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Fiction-Online Volume 5 Number 6
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 5, Number 6
November-December, 1998
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-
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
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explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Argive Odes"
E. James Scott
"Getting Started," a short story
Alan Vanneman
"Monster Carrot," an excerpt (chapter 11) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Gentleman," part 2 of the play, "Julie"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
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 Folder Library in
Washington.. His play, "Season in Hell," recently had sixteen
performances at the SCENA Theatre in Washington.
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. His play, "Topsy-Turvy," recently received a
reading at the N Street Playhouse in Washington.
E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and plays the viola da gamba and
is learning the shawm. He lives in La Jolla, California and Puerto
Vallarta, Mexico, where he practices his hobby of photographing and
charting the migrations of cetaceans. He is currently studying Greek
tragedy.
ALAN VANNEMAN is a writer living in Washington. He has
published short stories in numerous journals, most recently "3 AM
Zurich Time" in issue No. 14 of "Gulf Stream Magazine.". He is a
professional editor, currently working in educational research.
==================================================
ARGIVE ODES
by E. James Scott
Agamemnon
Agamemnon, Agamemnon,
Valiant destroyer of Ilium.
Death-dealing warrior,
Paramount leader of Greece.
The gods have brought you safely home.
Agamemnon, Agamemnon,
Your captive princess screams in fear.
Ancient wrongs lie in wait.
Crimson paths lead to your hearth.
The air is filled with treachery.
Fateful Days
The air of Argos smells of blood,
Words are sweet but voices hard.
The sacred Python flicks his tongue,
The night is thick with fear.
O fateful days!
==================================================
GETTING STARTED
by Alan Vanneman
After graduation I lived with my folks. My dad's a contractor, and he
got me this job with a friend of his. The guy was kind of a jerk, but
it was OK. We were working on this housing development, and he was
teaching me about electricity. I was hanging out with Louis, mostly.
He lived in this little house that was practically out in the mountains,
with his mother. There was this waterfall near his house where you
could crawl back under the rock and behind the water and just watch it
fall. We used to go there and smoke grass. It was pretty cool.
I did that for about six months. Louis had this girlfriend whose family
gave her five thousand dollars when she graduated from high school.
Louis said he was going to invest it for her, I guess in a new car for
him, although he hadn't gotten it yet. He had this old beat-up Honda
Civic. Anyway, this girl's brothers came around to Louis' house with an
ax, and they chopped up all four tires on his Honda, so he couldn't
leave. My dad had like five or six mounted tires in our garage. I don't
know where he got them. Anyway, I put four of them in the back of
dad's truck and went over to Louis'. We changed all four tires and
Louis followed me home in his Honda. I left dad's pickup in the
driveway and then Louis drove me into Culpeper. After that I bought
his car for $500 in cash. When I gave him the money Louis said "OK,
if anybody asks you, you don't know where I went." Well, I didn't, but
I could guess that he took the bus into Washington. Then about a week
later the police came looking for me. They said Louis was going to be
indicted for felonious conversion. They said they were going to charge
me with being an accessory, but they didn't. I didn't know that he was
going to be indicted when I bought his car, and I didn't know where
he'd gone. My dad was pretty mad, about the tires, I guess. He didn't
like Louis very much. Also, the cops were giving me a hard time. This
old guy I worked with asked me if I wanted a job in Washington and I
said sure, because it was like get out of town.
I knew some guys in Alexandria who had a house, and they let me sleep
on their sofa for $25 a month. This job was on Capitol Hill, right near
the Capitol, polishing railings. That was all it was. They have all
these brass railings around the buildings, and this guy and I would
polish them. I got $7 an hour, which was OK, but it wasn't the greatest
work. I'd watch all these girls go by, going to some air-conditioned
office, while I was sweating my butt off. At nine o'clock in the
morning it would be ninety degrees. Then the guy fired me. We didn't
get along. Also I didn't always show up on time. After that I didn't
work for awhile. It was pretty unstable where I was staying. We were up
a lot at night so I slept most of the day.
I was cool with it until my cash ran out. The guys I was living with
started to give me a hard time, like this one guy didn't want me to
watch TV because I didn't help pay for the electricity. Also they had
these porno tapes that I couldn't look at
because they weren't mine. This guy was a real pain. Then this other
guy told me about this job I could get with the law firm he worked for.
He worked in the copying department, which was all these printers and
stuff. It paid like $8.50 an hour because it was from noon to eight,
and there was a lot of overtime. Also it was air-conditioned, even
though it was like in the basement of this big building. So now I work
at Culbertson and Manning. Jerome is the shift manager. He practically
lives there, like he comes in around ten and leaves at midnight. He's an
older guy, about 30, a recovering alcoholic. He will always tell you
that-"I'm a recovering alcoholic." It's a big thing with him. Jerome
had to keep busy. He works like 80 hours a week, a lot of it overtime
but some he doesn't even get paid for. "It's better than sitting at home,
looking at Regis and Cathie Lee," he says. Well, I guess.
I hang out with Jerome a lot now. A lot of times when we get off shift
we drive around in this Ford Explorer he has, which is pretty cool.
He's got a 454 engine and these monster tires. Usually there are four
or five of us, like the white guys. The black guys all think Jerome is
a jerk, because he doesn't do drugs. They think we're all crackers.
Anyway, it's Jerome's shift, and it's mostly white guys. We can't go to
bars because of the alcohol. Usually we buy pizza and ride around.
Jerome pays for everything because he likes having us with him. I don't
think we're really screwing him. Jerome is kind of a maniac when he
drives. He saw this cop video about this 15-year-old girl who was
arrested for doing 110, so he always wants to do that. We go out on US 1
sometimes and he says he gets it up to 120. Well, I don't know. The
car shimmies so much it's hard to tell. When the windows start rolling
down by themselves, he slows down a little. You have to wear a seat
belt because of the way he bounces you around. Once he went around
a curve and the Ranger really swayed, and this guy in the back says
"this motherfucker's top heavy," and Jerome says, "this truck ain't top
heavy, there ain't nothing that will tip this motherfucker over," and
he goes around this next curve really tight and we flip right over,
wham! down this embankment and wham! right back on the tires again. So
all this shit from the floor is all over us and I say "are we having fun
yet?" That was pretty cool. After I went to work at C&M, I started
seeing this girl, Rosalie. She was going to be an actress. Well, that
was what she said. She hadn't acted in much. She used to be in these
"Night of Mystery" parties, where these actors would go to a party and
act out a mystery for the people at the party. She would tell me about
all these rich married guys hitting on her. She wasn't really that
pretty. If you saw her, you wouldn't think she was an actress. She
lived in this house on Capitol Hill with these two gay guys, who were
actors, Ralph and Bruno. Bruno was this little German guy.
