under the lapel.
"Happy birthday," he said.
"Thank you."
"Next year I'll be sixteen too."
"Oh, are you still fifteen?"
Growing up was so slow. "I like that outfit," he said.
"Oh, do you? I had such a hard time finding the right ribbons to
go with it. Do you like these?" She pulled at some bright pink
ribbons and dangled them in his face.
"I like them," he said, pulling his head away from them. "I
also like you."
She looked at her feet. "Tell me a new joke, Wolferl."
"I don't have any new jokes -- except I'm going to Italy again to
write something called a _serenata_ _teatrale_ for the wedding of
Archduke Ferdinand."
"I don't know what that name means."
"Nobody knows, that's the joke. But it's kind of like an
opera or a ballet."
She looked at him full in the face. "I don't understand how
you write all those things. Especially if you don't even know
what it is you're supposed to write."
"Oh, I make it up. It's hard to explain. It's like making
up a story."
They stopped where their paths diverged, at the edge of the
Alter Markt, as a line of slow-moving donkey carts passed by.
Wolfgang stepped back away from a puddle and looked down at his
nankeen stockings and plain black shoes. The shoes shone, the
stockings were spotless.
"I don't know how to make up stories," she said. "Around
the fire, in the winter, we use to tell stories, but I never
could."
"I'm sure you could."
"No, I can't."
He stared at her. Her face sparkled like a bright sky in
springtime.
"Do you think," she said, "that I could add one tiny yellow
ribbon to these others? I'm just not sure." She turned again to
look at him. "Anyway, I have to go, Herr Mozart, good-bye." She
headed off toward the Residenz Platz. Wolfgang stood looking
after her. He could see the pink ribbons peeking out from around
her neck. He stepped backward, then he heard the wheels behind
him and he felt drops of tepid water sloshing over his shoes. He
looked down. Muddy rivulets had formed in his stockings.
Why did she insist on calling him "Herr Mozart"?
When he got home, he stood up on the walnut footstool and
took a look at himself in the mirror on his mother's marble
dresser-top. Yes, he was getting it. The Pertl nose. Big and
crooked, just like his mother and sister. And the eyes.
Bugged-out. Shit! Well, at least no one had called him
'fishy-wishy' for the last few months. Not to his face. Growing
up had some advantages.
Would Countess Lotte still like him if she were able to see
how he looked now?
How could a wonderful girl like Barbara come from a family
like the von Moelks!
***
Court Chancellor von Moelk lay his large head back in the
interlaced fingers of his hands and leaned forward over his big
belly to spit into the empty fireplace. "God! It can't be true.
She wouldn't." He stared at the picture of the Virgin above the
mantel in the parlor of his house on the Kaigasse. "Barbara
wouldn't get serious with this puffed-up little musician who
stems from a bunch of nobodies, would she, my dear?" he said to
his wife.
"Oh, Moelk, I certainly hope not!" said Frau Hofkanzler von
Moelk, her mouth distorted in a moue of speculation.
"Well, anyway, I'm getting tired of seeing this fellow
around, mooning about, writing stupid verses to our daughter.
And she seems so pleased to get them."
"Oh, well, all young girls like that sort of thing."
"And they talk and talk, on and on, with him hanging on her
every word."
"Well, why not? Don't worry so much, Moelk. Why shouldn't
someone listen to her?"
"Because our darling Barbara's got a brain the size of a
pea, that's why," he grumbled, and he stormed out. Frau von
Moelk shook her head as she went back to her knitting.
A few days later, Herr Hofkanzler von Moelk found his
daughter in the parlor, head bent, working over her needlepoint.
He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, rummaged idly, found
nothing, took his hand out again and coughed. She looked up.
"What's that Mozart boy doing, Barbara, hanging around all the
time?
"Oh, nothing."
"Doesn't he have a home?"
"Sure."
"Do you really like that spindly little boy?
"He's all right."
"What do you mean, all right?"
"I mean he's all right."
"Nothing special?"
"No, just all right." She lowered her head down close to
the needlepoint again.
"Look at me when I talk to you!"
"I'm looking," she said, turning her face up and smirking at
him.
"Your sisters would have shown more respect when they were
your age!"
She said nothing and lowered her eyes. But he could still
see the disdain on her lips.
