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Fiction-Online Volume 3 Number 4
This is your latest copy of FICTION-ONLINE.
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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 3, Number 4
July-August 1996
EDITOR'S NOTE:
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.
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
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CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Family Verses"
Jean Bower
"Home," an excerpt (chapter 14) from
the novel "In Search of Mozart"
William Ramsay
"Fathers," an excerpt (chapter 15) from
the novel "In Search of Mozart"
William Ramsay
"Envy," a scene (#2) from the play, "Act of God"
Otho Eskin
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CONTRIBUTORS
JEAN BOWER is a Washington attorney, founder of a program for
legal assistance in child neglect cases, and a poet.
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters
in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his
and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was presented last fall at the
Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
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FAMILY VERSES
by Jean Bower
INHERITANCE
Those awful mother-monsters,
hers in bed from her birth on,
silent, sick and mean,
his alive, awake, vicious
taking all he had to give,
wanting more --
those awful square-jawed women
loomed over me,
his child and hers.
These spirits sapped
the playfulness
of dinner table fun, edged his teasing
in undertones of spite,
balanced her confident
assertions
with hesitance,
making ours a shaky
little haven.
ROLE MODELS
The children had to sneak around
to see Uncle Harry
who dispensed five-dollar gold pieces
when he was in the mood.
Uncle Harry was the black sheep,
damned for wasting his inheritance
on living.
The hero of my father's family
was Aunt Bee's husband, Luther Beaman,
who shot out his brains
on a park bench in Denver.
Luther, bless him, did the family proud:
having lost his funds in some peculiar deal,
he removed dishonor with himself.
These two came down to us untarnished:
the guilty pleasure of golden Harry,
the stricken awe of Luther's sin.
============================================
HOME SWEET HOME
[An excerpt, chapter 14, from the novel "In Search of Mozart"]
by William Ramsay
The light filtered in through the rose window, shining in flat
beams along trails of dust particles, as the sounds of the organ
bounced from walls to ceiling and back again in the old Maria Plain
Church just outside Salzburg. A large but orderly crowd of his fellow
Salzburgers, prosperous and poor, shuffled around uncertainly on the
stone slabs in front of the blue and cream image of the sorrowing
Lady. The gilt crown was almost in place now -- there, it was safely
perched atop the head of the statue. A prayer, and then the procession
dispersed into their seats and the mass began. The music came out
well, it sounded better than it had in rehearsal, the presence of the
audience damped down the reverberations, the voices swept along
with the ancient words.
As Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart listened to the traditional,
unchangeable words of the Catholic mass, he thought ironically: the
best libretto I've ever set! No earthly bonds -- not even the foul,
toadying air of Salzburg -- can imprison the words and music that
bring glory to God.
He had heard the soprano solo in the Agnus several times in
rehearsals for his new "Coronation Mass." It had sounded fine,
beautiful and soft, mellow, he knew Klothilde's voice, it was a worthy
instrument. But this time the melody seemed to pierce so keenly
through the chill air of the vaults of the church that he shivered. The
music seemed to come to a standstill, time felt frozen, he was there
and he was not there. Death was hovering overhead. Or Life.
What was there in life that he didn't know about? Religion was still
there -- but the ordinary ritual of the mass said so little to him. What
about the really big questions in life? He realized how worried he had
always been about success and happiness. But what did it matter
what he did in this world, in this brief life? What did it matter
whether he got a job or not? Or about marriage, "happiness," even
music? There was something else -- or else there was nothing at all.
Was everything that he had been calling his "life" really _irrelevant_
to what life was really all about?
Another crescendo, and the keen quietness enveloped him
again. All was blue and still inside him. Cold but clean. A silence
behind the biting sound of his music. And then the strains of the
melody began to soften and become sweeter, and he slowly drifted
back to earth, to the shivering chill of the January air and the hard,
cold bench of the centuries-old pew. The music went on and on and
on.
His music. No one alive could do better.
***
"Count Seeau!"
"Yes, Your Highness!" The bass voice rumbled as the little
Count snapped to attention.
"Lord, it's hot in here!" The Electoral Prince Karl Theodor
wiped his brow with a lace handkerchief.
"I'll have them pull the blinds, Your Highness. Nymphenburg
is lovely, but as summer palaces go, it isn't built for comfort." He
waved his tiny arms, and two bewigged servants ran to close the
blinds.
"I think the summers are hotter in Bavaria than they were in
the Rhineland. Well, anyway, about the list... Oh, hello,
Kapellmeister," he said, as Cannabich was announced and walked in.
