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Fiction-Online Volume 7 Number 1
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 7, Number 1
January-February, 2000
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.
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William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"River Run, " a poem
Tan-Jen
"If It Cries," a short story
Jenna Land
"Negotiations," an excerpt (chapter 18) from the novel
"Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Oh?," part 2 of the play, "Shell Game"
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. He is currently at work on a mystery novel set in high
circles in Washington.
JENNA LAND has an academic background in creative writing and is
presently active in a literary agency in Washington.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and playwright and his play,
"Through the Wormhole," was read this fall as part of the Woolly
Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series.
TAN-JEN is an avid Georgetown (Washington, D.C.) gardener and
student of Chinese literature. Her verses seek to capture in English the
spirit and prosody of the classical Chinese lyric poems -- the ancestors
of the Japanese haiku
======================================================
RIVER RUN
(Winter, 1999)
by Tan-Jen
Blue haze deepens over the gorge
Bare branches reach up toward the sky
Along the trails etched in ancient rock
Footfalls echo through millennia come and gone.
Blue haze lifting -- river rushes on
Naked branches gleam in morning light
Last night's frost still lingers on the grass
As this millennium slowly fades away.
=============================================================
IF IT CRIES
by Jenna Land
Two breasts swollen with milk. Hips rounded with the
partnership of bone, fat, and flesh. A waist with a gentle curve,
interrupted by thin lines of red which chronicle the change - the
growth and then the shrinking of the pale ash white skin. A spine that
holds it together, one straight line of vertebrae and strength. She turns
sharply away from the mirror.
All Marisa knows is that she's exhausted when they bring the
baby in. A pink cotton bundle, and inside is her daughter. The baby's
skin is spotted red, her fists are closed, her eyes are closed. The
bundle sits on her chest, the nurse shows her how to crook her arm.
And Steve is there, shamelessly sobbing with joy. He keeps
whispering something about finally being a family. A family, he
repeats. Again and again.
"You're tired," he says finally, noticing Marisa's stillness. "We
should let you sleep." She smiles, nods her head in assent, lets her
eyelids close half way. The bundle is removed, the eyelids shut
completely. And for a while there is nothing, until a gentle hand
shakes her arm.
"Oh, baby, baby!" says the voice that belongs to the woman in
the red cocktail dress. "How are you feeling? How was it? Oh, she's
just beautiful, Marisa. She looks just like you when you were first
born, I tell you. An angel. An absolute vision. Come here, pet, let me
hold you." Marisa's red curls are buried in the cocktail dress. Long
fingers, manicured nails run through the mass of hair, petting,
smoothing, soothing. "It's just so unreal. My baby has her own baby
now."
They all saw what happened the day the happy couple took
their child home from the hospital. A huge affair, it was, with guests
coming out of every corner of the stately split level house. Pink
champagne, pink tablecloths, pink balloons and pink candles. A toast
to the baby girl. Will the happy couple reveal the child's name? The
husband beams, his eyes moisten with every glance at his daughter.
The new mother sits in an upright chair with pink cushions supporting
her, holding the child in her arms. She is staring at the bundle, and her
face is unreadable. She does not seem to be regarding the child; she's
just looking. She must be tired, they say. Poor thing. Just home from
the hospital and she has to entertain. Post-partem depression, some
say. She's a configuration of hormones, and probably doesn't know
high from low right now. Give her some time, they say.
Marisa lies awake in bed, waiting. Her eyes fixate on the
ceiling fan. She watches one panel go around until she's dizzy, but still
she cannot remove her eyes. She listens intently to the soft sounds of
the manufactured wind-machine. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. She lies
elongated, flat, her toes pointed, her hands folded neatly on her
stomach.
From the next room, the sound of crying breaks the monotony
of the fan's song. The baby's awake, wants to be fed. Steve is snoring
beside her, caught up in a dream of poppy fields, evil witches and fairy
godmothers. Gradually, Marisa's hands begin to gently rub her own
belly. Soothing, circular motions, the light touch of her fingertips on
flesh.
The cries from the next room become louder, more persistent.