I was there once when he was all upset because this play he was in was
reviewed in the paper and the reviewer said he looked like a rodent. I
guess that would be limiting.
Rosalie was the first girl I had sex with. Later I found out it wasn't
as good as it should have been. I didn't like her that much, really.
She was kind of fat. I guess she liked me more than I liked her. She
kept wanting me to move in with her. She slept on this futon in the
basement. I couldn't see that. I don't think I was very good in bed, or
on the futon. I'd go off pretty quickly. She'd say "that was great,"
but I don't think it was. After we did it a few times I didn't want to
do it any more. Rosalie would talk about stuff, like should she get a
ring for her navel. Well, do it. Who cares? But she never did. Finally,
we had a fight about it and we broke up.
Jerome was glad when we broke up. "Girls will fuck you up" he says. I
don't think Jerome's gay, but he's like against women. "Women are
fucking trouble." "A man without a plan is not a man." He likes to say
that. "A man without a plan is not a man." "What's your plan, man?" I
tell him "to keep this joint lit." He doesn't like that. He doesn't
like dope. "Zero tolerance, motherfucker." He's always telling us he'll
fire us if he catches us smoking pot. He thinks I smoke it all the time,
but how can I, when I'm at work 10 hours a day and out driving with him
until 4 in the morning? I tell him I'm going to buy a Jeep Wrangler,
that's my plan. They are cool. I like those rollbars they have, and
those big tires.
Jerome thinks it's important for a young man to buy an expensive car.
That's what he calls me, young man. "A young man like you needs a
real car, not that piece of shit you're driving." He tells me I need to
work for a year at C&M and make a 50 percent down payment and the
bank will give me a loan. He says he'll help me. He wants me to get
one with monster tires like his, which would be a couple of thousand
extra. But I don't want one of those really redneck trucks that cost
like $40,000. Jerome says he can get me as much overtime as I want.
Well,thanks, but I don't want that much. I have over $3,000 in the bank
already. I do work Sunday overtime when we have it, because it's
double time. But I need to do more than work at C&M and party with
Jerome. After I broke up with Rosalie I started going to bars. First I
have to get served, and then I try picking up a girl. Getting served is
pretty cool. Usually I can get a beer but that's it. I still look
pretty young. I only need to shave like once a week. When we were in bed
together Rosalie would call me babyface. Thanks a lot. What I like to
drink is tequila, except I really don't. If I have three I'm under the
table. I'm not much of a drinker. A lot of times I'll get served, and
if there are no girls there I'll leave. Getting served is what counts.
There are a lot of clubs around C&M that I can go to after work, like
on a Friday or Saturday, if I'm working. Jerome gets pissed off if I go.
Sometimes he'll take us all out to dinner at a nice restaurant so we
won't leave him alone. But usually if it's Friday or Saturday I'll take
off. Usually I take the Metro because my car really is a sort of a piece
of shit. The tires aren't all the same size, and they're really bald, so
I can't get it through inspection. Also the transmission is shot. I
don't want to put a lot of money into it because I figure I'll get my
Wrangler in less than a year. I don't make it with girls much. I'm
pretty shy. Also being a copy guy isn't so cool. Once I was talking
with this girl and she seemed to like me a lot.
Then it turned out she thought I was a copier repair
guy, like I went around to offices and fixed them. When she found out
I just made copies she kind of deflated. I try to go to bars like around
nine or ten. After girls have had a few drinks they don't ask you as
much about what you do. Once I was in this bar which is up the street
from C&M on Connecticut called Timberlakes and I met this girl who
was pretty gorgeous. She was older than me. They usually are. If I'm
around Georgetown or GW it's like "you don't go to college?" I don't
need that. I started talking to this girl and I was telling her about
going to the Bayou, which is this club near the river, to hear this
band Smashmouth, because this guy I know from C&M is in the band. She
started telling me that she was a songwriter, and I was like, this is
really cool, maybe she has a song that Smashmouth could do, so I'm
asking her about who she likes and stuff like that. Then she told me
that she tore up all the songs she wrote and I'm like why do that?
Finally I left, and I thought, she doesn't really write songs. She made
that up to impress me. To impress me! I was already impressed. She
was gorgeous. Everything about her was great, her hair, her clothes,
her make-up. If you saw her on the street you'd think, well, if I had a
girl like that, everything would be cool. Since I broke up with Rosalie,
I have slept with a few girls, like one-night stands. Girls are funny.
They think my accent is cute. I have sort of a southern accent. This one
girl told me I have a body like a Greek God. I don't. I play in this
zombie soccer league, which is like for guys who work second shift. Our
games are like at nine or ten. I like to play, but I'm no Greek God. We
don't always play because guys don't show up a lot. Jerome works out
for an hour each morning before he comes to work. He's always talking
about upper-body strength because his hero is Arnold Schwarzenegger.
He's seen "Terminator II" about a hundred times. Also he has this tape
with "Bad to the Bone" on it. That's his favorite song. He doesn't know
anything about music. Of course he hates hip-hop. He thinks the Spice
Girls are hip-hop. I bought one of their tapes which I put on when he's
not looking, because he hates them so much. They're not really a group.
I like going to girls' apartments. I feel like I'm a spy. They always
have nice places. They have these magazines like Cosmopolitan and Elle
about how to be gorgeous and drive men insane with desire. The best
time I've had with a girl she wasn't really a girl, I mean she was a
woman. She was a lot older than me, like 30. I met her in this bar at
Union Station. I was just having a beer. Her name was Linda. She was
a school teacher from Colorado. I guess she thought I was funny,
because she laughed at everything I said. We had a beer and she said
"Why don't you show me Washington?" She was laughing when she
said it. Anyway, we went on the Metro, which she hadn't done before.
We went over the Potomac, which she thought was neat, and then we
went to the airport. They have this new building which I've been to a
couple of times that has some pretty nice bars, where you can watch
the river and the planes taking off. Also I usually get served there. We
were talking the whole time. She knew a lot about music. When she
was young she had gone to all these concerts, like the Grateful Dead
like 15 years ago and the first three Lollapalooza tours. Also she'd
spent a lot of time in San Francisco. She used to go to this club where
the Red Hot Chili Peppers played before they became famous. She had
this coupon for a restaurant on Capitol Hill so we went back there.
After that we went back to her hotel room.