"Your Highness," said Cannabich, bowing his tall body so that
his flopping queue almost touched the floor.
"Kapellmeister, this list I have here of candidates for the new
musical post, are these all the names?"
Cannabich looked at the list. "Yes, Your Highness, but if you
want others included, I'm sure it can be done."
"No, no, I was just curious. I don't see the names of either
Haydn or Mozart."
"Well, Sire, Herr Haydn has indicated that he prefers to stay
with the Esterhazys in Hungary. As for Mozart, I don't think he'll
quite do."
"Oh? Two years ago in Mannheim you did nothing but rave
about his talents."
Cannabich's handsome face turned dark red. "I just don't think
he's suitable."
"I can't imagine that Mozart himself would agree with you
there," said Count Seeau, with an elfin smile.
Cannabich's mouth hardened. "Many find his attitude
deficient in respect for others, Count."
"Oh, I'm sure many _do_, Kapellmeister!" The Count
snickered. "No respect, indeed!"
The Prince waved a dismissive hand, "Well, all right."
Cannabich bowed and started to leave. "Oh, by the way,
Kapellmeister, the Princess wanted me to tell you how pleased she is
with that maid you sent to her, Sara Mueller. Much obliged."
Cannabich bowed again.
Once Cannabich had gone, Karl Theodor put his hand to his
brow again and said to Seeau, "What was all that about? He isn't still
worried about Mozart as a musical rival, is he? Two whole years have
gone by. I would think that by now he would feel secure in my
service."
Seeau, with an impish grin on his face, put his index fingers
up to his forehead and wiggled them.
The Electoral Prince laughed. "Oh, I see, that's it! Well, I
wouldn't want to put any temptation in the way of Frau Kapellmeister
Cannabich that might upset my dear music director's domestic
happiness."
Seeau giggled.
"But it is a shame, you know. I feel like doing something
more with music, now that the war is over and we've got almost all of
our territory back from poor sad old Kaiser Joseph. What with
Joseph's cash contributions, the treasury is in good shape, and I'd like
to put on a number of symphonies and operas. And Mozart may be
conceited, but his compositions get better every year that goes by."
"We could have Mozart, and Haydn too, work for us without
having them on the staff here."
"Of course, Seeau, and we will." He giggled. "And make a
note..."
"A note of what, Your Highness?"
"Whenever Mozart comes to town, we'll get one of those
medieval iron contraptions out of the armory for the Frau
Kapellmeister to wear!"
"As you command, Your Highness."
"Stop giggling, Count. It isn't dignified!"
Seeau smirked and bowed deeply. Then they walked off
together laughing.
***
Not a plain allegro, that's not it, it has to be allegro ma non
troppo, no, allegro maestoso -- that's it. Sitting at his desk in the
house on the south side of the Markartplatz, listening to the hucksters'
carts making their last run through the town on a July evening,
Wolfgang was thinking about a work for two solo strings and
orchestra. The tempo that was suggesting itself to him was a very
moderate allegro, and the rhythm, 4/4 time. He had an idea for the
opening figure, one he had heard in a sinfonia by Karl Stamitz in
Mannheim. It went _1_-2-3-4; _1_-2-_3_-4-_and_; _1_, etc. -- all on
the same note, E-flat, the tonic. It was a warm key, a key for singers,
this music would sing out -- and the rest of it wouldn't sound like
Stamitz, that was certain! And then pour it on! Work up to a
full-fledged crescendo, orchestra and soloists together. Papa would
be surprised, that wasn't his usual style, he'd think the Mannheim
crowd had ruined his son.
He wrote it down as he thought it out, covering the paper
rapidly, leaving out the horn parts here, the second violins there, but
coming back soon to fill them in before he lost his momentum.
Two octaves up -- that should be high enough to get their
attention. Bah-bah- bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah with eighth notes in the
bass.
Give the strings a little chance to play -- didleididleidahdah --
then the woodwinds back at them -- dooduhdooduhdehdeh --- and so
on -- and so on --- then the viola soloist, then the violin soloist.
Then all together again. That should sound all right. He couldn't
wait to try it out.
"Papa, Papa, have you got a minute? Bring the fiddle."
His father came in, violin in hand, and helped him check out
the string and woodwind parts of the first few bars of the first
movement of his new "Sinfonia concertante" for violin, viola, and
orchestra.
As he played out the woodwind parts on the piano, a thought
came to him: _that_ would show those assholes in Paris and Vienna!