Marisa rubs faster, the circles become smaller, more urgent. The fan
seems to grow louder with its unceasing taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.
Still the cries continue, and the fear must be encountered, faced,
confronted. Marisa raises herself out of bed slowly, hesitating at each
break in the crying. But it never stops for long. She slips her feet into
her slippers and fastens her robe. The baby's room is full of
shadows, the Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight serving as an axis for the
surrounding illuminations. The crib is the only piece of substantial
furniture in the large room, and it looms unnaturally tall and white.
Marisa tiptoes slowly until she is faced with the lofty white bars. Her
dark eyes peer through to the crying from inside. Its face is red,
discolored from the strain of crying and distorted in its unhappiness.
The thin cotton pajamas which cover the small body are damp with
perspiration. Tentatively, Marisa reaches in and picks it up. It cries
louder. Marisa carries it into the living room, over to the rocking
chair, and places it to her breast. With a little help, it finds what it's
looking for. The small pink lips suck greedily as the milk joins it, a
union of child and mother, need and supply, at the sore nipple. Marisa
goes through the motions she knows so well from her friends' advice,
her mother's experience, the many books she's read. Rock back and
forth. Pat its back gently. Sing a lullaby. Let your instincts take over.
Do what comes naturally. Do what comes naturally. Follow your
instincts. Her instincts are telling her to go back to sleep, to go back
to her own mother. To crawl into the fetal position and pull her
blanket around her. But she wants to be a good mother. So she looks
down into the face that is no longer crying, but that is sucking
contentedly. Maybe if she talks to it. "Hello. Please don't cry.
There's no reason to cry. Everything is going to be fine. Please don't
cry." She stops rocking. Stops rubbing the small back. Stops looking
down at the small face. Her eyes fix on the grandfather clock across
the room. She watches the second hand tick, listens as it moves
around the wide circle. Ticktickticktickticktick. She forces her
eyes away from the clock. She returns her gaze to the bundle, her
rocking and patting resume. She remembers a song her mother used
to sing to her. "Hush little baby, don't say a word...mama's gonna buy
you a mocking bird." The tones of the song sound obtrusive in the
silent room. "And if that mocking bird don't sing...mama's gonna buy
you a diamond ring..." The baby has stopped sucking, and is nestled
closely against Marisa's breast, sleeping. She can feel the faint breath
against her skin.
This is it, they say.
They all said there was something not quite right about Marisa
Collins. No one could say for sure what it was, it was just something.
A delayed reply to the simple question, "How are you?" The odd
feeling they got when she touched them on the arm or the hand, like
she couldn't feel them at all. The vacant and faraway look that often
came into her dark eyes so that they assumed she was in another place.
But just as they concluded she wasn't paying attention, she would say
something intelligent and appropriate, showing she'd been listening all
the while. It was odd, was ultimately all they could figure. And since
the birth of the baby, it had become more so. On the surface, she
seemed normal enough. Her figure had miraculously returned to its
original, slim state, and she was put together immaculately, the picture
of elegance. She remained active, doing all the things she'd done
before, only with a baby attached to her hip. Charity board meetings,
socialite lunches, weekly restorations at the health spa, the same
routine as before. Maybe that was what was so weird. If it weren't for
the tiny bundle infinitely attached by the baby-backpack, no one would
guess Marisa had recently become a mother at all.
The pink and white tent is a lone peak on a flat horizon. The
surrounding fields are brown and full of weeds and parked cars.
Clumps of two, three, and four people filter towards the tent's single
opening, and among them is the happy family. The husband has his
arm protectively around his wife, who in turn has a small child
attached to her chest. They leave the dim twilight of the dry field for
the light and activity that welcomes them past the opening of the tent.
The noise is the first thing Marisa notices. Outside, the voices
and car engines were unobtrusive, diluted by the open space and air.
Inside is a mess of sound. Babies crying, people shouting, elephants
roaring, music playing somewhere. Nothing is intelligible. Steven says
something to her, she sees his mouth moving, but she can't understand
him. The elephant roars again; she wants to cover her ears but
remembers she's holding the baby.