She was beautiful. She had a beautiful stomach and beautiful thighs and
a beautiful crotch, just the way you want a girl's crotch to be, with
really thick pubic hair in this little triangle. But she was really
flat-chested. In fact, she wore like falsies, I think, like her bra was
sort of plastic. But that was OK, because the rest of her was so
beautiful. I felt really peaceful when I was with Linda, not the way I
was with Rosalie at all. I was always tense with her. I read this
article once by a woman about how to give oral sex, like "the man in
the little boat," or "the little man in the little boat." I can't
remember. Anyway, that's the clitoris. So I thought I'd try it. I
started licking her crotch along the line of her vagina, and I could
see it open up. She started moaning and I kept licking and her vagina
opened up more and more, and I could see her clitoris. It was like it
was a science experiment, because it happened just like the woman said
in the article. I started licking her clitoris, really softly. I
remember in the article the woman said that whatever you do you should
keep on doing it, like everything should be very rhythmical. So I kept
on licking and then she had an orgasm.
She just drew her legs and her hips back. Later I told her I loved her
because she was bushy. I meant her crotch hair. I guess I must have
blushed when I told her that because she laughed for about ten
minutes. She was really beautiful. After that we made love like six
times, almost all night. In the morning she told me she had to leave. I
wanted to come out to Colorado to see her, but she kept saying no. I
wouldn't take the hint so finally she told me she was engaged. Thanks a
lot! She was wearing this little gold ring that was set with emeralds.
How was I supposed to know? I was like disappointed but not mad. I
felt so great from having made love six times but now I wasn't going to
see her again. I just didn't want her to go. After I had sex with Linda
I guess I thought I had women figured out, like I was cool, but it
didn't work out that way. The next time I was with a woman was this
woman I met in this Irish bar on Connecticut Avenue called the Four
Provinces. They have like Irish folk music and people dancing. It's
pretty cool. Anyway, I met this girl and we started talking. After
about an hour she says to me "let's go someplace quiet" and I said OK. I
was kind of drunk because I had had a couple of tequila shooters and a
beer or two. We went to this other bar to have a glass of wine. I'm
almost surprised they served me because I must have looked like this
little drunk kid. Sometimes people don't hassle you, which is nice.
Anyway, we were talking, and all of a sudden she leans across the table
and then all of a sudden we're frenching. I was about to explode but
then she started sucking on my lip, like she pulled it inside her mouth.
That was so weird! But of course I didn't care, because I'm already to
get laid. So we finished our wine and went back to her place and
started making out. She was pretty sexy but she kept sucking on my lip
until it was like bleeding. I don't know what the fuck was wrong with
her. Finally I couldn't take it. We got into an argument and I was
really pissed off because she was so weird. Also, I was really drunk.
That pissed me off too. I knew I was going to be drunk for a long time,
that I'd have to sleep it off, but I couldn't exactly sleep with her.
Finally I just went in the bathroom and locked the door and went to
sleep in the bathtub.
Then like five hours later I hear her beating on the door. She was
really making a racket. She says "I want you out of my bathroom!" Well,
I figured it was her bathroom, so I'd have to go, but I was really
pissed. I was still drunk but I was hung over too. When I went outside
I couldn't tell what time it was. It was all gray out, kind of misty
and really humid. She lived way up on Connecticut Avenue. I started
walking toward downtown and then I stopped at this bus stop. I
waited for like half an hour but no bus came, so I started walking
again. Then it started raining, and by the time I got to the next bus
stop I was soaked. I sat down in this little shelter and I fell asleep.
Finally a bus came and I got on it. I felt like I was a bum. I got off
in Georgetown and walked across Key Bridge to Rosslyn and caught the
Metro back to my place. That was like the pits.
Since that happened I haven't gone to bars as much. I don't spend that
much, but I'm trying to save more money. Girls are always asking me
why I don't go to college, but I've had enough of school. Being a shift
manager like Jerome wouldn't be so bad. Anyway, I don't have to
decide right away. Also, I figure that once I get my Wrangler I'll be
more organized. Like, if I meet this girl and she eats my lips off, I
won't have to walk home.
========================================================================
MONSTER CARROT
by William Ramsay
(Note: the is chapter 11 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!"
"BOOM!" Paco smiled, his mustache raising its brisk little hairs
along his fat upper lip.
"Oh, come on, Paco," I said. He had been explaining the plan for a
prison break: the idea evidently stemmed from Mr. Marcus or one of
his gang of spooks. "And keep your voice down," I said. One of
Pierre's many friends had saved a place for us in line at Copelia, so we
had only had to wait a half hour to get in. We were jammed into a
corner, working on mango and pistachio sundaes. I spooned up a big
gob of butterscotch and chocolate syrup over a disappointingly small
mound of ice cream and tried to make the sweetness soothe my mind
as well as my tongue. "Boom." Hell, it was like talking to a little kid.
Outside, in the park, we passed teenage boys with their arms about
each other, horsing around, laughing. I felt a pang for my high school
days, and I thought about Eddy, just beginning his life. "Paco, you
can't blast a hole in the wall of La Cabana and drag my father out.
This is a major jail we're talking about, not some sheriff's hoosegow in
Dodge City."
"Mr. Marcus says you can get out of any jail if you go about it the
right way."
"Like Alcatraz."
"La Cabana isn't any Alcatraz."
I had to admit that there had been escapes. "Yes, but still..."
"Yes, but what?"
"Maybe you can by bribing the commandant or some of the guards.
Or smuggling in a weapon or something to Pillo. But not by blowing
the place up!"
"Oh Chucho!" He made a face.
"'Felipe,'" I said.
"Felipe. We won't be blowing our way out, it will be a diversion.
Dominguez or one of his friends will help me. Meantime, you're to get
your father and Pillo out through the visitor's entrance. A couple of
well-timed bangs -- wow! -- and no one will be watching you." He
giggled. "They'll be too busy shitting in their pants, wondering
whether the _yanquis_ are finally bombing Havana."
I couldn't help smiling. "I guess the _yanquis_ would be, at that"
-- both Paco and I were American citizens now.
He clapped me vigorously on the back, making me stumble. "That
sounds more like you, Chucho -- I mean Felipe." I saw him glance
over his shoulder. It was getting to be dusk, but following his glance,
across the street I could see a fellow I'd seen before, with brooding
eyes and a long narrow bald spot, peering down at the tall piles of
paper cones at a chitlin vendor's stand.
"Paco, that guy..." I said, whispering.
He shook his head and hurried his pace. I jogged to catch up with
him. "Is it G-2?" "G-2" was the name everybody called the espionage
section of MININT, the Cuban version of the KGB.
He shook his head no. "One of ours."
"You know him?"