"Oh I give up!" He stalked out of the room, bumping into
the new French table and bruising his thigh on the gilt brass
trim.
Donnerwetter!
***
"Oh honestly, Helga, aren't fathers ridiculous?" said
Barbara that afternoon to her best friend. "How absurd that he
could think that Wolferl Mozart was anything to me!" She started
cutting out a piece of cloth for a new housedress, clipping
furiously.
"Yes," said Helga.
Barbara made a face. "Wolferl's such a silly fool! What a
ridiculous figure he cuts when he bows and scrapes so much." She
looked at her friend questioningly.
"I don't think he's so bad," said Helga, swinging her foot
around idly.
"Well he is funny, he makes clever jokes. Honestly, parents
would drive you crazy if you let them."
"Yes," said Helga, and giggled. "Wolferl does act odd at
times. He laughs sometimes when things aren't really funny."
"I know. And his poor nose." Barbara put down the piece of
cloth, took up a comb, and ran it through her hair. She picked
up a small round, wood-edged mirror, gazed into it, and smiled
lovingly at the pale, high-cheekboned face framed in
whitish-yellow curls. She imagined strong, masculine faces and
tall blonde godlike figures. He would come, her future lord and
master -- she just had to wait, patiently.
***
"Congratulations, brother." Joseph embraced his
eighteen-year-old brother Ferdinand somewhat gingerly, being
careful not to touch the other's face with his own newly powdered
wig. The light in the Schoenbrunn throne room was dim.
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ferdinand smiled.
Ferdinand's fair-complexioned, boyish face looked happy. He
actually does love the girl, thought Joseph.
"I feel fortunate indeed to have found Beatrice."
"And Modena is a good alliance. Quite a charming little
place, I understand. When is the wedding to be?"
"October. We're just beginning to arrange about music and
so on. Mother's going to sponsor several operas and musical
plays."
"Oh, whom are you having?"
"Hasse -- and young Mozart."
"Mozart, oh yes."
"I suggested him to Mother."
"I remember you liked him." Joseph crossed and uncrossed
his yellow-stockinged legs.
"Don't you ever invite him to do anything here at the court
in Vienna?"
"No, not my cup of tea, I suppose. Oh, I don't know, we
might try him sometime. We'll see."
"You should. His music is brilliant." The Archduke rose
and walked over to look at a new Fragonard painting. His
Hapsburg lower lip seemed especially prominent as he inspected
the long-legged nymphs posing in gauzy robes.
"I don't know about Mozart, Ferdinand. You know, he tends
to go his own way. He doesn't make himself very agreeable," said
Joseph, frowning.
Ferdinand smiled and shrugged. "Well, we'll see what he
does for my wedding."
"Well," said Joseph, applying a pinch of snuff to the
nostrils of his aquiline nose. Snnnnfff. "Well, Ferdinand, at
least yours isn't another French marriage."
"I hope Toni's happy with cousin Louis's son," said
Ferdinand.
Joseph twiddled with his fingers on the gilt arms of the
throne-chair. "Happy!" He snorted. "Who said that princes have
a right to be happy?" He looked up. "Light!" he said loudly,
and a servant rushed over to draw back the blinds, showing the
gardens of Schoenbrunn, with the classical columns of the
gloriette on the hill behind. The July sunlight sparkled on the
gold eagle on its highest column. "I just hope the French
alliance was worth packing our sister off to live in that den of
degeneracy at Versailles. Why antagonize Prussia that way?"
"Prussia is our enemy, Your Majesty."
"Nonsense! Just because Prussia has been our enemy in the
past, doesn't mean it has to be in the future. The _French_
changed sides in our favor readily enough back in '56."
"True." His brother patted his fingers together
impatiently.
"And, Lord help us, Mother's never forgotten it." He smiled
bitterly. "So now she insists that we have to do business with
that idiot Louis. All because she can't forgive King Frederick.
Austria should cultivate Prussia and Russia, we must learn their
methods."
"I'm just as glad all that is your problem, Your Majesty.
I'll stick to learning to govern little Milan. I'm sure there'll
be enough problems there to keep me busy."
"Yes, good luck with Milan. It's your first chance to rule
men, Ferdinand. You'll find that you'll have more to worry about
than cocky young musicians." He put his hand on his brother's
shoulder, "Ferdinand, I'm glad you've found your princess." His
eyes filled up. "Isabella would have been thirty-five today."