***
It was noon by the clock on the Salzburg Rathaus. A
woodseller was pulling his handcart around the square outside.
People were getting ready for the coming winter. Wolfgang had been
looking forward to going to Munich to write a new opera for the
coming Carnival season. Suddenly the bells of noon seemed to be
smashing into his skull, half-stunning him: his sister had just told him
that she had heard, through her friend Margarethe zu Sonnenberg, that
Aloysia Weber and Josef Lange were going to get married.
"Lange?"
"Yes, you know him, don't you?" said his sister.
"Lange!"
She looked at him cautiously. "They say he's quite nice."
"Nice!"
"Oh, Wolferl," she said, coming over to the table and taking
his head in her arms. "Don't, Wolferl."
He flung up his hands, knocking her away, then he plunged his
head deep into his arms.
"Ouch," she said, rubbing her elbow where it had been flung
back against the wall.
"I'm sorry, leave me alone. Please. Please."
"Sure, bubboo, sure." She kissed him lightly on the top of the
head and left the room. Her soft voice reminded him of another soft,
sweet voice. And a tiny, doll-like figure.
Two days later, he saw Aloysia's familiar figure on the
Linzerstrasse. She was walking quickly away from him. He hurried
to catch up. Then he could see the outline of her cheek. He came up
to her, turned around, and looked into her face. A strange woman of
about thirty-five looked back at him curiously.
He walked slowly back home, a pain in his stomach. An old
pain.
Before he set foot in Munich again, he would cut out his own
guts, if he had to, to get rid of his gnawing, nauseating ache for that
faithless woman! He would be Atlas, he would lift the world to
quit himself of the weight of that black-haired witch!
After all, he had the new opera to think about! Women! To
hell with all of them!
On to Munich!
=============================================================
FATHERS
[an excerpt, chapter 15, from the novel "In Search of Mozart"]
by William Ramsay
The voice of the tenor soared. The lighting was dim and fitful
for the rehearsal in the Bavarian Court Theater, with only a few
candles to supplement the scattered rays of afternoon sun that came in
through the high clerestory windows above the orchestra. Wolfgang
waved his left hand to the rhythm of the music, while with his right
he paged through the score.
"Fuor del mar ho un mar nal se-e-e-no-o-o-o." The notes
echoed through the empty hall.
The tenor stopped, looking at him. Then he strode into the
center of the stage, pushing out his big chest in a heroic pose.
Wolfgang imagined Aloysia's tiny figure in his place -- she
had sung on the same stage the previous month.
"Very good, Raaff, very good. Now do you suppose you could
get a little more movement into it? You're describing the sea, and
how your soul is like the sea. It doesn't do to be too still. Try some
pacing about, some more gestures."
"But, Herr Mozart, too much running around might spoil the
emotional effect." Raaff ran his hands through his gray locks.
"Don't worry about the emotional effect too much, Raaff,
leave that to me."
"Herr Mozart, Wolferl, could I ask about an aria in Act II?"
"But you have no aria in Act II, Herr Raaff."
"Exactly, that's the problem. My aria in Act I is not easy to
sing expressively, so I think it would be a good idea if I had
something sweet and melodic to sing in Act II. You see my point,
don't you?"
"Yes, yes, I see. But it has to fit in with the story, you know."
It was worse than dealing with sopranos, thought Wolfgang.
"But surely you and the librettist could work out something.
Why don't you let me talk to you about it?"
"Yes, yes, fine. Later. We'll talk later."
"Wolferl, could you tell me whether I'm making my second
act aria too sentimental?" said Dorothea Wendling. "I don't want to
overdo it."
"Don't worry, Dolly, 'Se il padre perdei' means 'If I've lost my
father' and I don't see how you can overdo it. Let out all the stops.
Just as you've
_been_doing it, that's fine." He motioned as if applauding. She
smiled. In some way her smile reminded him of Aloysia's, damn it!
He addressed the other members of the cast. "Let's take a
break here. We'll resume in twenty minutes." He motioned to the
stage designer. "Quaglio, come here."
"Yes, Wolferl." The thin, dark Italian looked at him eagerly.
Wolfgang's hair had fallen into disarray. Only part of it
retained any powder. From the rest, blond strands poked out at
random. "Quaglio, I think we have a problem with this scene in the
ship. How can the king be alone in the ship in a storm?"
"No, you're right. Of course, we could take away the ship, he
could be shipwrecked and alone. As long as that worked out with the
music."
"Well, one or the other. He's either alone, shipless, or he has a
ship and some crew. I can't have just a king and a big ship all alone
there in the center of the stage. I can make the music come out either
way, but Varesco will have to fix the libretto."