She tries to isolate the sounds and place them with the faces
she sees. The usher in the striped uniform, the little boy tugging on his
mother's sleeve, the crowding and pushing of hurried spectators.
"Next please, next please. This way please, up these stairs please."
"Mommy is there going to be a tightrope?" "Ouch!" "Oh, pardon me,
didn't see you there, ma'am." "Daddy said we could have cotton
candy." "Next please, next please. Put your ticket stub right here,
please." "Where are our seats?" "Did you get the cotton candy?"
"Seats 135 A and B. That's up pretty high." "Please stop whining and
I'll get it for you." "Do you see the size of that elephant?" "Okay, you
need to stop whining now." "Ouch! Watch where you're going,
please." "Stop whining! Now!"
Marisa sweats, feels the heat of over-occupancy, the heat of
suffocation. She doesn't take Steven's hand, but follows him up out of
the thick of the voices. Their seats are high, because that's what
Steven prefers. "You can look down and see everything this way," he
says. "Your view isn't obstructed by one large elephant, or one
overanxious clown." He's been watching her, has seen her discomfort.
"Do you want me to take the baby?"
"No."
It's time for the show to begin, announces the egregious master
of ceremonies. He is an enormous man with a full black beard and a
top hat. How did he get so big, Marisa wonders. She imagines the
thick, flabby flesh under the obnoxious pink and red costume. It must
feel like dough, like the sticky, pasty dough she makes. She's sure it
looks that way too. Yellowish, clumpy, uneven. She can't pity him,
though. People like him got that way somehow. But she does hope
he has a wife. Someone as large as he is who doesn't care what he
looks and feels like. She places her free hand on her own stomach.
The skin is still loose from the pregnancy and feels cold as it fills in the
gaps between her fingers. She pinches it, embeds her fingernails until
she breaks the surface and feels a small wet drop. Suddenly, there is
darkness. Complete and total blackness, so that Marisa cannot even
see her hands, cannot see the child resting on her breast. An excited
murmur fills the crowd of people, and grows louder with every second
of continuing darkness. And then the spotlight flips on, quickly,
shocking the black with its insistent brightness. It is focused high on a
wooden platform that holds a small girl. She is wearing pink tights, a
pink dress, pink slippers. Her thick red hair is pulled back, fastened
with ribbons. Orange freckles cover her cheeks. Maybe she's six,
maybe she's twelve, it's hard for Marisa to say.
Because they are so high, they are almost even with the girl,
and Marisa stares intently at the vision in pink, perched alone on the
solitary platform. The girl curtseys, and a small wooden bar swings
her way, attached by wire string to the roof of the tent. Her small,
freckled hands grip the wood, and her small pink body leaves the
lonely platform. She swings through the air, her tiny body is
weightless and free. Marisa's eyes close, but she can still see the little
girl. Spinning, twirling, flying. Then Marisa sees her own hair tied
back in ribbons, her own feet covered by the delicate slippers. Maybe
she's six, maybe she's twelve. She sits on the wooden bar and holds
the string in her hands, her own giant swing set, her own body flying
back and forth.
A few days later Marisa is driving to the health spa. She hardly
slept. The child cried all night and the ceiling fan was so loud. She
needs to have Steven fix it. Take it down, maybe. Or maybe she'll do
it herself. Her eyes feel the burn of her sleep deprivation. They're
probably red, she knows. She looks at her reflection in the rear view
mirror and is caught there. Her hair is all over the place, frizzy and
uncontrolled. Her eyes are swollen, the pupils large, the veins spastic
against the surrounding white. They reach everywhere, these veins in
her eyes. They have their own road map, their own chaotic order.
She glances away in time to notice she's run through a red light. She
turns on the radio.
A classical music station plays. The song is nice, makes her
feel calm. It's mainly flutes, but then some horns join in. And then
some more horns. And then some more. She can't hear the melody
anymore, it's just noise and it's so loud. She hits the power button, but
still the lights are on, and music blares. "Stop it!" The instruments
grow louder and louder and her ears ring. The sound from the
speakers overtakes the car, she shakes from the noise. "Stop it!" She
drives faster. She needs to get to the health spa and turn off the car.