He burst into tears.
"Oh, Joseph, I'm sorry. I know you miss her." Although
Ferdinand didn't know why -- Isabella always seemed to him to be
a self-centered, spooky sort of woman, and not so good-looking
either. But de gustibus. He motioned the servants away. Then
he clasped his brother tight, rocking him back and forth, very
slowly.
Joseph pulled his head back. "Look at me, weeping over my
sorrows! And Austria needs a strong, warlike Emperor! It's
almost more than I can bear sometimes."
Ferdinand felt his brother's wet kiss on his cheek. He
frowned as he left the throne room. His brother had always been
a lonely boy. No imperial pomp could fill up the cavity that
ached in the soul of Joseph II, Holy Roman Emperor. Poor Sepp!
***
In July, Wolfgang's father in Salzburg received a letter
from Italy:
Bologna, 7 July 1771
Dear Kapellmeister :
... My only regret is in not being able to hear the
performance of the Miserere. But I can already hear it
inside, in this old bald head, where it reverberates --
perhaps due to lack of contents inside, my brain having
shriveled up these past years, together with everything
else. But that is God's way of telling us that enough
is enough! His mercy be praised.
Meanwhile, I am so happy to have been able to get
to know you and your son. Music like his makes me feel
that life goes on, that man is making progress in
raising himself up from the bestiality of pagan times.
Music is a living thing, an Idea in the Mind of God.
I've done my little bit, now your son and others are
adding to it. Music has lived for centuries before we
were born, and will go on for centuries afterward --
until the Last Trumpet sounds. (In what key will it
be? I sometimes wonder. You may think that
irreverent, but you see, I believe the laws of harmony
are given by God, and even the Angel Gabriel will have
to obey them!)
Yours in Christ
Fr. Martini
Wolfgang put the letter down -- why worry about the
centuries to come? he thought. The letter fell onto the open
page of a devotional book: "And though our voices raised to You
sound as sweet as those of Your angels, yet our prayers will
avail nothing if there is evil and sin in our hearts." Avoiding
evil and sin in Salzburg was easy sometimes. Italy would be
different. He hoped.
He kneeled, shifting his knees slightly to try to find a
warmer place on the bare oak-planked floor of his bedroom in the
house on the Getreidegasse. He could feel the numb chill in his
fingers as he clasped his hands together. "Holy Mother, protect
my family and all my friends from sickness and sorrow. We ask in
your name, and in the name of your only begotten Son, and in the
name of the Father and the Holy Spirit."
He rose and got into bed. What a beautiful soul she had!
The long blonde hair. And the lovely breasts. He thought about
the breasts, when he closed his eyes they seemed gigantic. He
began to make love to his own body, timing the strokes to
thoughts of gradually uncovering nipples -- he imagined them as
large and dark -- to the point where the full breast would be
exposed just at the moment of orgasm. Oh, my God!
Oh, how he longed for the real thing. What was it like? It
must be indescribable. He looked down at his wasted seminal
fluid. He was worried. What could he do with the towel? It was
getting to be embarrassing. Everybody would know.
Growing up was turning out to be difficult. Unexpected
problems, new ones all the time.
It can't be the same for every boy of fifteen!
Can it?
Girls. What a puzzle. Thank God for music! What could he
work out for the wedding music? God, it could be anything.
Anything. How could he start it out? Let's see. Minor chords,
ascending melody. Shit. Not just la-di-da like that. But
what? Shit! He couldn't _concentrate_!
***
Milan. The heat an indefatigable enemy. The red tile roofs
of the city seemed to radiate hot blasts of air. Even the
Milanese were complaining. How could he work in this heat?
Shit! He had to, to get this quasi-opera, this _serenata_
_teatrale_, finished in time.
He picked up the manuscript of the libretto. "With best
wishes, G. Rutini." Well, let's see what your "Ascanio in Alba"
does for me, Signore Rutini. Oh, Lord. He read on and on, his
eyes tiring of Rutini's spidery handwriting. He wrote down the
Italian words he didn't know so he could find out later what they
meant.
Why not a ballet in the middle?