"What shall we do?"
"Leave it the way it is for now. I'll write my father in Salzburg
about getting Varesco there to change it."
"Mozart, how is it going?" asked a bass voice.
"Oh, hello, Count. All right, I think." It was always unsettling
to have such a big voice come from such a small man. The Count
was dressed in plain black wool, but with a bright yellow shirt that
made him look like a starved bumblebee.
When he'd last seen the Count, at a reception the previous
week, Seeau had been talking with Herr and Frau Lange. Aloysia was
still beautiful. He had only said a few polite words to her, but he
found that he could stand next to her and look at her without that
awful feeling in his stomach. He was on the way to a cure. And
about time!
He thanked his dead mother for the strength of the Pertls, the
power to endure and survive. To conquer fear.
"No problems with the singers?" said the Count.
"Oh, Count, why would you imagine that a conductor would
have problems with singers?" He clapped his hand to his head,
making a loud smack.
The Count laughed. "Well, as long as the audience doesn't
notice the problems, it will be all right."
"By opening night, Herr Mozart will have everything
organized," said Quaglio.
"You mean," said Wolfgang, "by opening night the singers
will have convinced me that they can't do what I've written, that even
if they can do it they won't, and that, anyway, they want to sing
something else entirely different."
"Well," said Count Seeau smiling, "I trust to your judgment."
"Thank you, Your Excellency," said Wolfgang. "I'll whip
them into shape -- I've got lots of experience."
The Count bowed quickly and strutted off. The Count was
even tinier than Aloysia. Wofgang was getting over her, all right, but
he still found himself wishing she lived somewhere other than here in
Munich.
"What's that other problem, maestro?" said Quaglio at his
elbow.
"Oh. It's that subterranean voice. How can we make it more
believable?"
"Well, I don't know, people are used to that sort of thing. I
don't think anybody will object."
"I know, it's like the ghost in Hamlet. But Varesco is no
Shakespeare, and I'm wondering if Shakespeare himself didn't have
better ideas than that one. It's going to be awfully hard to get the
audience to believe it."
"Herr Mozart," said a soprano voice, "I have an appointment
in an hour, can we begin soon?" Dal Prato stood there with his
wizened but oddly boyish face. "Or do you want to rehearse my
third-act aria tomorrow?"
"No, no, no. It must be today. I have to get an idea how it
sounds. All right, we'll begin in two minutes." He shouted out, "Two
minutes, prince's aria, two minutes."
Anyway. Just because one girl married someone else, didn't
mean that a person had to become a monk. He had other friends in
Munich. Good friends.
***
The sun was just setting over the snow-topped roofs of the
city. The clouds along the western horizon were turning pink and
silver. Karl Theodor stood in his bedroom and looked at his young
black-haired, athletic-looking aide, Braun.
"So the grand old lady's dead!"
"Yes sir, last night. The courier just arrived."
"So, now the Emperor will think he is really the Emperor."
Karl-Theodor smiled and gazed out the window.
"Ahem."
Karl-Theodor turned and saw little Count Seeau standing,
head slightly bowed. "Seeau, you've heard?"
"Yes, Your Highness," said the Count with a solemn
expression on his face.
"Well, she had a long life."
"Yes, Your Highness. Will the opera be postponed?'
He grimaced. "I don't see the need. No, let's proceed. After
all, we don't want young Mozart sitting around here with nothing to
do. 'The devil finds mischief for idle hands,' right?"
"Yes, Your Highness, especially for Herr Mozart's idle hands."
said Seeau, smirking. Karl-Theodor smiled also. "A time of great
change, Your Highness," said Seeau more soberly. "I suppose we'll
see all sorts of reforms coming out of Vienna now."
Karl-Theodor snorted.
"You think not, Your Highness?"
"What we'll see from there will be decrees, decrees, and more
decrees. But with Joseph's luck, nothing much will happen as a
result." He thought a minute, looking out to where a hawk was
circling in the dusky sky. "But one trivial consequence I can predict,
Braun."
"What is that, Your Highness?"
"You'll have to ask Heinz to get out my best black suit."
"Yes, Your Highness," said Braun, without smiling.
"And I assume you wouldn't object, Braun, if I sent you to
Vienna once again, on the delegation to the funeral? You can take
care of my business -- and your personal interests there."
"Thank you, Your Highness, you're most kind."