"No, but you can tell by his clothes." The fellow had on a drab
brown sport shirt and trousers. "The MININT guys wear bright stuff
they buy in the dollar stores."`
Paco himself was elegantly turned out in an electric blue
_guayabera_ and canary-yellow slacks. I wondered what he
considered "bright." A tall girl in faded jeans looked at him and pursed
her lips in a speculative way -- Paco had that effect on some women.
Lots of luck, girls.
I supposed I'd rather be followed by "our" side than by Fidel's
bunch -- but I suddenly recalled the unpleasantness with Mr. Gomez'
motorist friend in Miami. It was like getting used to living in a
problem dream, there seemed to be no waking up. Whichever way I
turned, first my debts, then the Association, and now this wild trip to
Cuba posing as somebody else. A small part of me liked all the
intrigue -- but most of me was scared shitless and would have been
happier home in bed.
On our way back to the hotel, Paco kept going on and on about
the explosives scheme. He sounded like an assistant film director
planning stunts and special effects shots -- and maybe in a way that's
what he was. O.K., I thought, it might work, maybe he and a friend
or two could create enough of a distraction to make an escape
possible. But an escape for the benefit of my father, who didn't even
want to get out of jail, and with me playing the key role? Me, who
wasn't cut out for this kind of thing at all?
What a mess. Was this worse than the trouble I was in in Miami?
I didn't know if I totally believed what I told Amelia about "The Men,"
that they'd rather frame me than kill me, but at least that was a
possibility. And if I went to a U.S. jail, at least I'd be alive -- at
least as long as they sent me to some white-collar facility where I
wouldn't be raped till my behind gave out or a knife got stuck in my gut.
But the alternative? Suppose Castro caught me being involved in a
prison break. With Paco one of the masterminds behind this plot, that
seemed more than possible. Even if I didn't get shot (or blown up)
during the attempt, I could see myself getting tortured by one of the
sadists in G-2 and then being stood up in front of the _paredon_.
Not for me, I decided. I'd hold out for a safer, more rational way
of getting the job done. Let Paco play with fire. What I should do
was play _along_. So I nodded absently as he went over the plans for
bribing guards, setting plastic charges in the prison laundry and in the
guard cell next to the visitor's room. Over the next days, he went out
"scouting around," returning all giggly from Cayo Hueso with more
plans, involving the kitchen instead of the laundry, or a different guard
to be paid off. I would listen and show enthusiasm, meanwhile I'd be
thinking of ways to put a spoke in his wheel and scotch the whole
misbegotten plot.
Given Paco's mental equipment, it shouldn't be too hard to see that
things got screwed up. As an electrical engineer, I figured that I could
either jam the mechanism in the new-style electronic detonators -- or
maybe better, set them off prematurely, thus scuttling the whole
operation before it became too serious. A nice explosion on the beach
road would do the job -- but it would be quieter and safer if the small
charges inside the detonators could be set off without disturbing the
main explosive. Instead of a "boom," you'd have a few puffs and pops
-- and Paco and his friends would find themselves fresh out of ways to
startle the La Cabana guards.
One day, I had made use of my V.I.P. status to pick up for free
some cashew nuts at the shop down the street from the Havana Libre
to nibble with my rum and coke. I had to evade a group of teenagers
who were hanging around outside the store, trying to buy dollar goods
for pesos at the black market rate. Then I walked back to the Hilton
and got myself a seat on a lounge chair by the giant star-shaped pool.
As I watched, a reddish head of hair suddenly rose out of the water on
the other side of the pool. A large but definitely feminine mop of hair,
dripping water. I stared, it looked like a statue in a fountain. Then
the head disappeared in a splashing fountain of white water, and a
welter of long arms and legs churned through the pool coming toward
me. I became certain of who it was as she turned her face aside to
breathe. A kind of paralysis hit me. Her hair and then her eyebrows
appeared, she brushed the water away from her eyes and stared, then
smiled. "Felipe!" she whispered, gasping, then she coughed.
"Comrade!" she said more loudly, in the soprano voice that had always
seemed too high-pitched for her size. I could see again the dark
blue waters of Lake Coatepeque under the cloudy afternoon skies of El
Salvador. "Pepita?" I said stupidly, as if there were any question about
her identity.
She pulled herself up smartly onto the edge of the pool, her
Rubenesque thighs flattening out into fleshy ripples on the tiles. She
laughed merrily. "You seem so surprised. Didn't you get a cable from
the Committee?"
"Committee? What committee?"
"'The Democratic Physicians' Committee for Freedom and Progress
in the Americas.' We're holding a meeting here." She brushed away a
straggling strand of red hair from her face and frowned. "You don't
seem, well..." The frown turned into a pout.
I tried to get control of my face -- I had an irrational longing for
a mirror to check it out. I reached up, patted her lightly on the face and
blurted out what I hoped were some reassuring words. The pout
smoothed out into a reluctant smile, and her entire magnificent body in
its gray swimsuit slowly eased up from the water like some great
smooth sea lion out of a tide pool.
I didn't know how I was going to handle this new turn in my life in
Havana -- the life of Felipe-Jesus -- but as I peered at the faint outline
of her nipples under the fabric of her suit, I had the frivolous thought
that the condemned criminal could still hope for a fine last meal. And,
if experience was any teacher, a good swift bruising into the bargain.
"Hola, Chucho!" Paco's voice was throaty, his darkly tanned body
glistened with oil, and his gold bracelet jangled as he slapped me on the
back.
I looked at Pepita's surprised face as she heard my real name.
Getting up, I frantically waved at a bald man, a stranger sitting across
the pool, the sun gleaming on his bald pate, "Hi, Chucho," I yelled, "I
didn't see you." I saw the man's face begin to change, but I was
concentrating on Pepita who also stared across the pool, while I
punched Paco in the belly and whispered shush to him. My fingers felt
oily where they had touched his lotioned body.
Pepita looked back at me. Paco said, "Oh, yeah, Felipe." He
stared at Pepita. "Friend of yours?"
I introduced them. He took her wet hand and held it, saying to
her, "'Doctor'?"
"Are you Cuban, Mr. Santos?" she said.
"Uh yes. I mean no, well, that is..."
"Paco lives in the States now," I said.
"Oh," she said in a disapproving tone. Her face turned sour.
The bald man on the other side of the pool was getting up and seemed
to be heading in our direction.
"Come on," I said to Pepita, who was toweling off, "let me buy
you a drink -- see you, Paco." We went off toward the terrace bar. I
tried to take Pepita's arm, but I'd forgotten the Prussian side of her
personality. She frowned, shook off my hand, and gave me a steely
smile. But after a couple of daiquiris, we found ourselves back in my
room, and her psychological armor plate turned out to be still only skin
deep.