He lay the libretto down at page 40. He poured himself a
glass of wine from the clay bottle on the side table. He didn't
have to read the whole libretto to get the idea. The usual sort
of plot. Gods, heroes, shepherds, shepherdesses and other
assorted stock characters, all working themselves up into a
well-bred stew about some divine rule or regulation that had been
broken. And only the gods misbehaved, of course, the mortals
were supposed to be unbelievably virtuous.
Virtue. What a bore! Virtue.
Wouldn't he ever meet any girls in Italy?
After dinner, he started to work again. Someday! Someday
I'll get a decent libretto! But in the meantime, it doesn't
matter. With a little bit of effort all this nonsense could be
made charming in spite of itself. Look at that section of the
plot where the gods hide from the shepherds -- it was
particularly far-fetched. But he could make it gauzy and
tenuous, with light, airy music, lots of woodwinds. He sketched
out some ideas. Then he read a little more of the libretto, up
to page 55.
All this involved plotting and counterplotting about love
affairs!
At least some people _had_ love affairs.
He wondered if he had time to go riding with Count Firmian
the next day. God, it was great fun learning to ride! The
sensation of his legs gripping the leather of the saddle made him
feel like a real cavaliere. He picked up the libretto again and
stared at page 55.
Well, it was all how you looked at it. If some girl's heart
was breaking just because some silly shepherd wouldn't get a
hard-on for her, her infatuation with this particular yokel might
be just a joke. But the fact that she _wanted_ love was no joke
and could be treated seriously. And if one or two characters
were inherently silly, he could hide them in an ensemble with
some other types, and they could all make some sensible,
beautiful music together.
He awoke early the next morning with a gigantic hard-on.
Love was indeed no joke -- even love with oneself. The sun shone
in his eyes. He stared at the yellow walls of the room. There
were patches of green fungus on them. Walls. As moldy and
neglected as his balls.
Balls. Ballet. He was going to have lots of dance, not
just the obligatory ballet between acts. Yes.
It was getting to be toward noon, and the late morning mist
was just rising as they cantered onto the main _allee_. The wind
felt good in his hair. His thighs were a little sore. The horse
in front of him farted a foul sulfurous odor. Everything stank.
Except music.
For the last allegro of the music for the entr'acte, he was
going to think about having a large chorus, twenty or thirty,
divided between sopranos, contraltos, tenors, and basses. And
half that number of dancers performing simultaneously.
Count Carlo di Firmian slowed his horse to a walk. Wolfgang
pulled up too.
"How did you like that?" said the Count, pushing his black
hair away from his face.
"Wonderful, Your Excellency."
And the entr'acte would segue right into the second act.
Good old Alba, that pastoral fairyland, would never be the same.
He hoped.
"You've got the seat, you should have been an equestrian,"
said the Count.
I should have been a count, thought Wolfgang, staring at the
bright red ribbon that the Governor-General of Lombardy wore at
his collar. Red would look good on me too.
He finished his prayers late that night, after reworking the
scene of the first meeting of the lovers. He had to get some
sleep. The opening scene, with Venus descending from the clouds
accompanied by sprites and graces, had the makings of a
sensation. What he couldn't do with that! A sweep of the
violins ushering them down, along with an obbligato from the
cellos and double basses. And maybe he could be daring and put
in a little percussion as Venus dropped to the ground.
BumbumbumbumbumBUMMMM!
People never used enough drums.
What boring lives most people led.
But at least some poor shepherds did have their very own
shepherdesses.
***
No riding today. Time was getting short. He thumbed
through his manuscript pages. He giggled. 'Ascanio' was so
aristocratic! He just knew the shepherds were going to be
wearing white periwigs! Bunch of ninnies!
At lunch, he ate ravenously. He consumed most of a chicken
and a loaf of bread. His father asked him whom he was going to
get to write the ballet score.
"I'll write it myself."
His father said, "But usually we get somebody else to write
the entr'acte score."
"I know, Papa, but I'd rather do it myself."
His father closed his mouth tightly and said nothing.
"Is that all right? Or not!" said Wolfgang.
"You're sure you want to do it that way?" said his father.
"_Yes_, papa. Yes."
That night, he sat down at the table to read. A letter his
father was writing home lay there. He glanced at it.