"Your Highness," said Seeau, "a propos of Herr Mozart, the
courier brought a letter from Kapellmeister Cannabich. Cannabich
won't be returning from Vienna until a week from Tuesday."
"That poses no problem," said Karl Theodor, "at least for
_me_. Nor for Herr _Mozart_, I suppose."
"I'm glad to hear that, Your Highness. Shall I look over the
medieval items in the armory?" They both laughed.
Captain Braun looked at them with a puzzled expression on
his face.
***
Wolfgang stared at the fire in his sitting room in Munich. The
skies outside were gray. The snow on the ground was becoming icy
and in places, filthy and black. The rehearsals for the last act were
the next day. The opera was almost finished. "Can you come over
tomorrow?"
"Sorry, love," said Liesel Cannabich, "Christian's going to be
here all week."
"Oh, Christ!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She blew him a kiss from the
bed. "What do you hear from your father, love?"
"Oh, he's having the time of his life. He loves being an
advisor. He helps me with the libretto. He tells me when to take
breaks from composing. Now he's even worried about the music's
being popular enough. He told me to be sure to include something for
the 'donkey-ear' set."
"What did you say?" said Liesel, wearing his robe, spreading
out her long blonde hair and bunching it up for her comb.
He filled his glass with red wine from a decanter. "I told him
there was music in the opera for everybody, but not for 'donkey ears.'"
"Getting cocky, aren't you?"
"Why quit now? I say." He reached over and pulled her to
him.
"Oh, my hair!" She smiled. "You're in a good mood."
"Yes, well, It's almost finished, you know." He picked up
some sheets of paper and selected one. "You asked about my father,
read the latest about what the old boy has been up to," he said.
Liesel pushed back several strands of hair, picked up the page,
and read:
..Madame Masquerelle came in today to congratulate me on
my name day, turned some rench compliments and while
doing so lowered her pockmarked right cheek to my face. I
didn't suspect anything... At last she came so close that I
woke up from my stupid state and saw that I was to enjoy the
favor of kissing her. Which I did with the greatest
embarrassment. Then she turned her left cheek and I had to
kiss that one too. I immediately took a look at myself in the
mirror, because I felt as bashful as I did when as a boy I kissed
a woman for the first time, or when after the ball in
Amsterdam the women all insisted that I kiss them...
"I do think my father is becoming a Lothario, the old goat will
be chasing adolescent girls next!"
She frowned. "Oh, Wolferl, don't make fun of him!" But then
she laughed. "He seems like such a nice man."
"Well, I don't know that 'nice' is exactly the word I'd choose."
Wouldn't his father have died if he had known that his letters
were being read out loud by one of his son's girl friends? And if he
had known that the girl friend was the wife of Kapellmeister
Cannabich!
"He _has_ been a good father to you. Where would you have
been without him?"
"I'd have been a gypsy fiddler, or an innkeeper."
"More likely a bookbinder like your grandfather, with an
apron and a long dumpy face!"
Wolfgang felt his face turning red. He seized her ear, twisting
it, and she cried out in pain. "Oh, let go-o-o-o!"
"Sorry, I forgot your age."
"You _need_ an old woman to handle you, my bright, naughty
boy," she said, and they began to wrestle in earnest, not ending up
until the pale afternoon light had faded.
The noise of the supper preparations in the servants' quarters
wakened him later. She was already awake. He leaned over and
kissed her. "Maybe you're right."
"About what?"
"My father. Despite his pigheadedness and selfishness, he
does a lot for me, and I recognize it. There's hardly anybody else I
can talk to about the opera -- except Quaglio, and he doesn't know
music."
"Oh, music!" she said, pulling the cover over her face.
"He even got me the trumpet mutes I couldn't find in Munich.
And then of course my old black mourning suit."
"It looks shabby. You should get a new one."
"What would I use for money?"
She patted the sparse blonde hair on his chest. "Don't worry,
one day you'll
be rich and famous."
"'Famous,' I've tried that. As for 'rich,' I hope so. But in the
meantime," he said, pulling her closer, "I'll have to make do with poor
people's pleasures!"
"Eeeeee, Wolferl! Eeeeee! Ohh, ohh, Wolferl, ohhhh!
WOLFERL!"
***
The crowd was so large that it was almost impossible to
admire the rich texture of the bright new red carpet in the foyer of the
Court Theater. The light from the crystal chandeliers sparkled off the
gilded furniture and ornaments. Leopold was proud of his daughter in
the new maroon dress he had paid seventy gulden for.
Count Seeau came up to him. "Herr Mozart, the Prince would
like to have a word with you."