And that hairless skin -- sometimes I think that it's all about skin.
The surface of life. You know, everybody puts down the surface of
things. Amelia: "Chucho, all you think about is basketball (I was short
but fast on the court) or playing the piano, or girls." As if there were
better things. Don't knock surfaces, I always say.
Lying there, scrunching myself up in the massive, chlorine-scented
arms of Pepita, I felt contented. (Except for a new pain in my shoulder
-- I hadn't been able to duck all of her "love pats.") It was like lying
on a float out beyond the breakers off Palm Beach, watching the
slow-motion life ashore, young tanned skinny couples, little sand-
speckled two-year-olds digging awkwardly, shovels flashing red and
blue in the sun. Behind me the restrained furor of the open ocean. I
preferred not to look behind me -- who need all the struggle? Maybe
people like Amelia -- not me.
"The struggle," whispered Pepita in my ear.
"What?"
She raised herself up, one breast still under the sheet, the other
open, golden tanned, giving her a deliciously lopsided look. "The
Struggle!"
This time I caught the capital letter. "What?" I said articulately.
"I hope you're finishing up your project here soon. The Struggle at
home needs all its best fighters. Critical times."
"Oh?" I said articulately. I felt as if I were losing my ability to
converse. "You're never at a loss for words Chucho," Amelia always
said to me. But the tenor of my life was beginning to leave me
speechless: I like variety, surprises, the same as the next man, but there
is a limit.
"No," she said as I grasped one of her broad nipples and began to
press on it, trying to knead her nerve endings into a non-revolutionary
mood. She pulled gently away, dragging her nipple with her. "No, I'd
rather talk, Felipe. I want you to understand the situation of the
comrades at home."
"Quiet!" I said.
"What?" she said.
Me: The Life Force, Pepita.
Her: What?
Me (remembering and adapting some of Pierre's little speeches on
anarchism): The Revolution heightens the healthy, vibrant feeling
between male and female comrades. (I raised a finger and waggled it.)
It leads to the glorification of the Life Force and the infusing of the
wisdom of the flesh into the drive to create a New Man. (I frowned,
then I improvised.) Engels. (I trusted nobody but my father was crazy
enough to actually _read_ Engels.)
Her: Oh, Felipe. (She sighed and let her fingers droop gently over
my cozily bulging genitals.)
Me: The Revolution is Sex.
Her: And of course babies, new comrades.
Oh, God. "In time," I said, "in time. When the situation is optimal
for the emergence of such new comrades."
"Of course there's my work," she said. She frowned. "But
Comrade Felicia Suarez had her baby and was back in her forward
observation post the next day, nursing her infant."
I kissed her hard on the lips. She sighed. "A true heroine of
communism."
"Felipe?"
"Yes?"
"Don't think of me as a communist always, think of me right now
as a woman, a person of the feminine gender."
"I'll try, Pepita -- Comrade -- I'll try."
"Good!" she said, and gave me a solid punch on my breastbone and
a quick back-handed slap on my chin. She sighed deeply. "I guess,"
she said, "I really need a little break from the Struggle."
#
Meanwhile, Marcus or whichever spook or mafioso was in charge
of this operation had sent around some character named Llemo Duran,
a driver of a Turistaxi, a former bartender at a downtown cafe, and the
part-owner of an export-import business in the bad old days. Duran
claimed to have some contacts in the Prisons section of MININT --
you had to guess that he had made the contacts the easy way, from the
inside. He and Paco became thick as thieves, and I felt increasingly left
in the background. In one way was fine and in another was kind of
worrying. God knew what screw-ups Paco and his pal could get into.
I was also unhappy that now there was one more person in Havana
who knew my real identity.
Fortunately, Paco had asked me to design the wiring circuit for the
detonators, so I was able to kind of keep track of their various changes
of plans and schedules, which guards were going to be on duty when,
and what dates were holidays when the staff might be at reduced
strength.
One night I had a call from the lobby. It was Pierre. A friend in
the police had notified him that most of the heat was off, and he'd
come into town on an errand. I went down and we had a drink in the
bar off the lobby. He was wearing a gray wig now, and dark glasses.
He pulled two barstools together to set his butt down on.
"Surviving in the land of the big bad Castro?" he said. He was still
drinking rum -- just two. But his face looked less puffy, he seemed
fitter. I wondered what he was up to. But I didn't ask, I didn't think I
wanted to know.
"Surviving? Barely," I said.
He nodded his head several times, gravely. "Despite everything,
Felipe, I think you _are_ a survivor."
I wanted badly to believe him. Fifteen minutes later, as he left,
first adjusting his wig in the mirror over the bar, I wondered whether
I'd be seeing him again -- before either he or I ended up in a Cuban
jail.
Meanwhile, Pepita had become busy with her meetings -- they
elected her chairperson of some committee on anti-social pathological
personalities. One day I was in the lobby of the Presidente saying
good-bye to Pepita after we had had lunch together. She was excited,
she had had a long interview with Fidel that morning, and they had
gotten along very well. "He told me he had heard of my work!" she
had told me. Just then I spotted Mama getting out of an elevator in
the hallway off the lobby. I quickly took Pepita by the arm and led her
out the front door while my mother was entering the lobby -- maybe I
could have handled a meeting, I thought, but women are so smart
about each other that it would be better not to risk it. I looked back
and saw _mamacita_ glance at us as I led Pepita out into the foyer. I
gave her a peck on the cheek, gave her a sharp good-bye slap on the
fanny, and hurried back into the chrome and fluorescent lobby. Mama
had thrown herself into a gigantic leather chair, in her print dress she
looked like a flowery toy doll left in a chair by a thoughtless child. She
raised an eyebrow at me and said, "It's a good thing Amelia isn't here, I
suppose." But before I had to come up with an answer, her dark
brown eyes lit up, and she said, "Men are all the same." "Well, I
don't know."
"I do, look at Paco, I've seen him eyeing that girl you were with
just now."
"Hell, Mama..."
"It doesn't matter, I'll straighten him out when I get a minute.
What matters is that I've _done_ it."
"Done what?"
"I'm going to see _Him_."
"Fidel."
"Everybody calls him the Comandante here. Or the Horse. The
big Red stud, I suppose!" She giggled.
"Lots of luck."
"You don't have any faith in your mother, shame on you. I'm good
at doing things like this."
Actually I was never quite sure what my mother could do. She had
never stayed home and made cookies, she didn't go out and practice
some important profession, she just _was_. But boy, was she! Like a
force of nature that the average person couldn't cope with. Maybe it
would work with Fidel -- trouble was, maybe he was a force of nature
all to himself. "I have faith, Mother. I have a lot more faith in you
than I do in Uncle Paco." "Oh, Paco. It's true, whatever he does
turns into a disaster." She smiled. "But he is cute, just like a
bright-eyed little boy -- though I don't like to tell him so. Swells his
empty little head."