Milan, September 28, 1771
...I hope that Wolfgang's work will be received with
great applause...Signor Manzuoli and all the other
singers are...really happy with their arias...I know
what he's written and what an impression it will make,
because it is really well adapted to both the singers
and to the orchestra...
He looked over at his father, who was tuning his violin and
humming that new melody of Michael Haydn's. He walked quietly
over behind his father, picked up his father's bow, leaned over
and played a screechy arpeggio on the violin. His father jumped.
Then he looked at Wolfgang's face and smiled.
"Wolferl," said his father, "I have some good news. Count
Castelbarco is interested in commissioning a suite of dances."
"No, I don't think so," he said, moving away. "I'm having some
problems with 'Ascanio.'"
"Oh, certainly, that comes first." His father's face fell.
"But when things slow down a little bit, you might have time..."
"You don't realize the concentration this takes."
"We could use the money."
Shit, he thought. I'm the goose that laid the golden egg.
I'm a goose, all right! "I _know_ we could use the money. _I_
_know_ _that_." He rocked back and forward on his heels.
"And you like doing several things at once. You were
working on a piano sonata and a symphony and two arias back in
Salzburg."
He felt like exploding.
"Why are you so upset?" said his father.
"This is different! Creating operas is the one thing that I
really dream about." He stood up and pounded on the mantel with
his fist. He breathed deeply. "Getting the music and the words
together, squeezing the emotions out of the bare words in the
text, it's just, well, I can't explain."
"I see. I think," said his father. "Do you want to go with
me to see 'Macbeth' tomorrow night?"
"No, thanks. I'm having tea with the Davies."
"Oh, playing duets with the charming Miss Davies on the
glass harmonica? Are you writing something for Mr. Franklin's
instrument?"
"No, I don't have time."
"If you spent half as much time on composing as you do at
parties, you'd be able to write a dozen concertos for glass
harmonica."
"Is that your version of Padre Martini's 'obligation for the
greater glory of God'? Nonsense tunes for glass harmonicas!" He
gritted his teeth, picked up his coat, and started to go out.
"Good night, Wolferl."
He didn't answer, he couldn't trust himself to answer.
"Wolferl? Good night. Wolferl?" He heard his father's voice
rise to a treble whine.
He slammed the door behind him. To hell with all that shit!
He pictured the tea table at the Davies'. Miss Davies was an
older lady. She must be thirty -- but she had a promising
sparkle in her eye.
***
The Imperial wedding was over, the serenata had been a big
success. Wolfgang and his father stood in the throne room of the
Friuli palace.
"My congratulations, my dear Herr Mozart!" said the young
Archduke, resplendent in a gold-embroidered beige silk version of
the uniform of the Imperial Guards. "I can hardly talk today,
I'm hoarse from yelling 'bravissimo' after the performance."
"Thank you, Your Excellency," he said, bowing low to him and to
the new Archduchess. She was lovely, petite and dark, with
radiant eyes.
"I'm going to tell my brother the Emperor how much I enjoyed
it." Turning to Wolfgang's father, he said, "I always told him
your son would be a success."
"Thank you, Your Excellency."
"And the Count here is writing to his brother at Salzburg to
see if the Archbishop will continue his support of you during
this period. Really," said the Archduke, jumping up, "I can't
begin to express my satisfaction. But this little bauble will
have to do."
He motioned to a servant, who brought over a watch on a
green silk cushion. The watch was gold, with good-sized diamonds
encrusted around the edge of the case.
Another gold watch. They must have over a hundred. He
forced himself to smile. Another gold watch -- carefully saved
to be pawned on some future rainy day -- plus his fee, a few more
florins to be added to their account at the banker's. And hearty
thanks.
Miss Davies' eyes had sparkled. And her smile had lit up
the small apartments on Cordwainers' Street across from the
Duomo. But when he had tried to grasp her hand, she had
withdrawn it gently and asked if he had a girlfriend back home in
Salzburg. Damn! The worst part was that he was sure he had
blushed. He knew he had stammered out a "no" or a "well, yes."
He despaired of ever learning to talk to women about serious
things -- like love. He just didn't understand them.
What a fool he had been.
Women were impossible. But just try making love to a gold
watch.
That night there came word that the old Archbishop, his
father's old companion from boyhood days, was extremely ill.