Leopold caught his breath. He walked over behind Seeau to
the knot of people on the other side of the foyer. Several richly
dressed men stepped aside for Seeau, disclosing the white-uniformed
figure of Electoral Prince Karl-Theodor. "May I present Herr
Mozart, Your Highness?"
"Yes, Herr Mozart," said the Elector. "I just wanted to
compliment you on your son's opera. Since I've seen the rehearsals, I
can safely do that before the performance."
Leopold bowed, conscious of his new hairdo. He was glad he
had tried not wearing a wig. "You are too kind, Your Highness."
"Is the Archbishop coming?"
"I believe not, Your Highness, the Archbishop has business in
Vienna, they tell me."
"Well," said Kurfuerst Karl Theodor, stroking his narrow jaw,
"he's made a mistake. Both he and the Emperor."
"You are too kind, I am very grateful," he said. He bowed
deeply and made his way back to his daughter. They found Wolfgang
and went to the box.
"The Prince really likes your opera," he told his son. "He said
the Archbishop and the Emperor should have been here."
Wolfgang was resplendent in a green suit embroidered with
silver. "I wish they had been! Well, at least Count Rosenberg came
from Vienna."
"But Salieri didn't."
"Yes, and too bad. He's a bit frightening with the grim faces
he makes, but I'd have liked to have had his opinion."
Leopold pursed his lips. It was a shame, since Salieri was
now director of the Court Opera in Vienna. "Maybe it's too bad
Salieri and the Emperor didn't come," he said, "but I'm just as glad the
Archbishop stayed away!"
"Maybe you're right." His son sighed. "Come on, let's get you
to your seats so you can see how you like what we've done with
'Idomeneo, re di Creta.'"
Sitting in the darkened box, he watched his son standing in
front of the orchestra and waited for the aria that he knew would
come. He had seen the words often enough in the libretto, but he had
never heard the music.
Dorothea Wendling stood ready, the panels of her gauzy
Grecian gown quivered faintly. Wolfgang raised his hands, the
orchestra began the introduction, and then her voice sang out:
"Se il padre perdei"
Leopold's daughter reached over and clasped his hand. He put his
other hand on top of hers. Her eyes seemed to glisten in the faint
light from the stage. He thought about all the years of work and
travel -- and he wondered what his son was thinking at that moment.
Had he forgiven? Had he learned enough about himself to forgive a
father? The words were ambiguous -- what meaning was there in the
bitter-sweet tones of the melody?
***
Wolfgang opened the window of his room in the inn and
looked at the stars. No moon -- he was alone with the night, the night
of Idomeneo. He looked into the pathway of the ecliptic and
imagined the stars of Aquarius, his sign, now blotted out by the sun.
Somewhere up there a twinkling spark might belong to him alone.
Alone. A star had no father -- it just existed.
In the southern sky, Orion hovered, the stars of the sword
pointing down toward the dome of the Electoral Residenz. The opera
had been well received. And now a message from the
Prince-Archbishop, ordering him to come directly to Vienna and join
the "other servants" in the Archbishop's town house there. There
alone -- without his father -- si, il padre perdrei. It seemed like a
good omen. The Archbishop could order him to _come_ to Vienna and get
away with it-- but could he successfully order him to _leave_ when
the time came?
Anything could happen in the meantime. Absolutely anything.
Courage would carry all before it.
================================================================
ENVY
by Otho Eskin
(Note: This is scene 2 from the full-length play "Act of God")
Cast of Characters
MARTIN An unemployed actor weak, shallow
and self-absorbed.
SATAN
MAGGIE Young, beautiful, vulnerable and
radiantly innocent
Scene
The action takes place in the living room of Martin's apartment.
Time
The time is the present.
=================================================
SCENE (#2)
AT RISE: The spotlight goes up on JOHN. HE holds a plastic
container of spray cleaner in one hand. A sponge in
the other.
JOHN
This business couldn't have come at a worse time. As I may have
mentioned, my life's been a mess. I've been to twenty-two auditions in
six months and not a single call-back. Three weeks ago I was mugged
at the police station while waiting to report the theft of my car
radio. I've met Maggie and I've had this feeling my luck would
change. Now this happens. Not only can't I get a job now, I'll never
get anywhere with Maggie. I mean, who wants to go out on a double
date with the Prince of Darkness?
(Stage lights go up on JOHN's
apartment which is in a mess. Cans of
beer and the packages of junk food are
scattered about. SATAN enters.)
SATAN
I hope you have decaf.