"Keep an eye on him, will you _mamacita_?"
"I always do, but right now I'm depending on my son to do that."
She smiled mischievously. "When he isn't too busy chasing the local
girls. Looks like you have yourself an Amazon this time."
"She's just a friend -- or rather a friend of 'Felipe's.'"
"All this mumbo-jumbo. You and Paco, playing at being secret agents
or something. I have a feeling Fidel will listen to reason. I know
Mirta's family."
"He doesn't hang around with his ex-wife much anymore."
"Oh, I know, but that isn't the point. Castro's got the big head, he
comes from plain country folks and it shows, but he knows how to be a
gentleman, he was educated by the Jesuits -- which is more than I can
say for you, Chuchito."
Jesuit education or no, I felt that I was about to burst with hidden
knowledge. "Mama."
"What?"
"I'm afraid Paco is going to get out of control."
She patted my hand. "Leave everything to me, let Paco have his
fun."
I didn't dare tell her about the explosives.
#
In the event, she did at least a little better with Fidel than I. But
you wouldn't know it from the expression on her face as we ate dinner
together two nights later.
"Your 'Horse' said he'd look into it."
"That sounds good."
"I told him how loyal Federico was to him, 'loyal in the true sense
of the word,' I said. I was pretty smooth, I thought. And he seemed
to take that in, he raised his head, fingered that nasty, scruffy beard of
his, and nodded. 'You can't have that many comrades left who really
represent the old ideals,' I said, 'men who really think about the little
people.' 'Yes. yes,"' he said, 'you are absolutely correct, Senora
Revueltos. It is a constant struggle to build a socialist consciousness.'
I started to tell him I wasn't a socialist, but a believing catholic. He
broke in and explained to me, rather wetly -- he sprays little clouds of
spit when he gets excited -- that the ideals of the Revolution were the
ideals of Christ, of the best elements in the Church, and so on and so
on. A convergence of disparate ideals, and so on. He does like to
talk, I must say."
She went on describing their conversation. It sounded as if she had
insisted on doing a lot of the talking -- not the easiest thing to do with
the Comandante. "He treated me with respect," she said.
But when I asked her whether she had gotten any idea of precisely
what Fidel was going to do about my father, she smiled with her lips
clenched and shrugged. "We'll see."
"Well," I said, "at least you've tried."
"'Tried'! That isn't enough, just to try. Chucho, you always give
up too easily."
I thought about my present situation, masquerading in Cuba, a
fugitive from the I.R.S. and the Cuban mafia in the U.S., and wondered
whether she was right. "Nice guy" Revueltos strikes out again and
again and again -- you wouldn't see Errol Flynn doing that. Cutlass in
hand, back to the wall or the yardarm or whatever, first he would give
you one of his sparkling smiles, but then the white even teeth would
take on frightening sneer, and you'd know that you weren't going to
get the better of _him_.
The trouble is, it would be easy enough to figure out how to bull
your way out of things if you're following a movie script. But in real
life -- lots of luck!
My mother had that faraway look on her face. "So you're going to
wait?" I said.
She shrugged. "Patience is a virtue." She grimaced as if at an odd
smell. "But virtue can be overdone, can't it?
She was right -- It sure as hell can be. On the other hand, the way
it turned out, I wish my mother had exercised a little patience instead
of just talking about it!
#
Pepita was out of Havana the next weekend, and Valeska and I
went out on the town Saturday night and ended up at a _jai_-_alai_
player's hangout near the old country club -- now the School of Art.
We saw Arnoldo, who was having a spirited conversation with some of
his fellow players. Then he saw us and looked as if he'd like to get his
_cesta_ out and fling a _pelota_ or two at me. I suggested to Valeska
that we leave. She pooh-poohed the idea, saying that if Arnoldo was
going to be a bore about it, he was always free to take off and leave us
alone. As it was, Arnoldo decided instead to make up to a redhead
sitting across the way. When that didn't get a rise from Valeska, he
slumped down in his seat, head in hands, and ordered another bottle of
rum.
I saw a waiter with a big mustache bring the rum to Arnoldo's table
and then head our way. His walk was familiar. Then, as Valeska left
me to go talk to a friend, the waiter came over. It was Mr. Marcus, his
brown hair parted in the middle and slicked down with oil.
Him: Act natural.
Me: Oh, God.
Him: Dr. Sanchez-Schulz is in Havana.
Me: Now you tell me.
Him: Just verifying the information. Also, your mother has been
observed near one of Castro's locations.
Me: Can you actually give me some help, Mr. Marcus, instead of
just telling me things I already know?
Him: It's not easy.
Me: I know it's not easy.
A customer called for him and he waved back at him, saying "un
momento" as if he were talking about a souvenir. He leaned over and
whispered to me:
Him: If this all goes smoothly, I should be in line for chief of
station in Mexico City.
Me: Congratulations.
Him: Don't get distracted from the mission.
Me: I wouldn't jeopardize Mexico City for a minute. Him: I
appreciate that. Remember you have to get, not one, but two people
out.
He pursed his lips, turned, and left to attend to the customer. We
left the club soon after that but still didn't get back to my room at the
Presidente until 2 A.M. When I woke up Sunday morning, Valeska
was still asleep on the other side of the bed, her hair like a floppy nest
of some exotic bird, one gently sloping breast looking at me blindly
with its purplish-dark nipple. Her nostrils quivered, her breath rippled
the frayed edge of the pillow slip. She stirred slightly, and I grew
conscious of a knocking on the door. "_Un_ _momento_," I said,
sounding to myself almost like Mr. Marcus. I noted that it was almost
nine as I pulled on my robe, yanking the sash tight.
The lily-scented perfume that Valeska had been wearing seemed to
grow stronger as I stood up. I opened the door a crack, just on the
chain. It was Pepita.
"_Salud_, _companero_!" she said.
"Oh, hey.
"How are you, Felipe?"
"Hi, yes, wait just a minute, will you?"
"Too early?"
"Yeah, maybe a little later."
"I'll just be a moment." She pouted. "It's important." She pushed
at the door.
"Well..."
"Please, Felipe."
"Just give me a minute." Heart pounding, I shut the door and took
a deep breath. Then I shook Valeska awake. While she was rousing
herself, I told Pepita through the door I'd just be another minute.
"Are you kidding?" said Valeska, when I asked her to hide in the
closet.
"Just for a minute, I'll get rid of her, I promise."
"Who is she?"