Watching his father's face, Wolfgang imagined that he saw in the
furrowed cheeks the diagram of an upheaval in the world of the
Mozart family. The Master is ill -- the Servants dissolve into
panic.
Oh to be free of slavery forever!
=================================================================
TIME LAPSE
by Otho E. Eskin
It was when I saw Miss Gladys Leach lying sheltered within
the left arm of God that I decided to get out of the travel
business.
I'm a respectable businessman. Ask anybody. Gateway Travel
may not have been General Motors but, until recently at least, I
provided a service to the community. Nothing splashy. Just your
run-of-the-mill Fun In The Sun Caribbean Caper Cruise for senior
citizens. Trips to Maui for honeymoon couples. That sort of
thing. It was only when I began representing Argos Holidays Ltd.
that things went wrong. And even at the end, most of my clients
were satisfied. The technical problems did not seriously
inconvenience many people. The group from the Ladies' Auxiliary,
for example, were never in any real danger from the pterodactyl.
If they hadn't panicked, they would have been fine.
I became involved with Argos Holidays one morning about a
year ago when Mr. Spencer Boone came to my office, located
between a video store and The Celestial Chinese Carry Out in The
Green Oaks shopping mall -- just across from the Super Fresh.
Mr. Boone was tall, almost six feet, and rake-thin. He was
dressed in a black suit and wore a black Homburg. In one hand he
held a slightly scuffed briefcase with brass hinges and locks.
In the other, he carried an umbrella, although it had not rained
for days and there was no rain in the forecast. He explained
that, where he came from, it was raining and I noticed small
droplets of water on the rim of his Homburg as he carefully hung
his umbrella and hat on the coat rack near the door.
"I am the representative of Argos Holidays, Ltd.," he said
as he sat across my desk from me.
"Never heard of it."
"We're a brand new and unique organization," he explained.
"We provide very special, very unusual travel services."
"What kind of services?" I asked.
Boone put his briefcase on his knees, opened it and removed
a glossy brochure. "See for yourself."
I was impressed.
"I didn't know you could do that sort of thing."
"Most people don't. The technology is...very new."
"This is legal?" I asked.
Boone smiled thinly. "It isn't illegal. Just the same, we
don't publicize the service. There will be no advertising. We
are developing a special clientele list. But we need an agent in
this area to handle the bookings. Are you interested?"
We signed a contract that same morning. Boone instructed me
to keep the Argos brochure under lock and key and to show it to
no one except authorized clients. Then he stood up, shook my
hand and put his Homburg carefully on his head. He stepped
outside, looked up at the clear blue sky, unfolded his umbrella
and disappeared.
And so began my partnership with Argos Holidays. Clients
interested in Argos' unique travel services started to book --
about one or two a month and, for a while, everything went
smoothly. There was the inevitable lost luggage and a few missed
connections but nothing serious. I was even considering taking a
familiarization tour myself.
And then the Bentsons came. They showed up in my office
around eleven on a Tuesday morning. He was in his sixties and
wore a gray Stetson and lizard-skin cowboy boots. Around his
neck he wore a string tie with a clasp of sterling silver and
some kind of green stone. On his arm he wore a young woman about
half his age. Her clothes, what there were of them, seemed to
have been spray-painted on. Around her shoulders she wore an
entire pack of furry animals. Her hands and arms tinkled with
flashing stones. Her head was surrounded by a nimbus of 18-carat
gold and her large eyes were a bright, azure blue.
"Please come in," I said and waved them toward the chairs in
front of my desk. They sat and she crossed her shapely legs and
smiled brightly at me.
"I'm Bill Bentson. This here's my wife Candee. I want to
arrange a trip for the little lady and myself. Something very
special." He winked. "I understand you can help us."
"What have you got in mind, Mr. Bentson?"
Bentson looked briefly around the office, at the walls
covered with posters of sun-drenched island paradises, desks and
racks stacked with glossy brochures filled with fantasies of sex
and food.
"I've traveled a great deal. Been everywhere; seen
everything."
"How about New Zealand?"
He dropped his hand on Mrs. Bentson's knee. "I want to show
Candee something very special. I want one of those Argos Tours."