Two more blocks. Her hands clutch the steering wheel, her eyes focus
on the blacktop ahead of her. One more block.
She turns the car roughly into the lot, throws it in park and
falls out of the drivers' seat. She tries to run across the parking lot, but
her legs won't carry her that quickly and her ears still ring from the
noise. Slow down, she tells herself. It's okay. It's going to be fine.
By the time she enters the lobby, she is calmer. She smiles at
the receptionist.
"It's nice to see you, Mrs. Collins," says the woman behind the
desk. "Sandy's almost ready for you, just have a seat and relax."
Marisa does as she's told. She allows her weight to drop in the soft
couch, closes her eyes and appreciates the silence.
"Mrs. Collins? There's a phone call for you. It's your
husband." Marisa raises her head sleepily from the table, the masseuse
ceases kneading. Her muscles are loose and languid as she approaches
the phone.
"Hello? Steven?"
"Oh, thank God! When you didn't show up at your mother's,
we were so worried. I told her it was fine. I said you probably just
took the baby in with you. You should have called your mother,
though. She's been panicking like only she can. Marisa?" There is
no reply. The phone is hanging where she dropped it, swinging back
and forth, Steve's voice lost on the empty room.
The baby would have died if it hadn't been for the hot dog
vendor, they all said. He was the one who saw it in the car and called
the police. It was ninety degrees outside, around one hundred and ten
degrees in the car with the window shut. No window was cracked, no
air was circulating. They all understood. There's a lot to think
about, a lot of details and sometimes it's easy to forget. Sometimes
you leave for a specific destination, and drive for an hour because
you've forgotten where you're going. Such things happened to the
best of them. And if the baby was asleep in the back, quiet as a mouse
and hidden by the seat, it was even more feasible. Tragic, but feasible.
No, not a single person doubted, at least openly, that it was an
accident.
She is stone throughout the questioning. She sits erect, spine
straight and seemingly unbendable, head held high. For a brief
moment, her eyes meet Steven's as he sits across from her at the police
station. He is searching her.
The man from social services chews his pen. Marisa wonders
what will happen when he chews through the plastic, and all the ink
gushes into his mouth. The thick goop will cover his lips. It'll drip
down onto his chin and cover that row of swollen red pimples.
Marisa runs her hand over her face, feels her eyebrows,
eyelashes, lips. She opens her eyes and looks at Steven. He's still
searching. She folds her hands together on her lap. She is stone again.
They won't give the child back right away, and she can tell
Steven is upset with her. He looks at her funny the whole way home.
Every stoplight he looks away from the road and stares at her. But he
doesn't say anything. He just looks and looks. He cooks dinner while
she lies on the couch. She smiles as she inhales the spicy aroma. She's
starved.
"Smells delicious, Steven," she says. "You know, the
masseuse did a great job today. I still feel relaxed. Like jelly. You
should really get one sometime. They do wonders." He doesn't
respond to her. She hates it when he's upset with her. "How was
work today, darling? Did anything happen with that case you're
working on?" He still doesn't say anything, but comes around to sit in
the chair across from her. He looks at her in such a funny way.
Later that night, she can't sleep. The fan is quiet, it's not that.
She just can't sleep. She walks to the living room and sits in the
rocking chair. She's pleased with the way her white cotton nightgown
looks against the dark wood. Like a princess. She rocks back and
forth, and feels her feet leave the ground, touch the ground, leave the
ground. The chair is old, but she loves the noises it makes. Creaking
each time she rocks back and groaning each time she rocks front. She
smiles and closes her eyes. Soon, the chair's gentle rocking soothes
her to sleep.
========================================================================
NEGOTIATIONS
by William Ramsay
(Note: this is chapter 18 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
The Torres bohio was a modern variant on a Cuban peasant hut
-- adobe walls, glass in the windows, a television antenna, but with the
roof thatched with palm fronds in a style that was already old when
Columbus passed through the nearby Bay of Nipe in 1492. The old
woman lived apart from her neighbors, up a dirt road off the highway.