"It's business," I said, "just business," gathering up her clothes
and prodding her into the closet.
"What a bore!" said Valeska. "I'm tired -- and I've got to pee!" I
shut the closet door. Then I pulled up the bedcovers, combed my hair,
and opened the door.
Pepita strode in like Princess Di on an inspection tour, moving her
lips, subjecting the room to an assessment -- mostly negative. She was
dressed in a stylish but no-nonsense blouse and slacks outfit.
"It _is_ a little early, Pepita, maybe we could meet for breakfast in
about an hour."
She leaned over and kissed me casually on the cheek, then stuck
her tongue in my ear and swished it around. The shivers went down
my legs to my feet -- but I didn't feel like the shivering bit just that
moment. She smiled at me and whispered: "It's important, darling, or I
wouldn't have come. It concerns the Revolution."
"Which Revolution?" I said, before I realized that I was out of
character -- all revolutions, in Cuba, China, El Salvador were part of
one grand world struggle of the proletariat, etc. She stared at me. I
put on an expression that I hoped was comic.
"You and your jokes, Felipe. This is serious. I got back late last
night, the meetings today were canceled because Comrade Rubios was
sick...." I lost some words of what she was saying as I heard
something scrape in the closet. Pepita's eyes widened slightly.
"Too bad about your meetings," I said quickly.
She waved impatiently. "No, no, it's not that. It's a possible plot
against the Revolution."
"Plot? What plot?"
"Listen." She had lowered her voice. "You know the corner of
the Terrace Bar downstairs, next to the piano and the exit to the pool?
I went down to look for you last night when you weren't in your room.
I sat down and I heard your good-looking friend Paco Santos' voice.
He was talking to that loathsome-looking fellow Duran. They were
sitting on the level below me, and they couldn't see me. I started to
call over the edge of the wooden railing to them, when I heard what
they were talking about. I heard the word 'plastic.'"
My stomach felt light. "'Plastic'?"
"Yes, yes, explosives, that's what they meant, you know. I heard
that Duran say something about 'prison.' I lowered my head and got
closer. When I peeked over, Paco was looking around and I ducked
before he looked my way."
A rumbling in the closet. She didn't seem to notice.
"What kind of _gusano_ gangsters are you hanging around with,
Felipe? Those men are planning to break into La Cabana."
I held back a gulp. "La Cabana?"
"Yes, La Cabana."
"Well. Well."
"Is that all you can say, 'Well, well'?"
"Did they say why?"
"I'm not sure, something about getting out somebody named Pio or
something." Something that sounded like a shoe fell in the closet.
"What was that?"
I froze my face, ignoring the closet. "Oh, I don't know, Pepita, it
all sounds crazy. Probably just wild talk. Paco seems O.K."
"I don't know, I don't trust these pretty boys. Anyway, I had to
come to you first, Felipe." She sat down on the bed, which zinged
with her weight. "I thought you might be able to help the Cuban
police. What do you really know about Paco? Is he C.I.A., do you
suppose, or..." A moan came from the closet. "My God, what was
that?"
"What was what?" -- I stuttered on the second "what."
Another moan. The closet door eased open. A maroon-dyed frizzy
head of hair appeared and then Valeska's dark eyes.
"Sorry. I've just got to pee."
Pepita's mouth was wide open, she looked like a startled fish. I
shut my eyes.
Valeska appeared, covering her lower parts with a shirt of mine.
The tips of her breasts jiggled as she tiptoed toward the bathroom.
"Sorry, I'm being boring," she said, looking with a mixture of shame
and naughtiness at Pepita. Pepita's thin lips set into a hard line and
she drew herself up, looking like a Viking princess surveying the land of
the dwarfs.
"Go on ahead with your business," said Valeska.
"Felipe!" said Pepita.
"I really, really have to go -- bad," said Valeska, making a shaking
motion with her heart-shaped buttocks as she went into the bathroom
and slammed the door. We could hear the splashing rush of her urine.
I wished that time travel had been perfected.
Pepita shook her head as if clearing her thoughts and stood up.
"Time for me to go too."
"Wait, Pepita. Wait, comrade."
Her face twisted. "I wish this didn't shake my confidence in your
political sincerity, _companero_ Felipe -- but it does."
The jerk of the faulty toilet lever was followed by the loud but
feeble flood of water in the toilet.
Valeska, partly draped in a towel with a ragged edge opened the
bathroom door. Pepita stared at her, and then me. "Who is this tart?"
Valeska laughed and turned to me. "What a joke this is."
"Yes, a joke. What taste, Felipe!" said Pepita.
Valeska drew in a sharp breath. "Big pasty-faced bitch!"
Pepita sneered and shook her head. "'The New Socialist Man!'" she
said. She went to the door, swung it open, strode across the threshold
as if she were a Viking bride, and slammed the door with a Wagnerian
bang.
Valeska plopped herself down on the bed. "What's eating the big
_vieja_? God, she looks like a monster carrot."
"Christ, Valeska!"
"And what's all this stuff about your friend Paco, anyway?"
"Just shut up about that."
She took a comb in hand and looked into the mirror. "I could use
a new hair drier."
"Tomorrow," I said.
"American -- or Japanese."
"I'll buy you one of each." That would take care of _her_. But it
might be harder to take care of Pepita, her jealousy, and her concern
with the Plot Against the Revolution.
========================================================================
GENTLEMAN
(Part 2 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a
new version)
by Otho Eskin
CHARACTERS:
MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of
a "patrician" family in the deep south
RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur.
CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook.
PLACE:
The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep
South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to
Cora's bedroom.
TIME:
Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's
Night (June 23). At Rise the sky, seen through the doors, is still light.
As the play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again with
morning.
SCENE 1 (continued)
JULIE
Good evening, Cora. Do you have something cool to drink? I swear
I'm about perished from the heat.
CORA
I got some lemonade, Miss Julie.
JULIE
I'd be much obliged if I could have a glass.
(CORA signs to JULIE that
RANSOM is in the room.)
JULIE
Why, Ransom! Wherever did you go? I wanted to hear you play some
more. I just love your music.
RANSOM
I had to talk to Cora here.
JULIE
And leave me all alone? Shame on you!
(CORA takes a pitcher of
lemonade from the refrigerator,
pours a glass and gives it to
JULIE. JULIE takes a deep
drink.)
JULIE
That about saved my life. I declare, it's hot tonight.
CORA
Yes, ma'am.
(JULIE holds the cold glass to
her face.)
JULIE
I don't see how you can abide to stay here in the kitchen when it's so
hot. You should go out in the garden where it's a little cooler
CORA
I got work to do.