If only I had said no. Instead, I went to the back room
where I keep a small floor safe. I unlocked it and removed its
sole contents -- The Argos Holidays brochure. I placed the
brochure on the desk and sat back while Mr. and Mrs. Bentson
examined it. After a long while, during which there was much
whispering, Bentson looked up.
"Mrs. Bentson and I have made up our minds. We want Casino
Night in Babylon."
"Very good, sir," I said, "I'm sure you will not be
disappointed." I turned to my computer, typed in instructions
and a moment later had a list of schedules spread out before me.
"I have an opening for two on our Econopackage in the winter
of the year 1,400 B.C. I strongly recommend the winter tour,
incidentally. Summers in Babylon were intolerable.
"How much?"
"Ten thousand seven hundred dollars. Of course, that's
double occupancy."
Bentson made out a check to Gateway Travel and I gave them
instructions about clothing, social customs and money exchange.
I wrote out an address -- it changed every few weeks -- where the
actual timeportation would be carried out.
"How long will we be gone?" Bentson asked.
"You will be in Babylon for two nights and one day. You
will actually be gone eleven and a half seconds."
Bentson gave me a cheerful wave as he and Mrs. Bentson left.
And that was the last I saw of either of them.
I had no way of knowing that something was wrong so, when
Mrs. Florence Chadwick, a member of the Volunteer Firemen's
Ladies' Auxiliary came to my office a week later and explained
that she and a group of friends wanted to attend a William
Shakespeare play, I went ahead with the arrangements. This had
turned out to be one of our more popular packages and I booked
them into the world premiere of "All's Well That End's Well" on
the night of September 3, 1598.
And then, about a month ago, on a sultry August afternoon, a
woman came to my office, accompanied by her significant other.
She was in her forties, a little over five, two, and over-weight.
Her stringy hair was a kind of orange color, something like a
kumquat past its prime, and she wore large glasses in thick, blue
plastic frames. Her companion was, in contrast, big. His
shoulders were so broad he had to turn sideways to get through
the door. He wore torn jeans and a leather vest with steel
things hanging from it. On his left arm was a tattoo of a
flaming skull. On his right, a blue eagle attacking a snake with
the words LOVE in blood red beneath. I was relieved to see that
he left his Harley at the curb.
"My name is Gladys Leach," she said. "And this is my friend
Irwin." She giggled. "I call him Sweet Irwin." Irwin stared at
me as if he thought I might be planning on firebombing a day care
center.
"How do you do, Miss Leach. How may I help you?"
"I've just won the lottery," Miss Leach announced, waving a
check in the air. "I want to take a trip. The best that money
can buy. I understand that you can get me in on an Argos tour.
History was my favorite subject in high school, you know."
Irwin looked at me through small, piggy eyes. "I don't want my
old lady ripped off. That clear?"
This was not quite the elite clientele Mr. Boone had
promised but still, with Sweet Irwin by her side, I was inclined
to give Gladys anything she wanted.
"A shopping visit to Baghdad during the reign of the Caliph
Harun al-Rashid in A.D. 803? There are great bargains.
Sandalwood and cedarwood. Nubian slaves."
"I don't think so."
"Can I suggest a super-saver to attend the actual signing of
the Declaration of Independence?"
"That's not what I had in mind either, exactly."
"I've got it," I said. "An Aegean cruise during the year
1192 B.C. That includes a guided tour of the battlefield of Troy
and a show of the latest Trojan fashions. All travel by first
class, newly redecorated, quinqueremes. And get this: outside
cabins."
She clapped her hands and, in her excitement, her glasses
almost fell off her nose. While I made the arrangements, she
left to buy a dress suitable for the occasion.
I thought no more about these clients until the following
week, when I got a call from someone saying he was Bentson's
lawyer and demanding to know where Bentson was. He told me Bill
Bentson had not been seen for months. The lawyer had found the
canceled check made out to Gateway Travel and determined that was
the last thing Bentson had done before he and Candee disappeared.
I told him I would look into it. I called and left a message with
Boone's answering service.
The following day Boone appeared in my office wearing a fur-
lined coat and heavy overshoes. After he had sat down he pulled
a large, somewhat grimy, handkerchief from his coat pocket and
blew his nose into it loudly.
"We have looked into the matter of Mr. and Mrs. Bentson.