(JOHN begins to clean up the apartment
ineffectively. SATAN pulls the sports
section from the newspaper, lies
on the couch and begins to read.)
SATAN
Damn! I'm out of circulation twenty-four fuckin' hours and look what
happens to the Knicks.
(SATAN tosses the paper on the floor.)
JOHN
What were you doing in here last night? My downstairs neighbor has
called twice to complain about the noise.
SATAN
Did you hear the one about the Italian, the Irishman and the
Frenchman who died and went to heaven?
JOHN
Damn it, can't you clean up after yourself?
SATAN
This place is driving me crazy. You don't even have cable. How
about dropping water balloons out the window?
JOHN
Can't you think of anything better than that?
SATAN
If you could send out for four yards of strong twine, a half dozen
oranges and a goat, we might...
JOHN
No!
SATAN
We could use a couple of chickens instead.
JOHN
Forget it!
SATAN
Have it your way. I'm gettin' myself a brew.
(SATAN exits. The doorbell rings.
JOHN opens the front door. MAGGIE
is standing at the door, holding a bunch
of flowers.)
JOHN
Maggie, what are you doing here?
MAGGIE
I was in the neighborhood, John, and I found these beautiful flowers. I
thought you would like them.
JOHN
Maggie, that's very sweet.
(JOHN stands in the door, trying to
prevent MAGGIE from seeing into the
apartment. SHE tries to look around
JOHN.)
MAGGIE
John, aren't you going to ask me in?
JOHN
I'm sorry I'm having a really bad day.
(MAGGIE tries to slip by JOHN but he
blocks her way.)
MAGGIE
Can I help? Make you some soup? Dust something?
JOHN
Maggie, there's something I think you should know.
MAGGIE
What is it?
JOHN
There's somebody here.
(SATAN enters, beer bottle in hand.
HE sees MAGGIE and is enraptured.)
SATAN
Be still, my beating heart.
MAGGIE
Wonderful! I'd like to meet your friends.
JOHN
He's not exactly a friend.
(MAGGIE slips past JOHN and enters
the apartment. SHE shows JOHN the
flowers.)
MAGGIE
Look, there's woodbine and marigold and primroses here. I think the
asters are the prettiest though, don't you?
(SHE looks around at what is to her an
empty apartment. MAGGIE is unable
to see SATAN.)
MAGGIE
This place is a mess! Let me help clean up.
(MAGGIE snatches the spray cleaner
and starts busily cleaning things.)
MAGGIE
I thought you said there's someone here? I don't see anybody.
(MAGGIE puts the flowers in a vase.)
SATAN
Introduce me to your lovely friend, John.
MAGGIE
You seem upset. What's wrong?
JOHN
It's a little difficult to explain.
MAGGIE
I'll understand, John. Really I will.
JOHN
I've been possessed by the Devil.
MAGGIE
Excuse me?
JOHN
The Devil is here in the apartment with me.
MAGGIE
What's happening to you, John? Why are you talking like this?
JOHN
I think the first thing is for you to meet Satan.
SATAN
Oh, yes. Please. Do! Do!
MAGGIE
What did you just say?
(JOHN gestures toward the couch
where SATAN is sitting.)
JOHN
I want you to meet the Devil.
SATAN
Hi there, sweetie cakes.
MAGGIE
Who?
(MAGGIE looks at the couch blankly.)
MAGGIE
Are you all right, John?
JOHN
I think you should talk to Satan here.
MAGGIE
Where?
JOHN
On the couch.
(MAGGIE studies the couch carefully.)
MAGGIE
What are you talking about? There's nobody on the couch.
JOHN
(To SATAN)
Say something to her!
MAGGIE
You've been watching Geraldo again, haven't you?
JOHN
I swear I'm telling the truth.
MAGGIE
That's what you always say. John, you don't have to make up these
stories. Just be yourself. I know you're basically a good man.
JOHN
Satan is right here with us.
MAGGIE
I'm worried about you, John. I come here! Your apartment is a mess.
Then you introduce me to a sofa cushion.
JOHN
(To SATAN)
Would you explain what's going on here.
MAGGIE
Why should I explain? You're the one who's acting strange.
SATAN
Sorry, I can't.
JOHN
What do you mean you "can't"?
MAGGIE
What?
SATAN
Your friend Maggie can't see or hear me. More's the pity.
JOHN
She can't!
MAGGIE
Who can't what?
SATAN
I'm afraid you'll have to do the explaining.
JOHN
You mean nobody can see you but me?
MAGGIE
Of course people can see me.