JULIE
Is it ready yet, Cora?
(RANSOM starts to go toward
the stove to look. JULIE flips
her handkerchief coquettishly at
him.)
JULIE
Now you go away! You mustn't look at what we're doing.
RANSOM
Is that some cunjerin' you two doin'? Somethin' for Midsummer's
Night? Somethin' to tell the future by?
JULIE
I don't think I could bear to see the future. It would be too terrible.
CORA puts the material she has
been cooking into a mason jar,
puts on the top and gives it to
JULIE. JULIE puts it on the
table. The dance music grows
louder.)
JULIE
(To RANSOM)
Let's go back to the dance, Ransom.
RANSOM
Begin' your pardon, Miss Julie, but I promised to dance with Cora.
JULIE
(To CORA)
You'll lend Ransom to me, won't you?
CORA
It's nothin' to do with me, Miss Julie.
RANSOM
I don' think it's too smart for us to be dancin'. You know how people
are ready to jump to conclusions.
JULIE
(Angry)
What are you saying?
RANSOM
Ma'am, it just ain't seemly for you to be dancin' with with black
folks.
JULIE
That's ridiculous. I'm doing you an honor. Besides, I'm mistress of this
house and I can do what I like. And I can dance with anyone I want.
RANSOM
If those are your orders, Miss Julie...
(JULIE drops her handkerchief
on the table.)
JULIE
Don't take it as an order. Tonight on this special night we're all
equal just people who want to have a good time.
RANSOM
I don' think yore daddy would see it that way.
JULIE
Father won't be back till morning. You and your friends can play all
night if you want. Play me something on your trumpet.
RANSOM
It ain't right, playin' here in the house. You know how the Judge feel
'bout what he call jungle music.
JULIE
He's not here so it doesn't matter what he thinks, does it? Play
something. Something sweet for me.
(Reluctantly, RANSOM picks up
the trumpet and begins to play: a
slow, blues piece. After a
moment, he stops.)
JULIE
(Continued)
Why'd you stop, Ransom? That was beautiful.
RANSOM
It don' feel right playin' in the Judge's house.
JULIE
It's so hot in here! Don't you feel it, Ransom? Why don't you take off
your jacket?
RANSOM
I'm jus' fine, Miss Julie.
JULIE
Go on! Take it off.
RANSOM
Begin your pardon ma'am, I'd rather keep my jacket on.
JULIE
I'm burning up. You must be too. Make yourself comfortable. This is
a holiday. You're not on duty tonight.
RANSOM
No, Miss Julie
JULIE
Why, I do believe you're shy! You're embarrassed to change your
jacket in front of me. Is that it? I declare, chivalry isn't dead yet. Don't
worry, I won't look.
(JULIE turns her back.)
JULIE
Now go ahead and take off your jacket.
RANSOM
If you say so, Miss.
(RANSOM goes to the corner
and strips off the chauffeur-
uniform jacket.)
JULIE
Tell me, Cora, are you and Ransom engaged?
CORA
I guess so.
JULIE
Is that what you people call it? Engaged?
CORA
(With barely suppressed irritation)
Yes, Miss, that's what we call it. You were 'gaged yoreself, I do
believe.
JULIE
That was different.
CORA
Yes, Miss. It din' work out.
(JULIE turns away, angry. SHE
watches RANSOM putting on a
clean shirt.)
JULIE
My, don't you cut a mighty fine figure, Ransom! Very much the
gentleman. You didn't buy that shirt around here, I believe.
RANSOM
No, Miss. In Chicago.
JULIE
What were you doing way up North?
RANSOM
I worked in a jazz club in Chicago for a year. Played horn. Took a
fancy to nice shirts an' clothes. I like to look sharp.
JULIE
I declare, you are surely the best-looking man in the county.
RANSOM
You be flatterin' me, Miss.
JULIE
I'm not flattering you.
RANSOM
I know better'n to think you'd pay me notice.
JULIE
A man who dresses well and who talks well, too. You sound to me like
a man who reads books. Do you read books?
(CORA glances uneasily from
RANSOM to JULIE and back.
RANSOM is uncomfortable.)
JULIE
(Continued)
Well? I asked you a question. Do you read books?
RANSOM
Sometimes, Miss.
JULIE
I'd say you read more than sometimes. I think you read a lot.
RANSOM
Whatever you say, Miss.
(CORA looks disgustedly at
them both.)
RANSOM
Cora, you all wore out. Why don' you go to your room an' rest a
while?
CORA
I be plumb give out, that a fact.
JULIE
It's too hot to be working at the stove. Go and rest. This is a holiday.
CORA
I
do think I'll lie down for a few minutes. Just a few minutes.
(CORA goes into her bedroom.)
JULIE
I know people around these parts don't approve of colored folks
reading anything except the Good Book. Believe it puts ideas in their
heads. What do you think, Ransom?
RANSOM
I think they got a good point.
JULIE
Personally, I believe that's all stuff and nonsense. It's important that
people like you read. You're from around these parts, aren't you?
RANSOM
My daddy was a sharecropper on you daddy's estate. We were
neighbors growin' up.
JULIE
I don't remember you.
RANSOM
I remember seein' you. Many times.
JULIE
You saw me?
RANSOM
One time, in 'ticular, I remember...
JULIE
Go on! Tell me!
RANSOM
I can't.
JULIE
Please tell me. This is Midsummer's Night. It's a very special night.
There are no secrets tonight.
(THEY look at one another for a
long time.)
JULIE
Why don't you sit down?
RANSOM
I wouldn' take that liberty, Miss.
JULIE
What if I order you to sit down?
RANSOM
I'll do what you tell me.
JULIE
I'd like something to drink.
RANSOM
Another lemonade?
JULIE
Something stronger, if you please.
RANSOM
I 'spect we got beer in the icebox, Miss.
JULIE
A beer will do just fine, Ransom. I have simple tastes.
(RANSOM takes a bottle of beer
from the refrigerator, finds a
glass, pours the beer into the
glass and presents it to JULIE
with a flourish, like a waiter in a
fancy restaurant.)
RANSOM
Your beer, Madam.
JULIE
Thank you. Won't you have one yourself?
RANSOM
That wouldn' be proper.
JULIE
Please. Remember, this is midsummer's Night. There are no rules.
RANSOM
Is that an order?
JULIE
I'd have thought it was just good manners to keep a lady company.
RANSOM
If that's what you want.
(RANSOM gets two more
bottles of beer, opens them and
they drink. JULIE holds out her
hand to him.)
JULIE
Now, as you're so much a gentleman, I want you to kiss my hand.
(RANSOM is clearly
uncomfortable and hesitates.)
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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