I'm afraid I have some bad news." Boone studied his
handkerchief. "It seems there has been an unfortunate slip-up."
"What happened to them?"
"We have determined that the Bentsons have suffered an
unusual time flux."
"What in the world is a time flux?"
"You wouldn't understand," he said. "And believe me, it's
nothing in this world."
"Where are they?"
"It appears that the Bentsons were inadvertently sent to
Rome during the period of the Emperor Tiberius in the year 21
A.D. Unescorted."
"They must be upset," I said.
Boone made a funny face. "We've had our local
representative look into the matter. After much effort, Mr.
Bentson's Stetson was found in the middle of the Coliseum between
the paws of a very contented lion."
"And Mrs. Bentson?" I was almost afraid to ask.
"Mrs. Bentson, through some serious administrative error,
seems to have become a priestess in the Temple of Vesta."
"Well, bring her back."
"It isn't that simple," Boone said. "The time flux is
irreversible. I'm afraid Mrs. Bentson is stuck in Imperial Rome.
I am authorized to refund their entire fare and to extend
apologies on the part of Argos Holidays for any inconvenience."
"Has this happened before?"
Boone waved his hand dismissively. "A minor technical
problem. There is nothing to concern yourself about."
Boone blew his nose into his handkerchief and left.
I realize now that I should have known that the time flux problem
was more serious than Boone was letting on when I read in the
newspapers a few days later about the discovery of a Swatch in a
newly-excavated tomb of a pharaoh from 2005 B.C. However, I'm
afraid I was preoccupied with other matters. When I tried to
explain to Bentson's lawyers what had happened, they took a very
uncooperative attitude. The estate is now suing me for
negligence and the family is attempting to get the U.S. Attorney
to file criminal charges.
And as if that weren't enough, I have lost the entire
Ladies' Auxiliary. When Mrs. Chadwick and her group of
Shakespeare lovers failed to return on time, I contacted Boone.
He called back within an hour with the news that the group,
instead of being sent to London to attend "All's Well That End's
Well," had found themselves, tour bus and all, on the edge of a
lake on an early spring morning being attacked by a flying
reptile with a twenty-foot wingspan. Rather than remaining
absolutely still, as their guide advised, they ran and fell into
the bog near the lake. Boone admitted this was an unfortunate
mishap, particularly because the potential discovery of bones of
several fully developed Homo Sapiens (one still wearing what
appeared to be jogging shoes) in a tar pit dating from the early
Jurassic period might require the complete re-consideration of
Darwin's Theory of Evolution.
The families of the members of the Ladies' Auxiliary have
reported me to the Better Business Bureau. For several days now
there have been old ladies marching around the parking lot
outside my office, carrying pickets and passing out leaflets
complaining about unprofessional business practices.
It was Gladys Leach, however, who has made me decide to go
into different line of business, preferably in another part of
the country. This morning, Sweet Irwin showed up at my office
demanding to know what I had done with Gladys. I glanced through
my window and saw about thirty more Irwin's, wearing heavy
leather and Nazi helmets, milling around the parking lot, revving
their motorcycle engines and swinging tire chains. I explained
I'd have to make some calls and managed to persuade Sweet Irwin
to wait outside. As soon as he was gone, I locked the door and
called Boone. Somehow I was not surprised to learn from his
answering service that Argos Holidays was no longer in business
and that Boone had left no forwarding address.
As I sit at my desk, I can see the old ladies bringing out
cups of coffee and donuts to the bikers in the parking lot.
There are a couple of guys in three-piece suits and briefcases
passing out spring rolls from the Celestial Carry Out. The mood
in the parking lot is beginning to get ugly.
I leaf through some travel brochures which had come today in
the mail and my eye is caught by a reproduction of the restored
and cleaned Sistine Chapel frescoes. Right before me, in full
color, is Michelangelo's painting of God, lying in a swath of
flowing drapery and reaching his hand toward Adam. And there,
just within the curve of God's left arm is a familiar face.
There can be no doubt. It's Gladys, orange hair and blue glasses
frames and all, smiling broadly at me. If you don't believe me,
get a book on the Sistine Chapel. Be sure to get one showing the
restored frescoes. And see for yourself. In the meantime, if you
know anyone who wants to buy a travel agency, I know one that's
available at a bargain price.
=================================================================