JOHN
I'm not talking to you, Maggie.
SATAN
Most people can see me. Maggie's one of the few exceptions.
MAGGIE
John!
JOHN
What are you talking about?
MAGGIE
I'm not talking about anything.
JOHN
Maggie, would you stay out of this.
SATAN
I told you, what you are is what you see. Everyone has some evil in
them. Something to do with Adam, I think. But in some people, evil
never develops. Maggie has no real concept of evil to project. She's
a true innocent. Therefore, she can't see or hear me.
MAGGIE
John, please tell me what's happening.
JOHN
(To MAGGIE)
Would you like to sit down?
MAGGIE
(Trying to control herself)
I'll be all right.
JOHN
I'll try to explain. I used a formula for summoning the Devil which I
found in an old book and damned if it didn't work.
MAGGIE
I think I'd better sit down.
JOHN
(Alarmed)
Not on the couch!
(JOHN leads MAGGIE to a chair. SHE
sits.)
JOHN
So this guy shows up. He says he's Satan. He wears cheap clothes and
tells bad jokes and he has no concept of personal hygiene.
SATAN
Watch it, fella.
JOHN
And he tells me I have a contract with him. Neither of us can leave
my apartment until I agree to give him my soul.
MAGGIE
You're telling me the Devil is here? And you've been talking to him?
JOHN
Yes, Maggie.
MAGGIE
But, John, there's no such thing as the Devil.
JOHN
If he doesn't exist how do you account for evil on earth?
MAGGIE
There's no such thing as evil. Just not enough love. There are no bad
people. Just misunderstood people.
SATAN
(Bemused)
Oh, boy!
JOHN
(To SATAN)
Would you show her a sign? Maybe a little sound and smoke.
MAGGIE
John! Stop that!
SATAN
It won't do any good. She doesn't believe in me.
MAGGIE
You're hallucinating, John.
JOHN
I swear, I'm not.
MAGGIE
Let's go walk in the park. You've been cooped up here too long.
JOHN
I can't leave the apartment.
MAGGIE
You're being really unreasonable, John.
JOHN
I'm no longer in control. Don't you understand?
MAGGIE
I'm not sure I want to understand.
(JOHN approaches MAGGIE who is
suddenly frightened. SHE holds the
spray cleaner like a weapon, pointed at
JOHN, and backs away.)
MAGGIE
Don't come any closer, I'm warning you, John.
(MAGGIE backs toward the door.)
JOHN
Please, Maggie, I need your help.
MAGGIE
This talk of the Devil scares me. Unless you stop, I'm leaving.
JOHN
I'm going to try and work this thing out with Satan. Honest.
MAGGIE
(Becoming angry)
Really, John, I've had enough.
(MAGGIE walks toward the front door)
JOHN
Maggie, please don't go...
MAGGIE
My friends have been warning me about you. They say you're
shallow and manipulative and self-absorbed. I'm beginning to think
they're right.
(MAGGIE leaves. JOHN tries to follow
HER out the door but is prevented by
the invisible shield.)
JOHN
(To SATAN)
That tears it! Get out of my life!
SATAN
I only wish I could.
(JOHN snatches up the book of magic
and frantically leafs through the pages,
searching.)
JOHN
There's got to be something here to get rid of you.
SATAN
Hold the phone! I may have thought of a way out of our problem. I'm
not saying it'd be easy, but there's a technicality in the regs. I
make a deal on someone else, you and I are off the hook. Now, your
friend Maggie here... I think I could work something out. You
understand what I'm saying?
JOHN
You want Maggie's soul?
SATAN
It's just the kind of thing I'm always in the market for.
JOHN
I thought you said she was innocent she can't see you.
SATAN
She can be taught to see me. Maggie would bring a premium. And
there'd be something in it for you a sort of finder's fee.
JOHN
(Hopefully)
You mean a Broadway show?
SATAN
Don't push your luck. Maybe off-off-Broadway.
JOHN
No deal.
SATAN
I could work things out between you and Maggie.
JOHN
How do you mean work things out?
SATAN
I can make her lust for you, Johnny.
JOHN
You can really do that?
SATAN
She'd be a challenge but it could be done. She can become your own
personal love slave.
JOHN
It doesn't seem right, somehow.
SATAN
That's what you really want, isn't? You've been trying to get her into
the sack ever since you met her. It's your call, pal. Just let me know.
(SATAN goes into the kitchen.)
JOHN
So now what am I supposed to do? I can't go on like this. There must
be a way out. I think I need advice.
BLACKOUT
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