Pierre, two of the others -- Sisi and Ernesto - - and I arrived in our
1958 Ford pickup truck with its GM hood and Chrysler engine just as
the sun was going down. As we got down, I asked Pierre, "Now we
aren't going to hurt the old lady, are we?"
He laughed. "Anarchism does not war on the innocent -- and
neither does a gentleman, Comrade."
Neither disclaimer made me feel much better about this whole
affair.
As we walked up the muddy path overgrown with long grass, the
gray door patched with mismatched planks opened and a dark face
appeared. She had almost coal-black cheeks riddled with scar-like
lines, but dark eyes as brilliant as Aldebaran on a cloudless night.
Pierre eased his full waistline through the narrow door, seizing the
woman's knobby, curled-up fingers to shake her hand, bobbing his
head up and down as he talked about the documentary film that, he
said, he and I were going to do on Fidel Castro. As he pointed at me,
she stared.
"Ah," she said, "do you know the Comandante?"
I admitted that I did.
She smiled, closing her eyes for a moment. "Cuba is not what it
used to be." She glanced at the color print of the Virgin on the wall.
There was a framed, yellowed elementary school diploma beside it.
"Like when you worked for the Castro family over near Biran?"
said Pierre.
She frowned. "Yes," she said, "back in the thirties and forties."
Pierre walked over to the wall behind Senora Torres and stood
looking at a picture of St. Barbara at her martyrdom. As I continued
talking with the woman, he removed first a handkerchief and then a
bottle of chloroform from the sack-like pockets of the khaki shirt that
ballooned like a half-collapsed tent over his torso.
"Does he visit here often?"
"Yes, every year." Pierre, mouth pursed, concentrating,
approached her stealthily from the rear.
"Does he still come down?"
"He comes down to hunt sometimes. Doves."
I'd never heard of Fidel hunting. Pierre was juggling the
chloroform bottle. She smiled. "He stays at the old cabin near the
junction to Biran. Then he sometimes drops by here to say hello."
"Oh?" I said. Pierre's hands were just below her neck now. It
was like watching a bear looming over a fox terrier.
She nodded. "Sometimes he brings his wife too."
"His wife!" shouted Pierre.
"Fidel married?" I said.
The dark eyes stared at me as if they were trying to understand
an obscure joke. "Not Fidel, how silly -- Raul, of course."
"Raul!" said Pierre, dropping his hands and coming around and
facing her, pouting like Sydney Greenstreet in the "Maltese Falcon."
"Doesn't Fidel ever visit you here?" He was standing with the
chloroform bottle in plain sight.
She stared at the bottle. "Fidel hasn't been down since Delia
died."
Pierre's hands dropped and he began to pace back and forth. He
was speechless for a change, and I asked the questions. It turned out
that we were not talking to Delia Torres, but to her sister Sofia. Delia
had been the nanny for Ramon and the older children, including Fidel
-- but then she had retired and Sofia had taken over for Raul and for
the younger sisters. Poor Delia, she had died just last month, kidney
failure. I looked at Pierre, he looked at me.
"And this film that you're making, are the Comandante and his
family going to be in it?"
"No, well yes, I suppose," I said. I was having trouble
concentrating.
"That may be difficult," said Pierre in a chilly voice. "They're all
so busy."
Her eyes lit up. "Raul is so close, it seems a shame."
"Raul Castro is here now?" said Pierre.
"Oh no."
"No?"
"Not here. At the old hunting cabin, with just a few of his staff.
He was over yesterday -- brought me a Polish ham. Poor baby, he
works so hard."
So that's how our scheme came to center on, not
Fidel Castro, but his brother Raul, Defense Minister, Army General,
avid aviator, and Chief of Staff of the Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria.
At the hunting cabin, we found one bodyguard in the kitchen,
cooking. Pierre nodded at me and handed me the chloroform. I
looked at it as if it would bite me. Then he and Sisi grabbed the
bodyguard, Pierre said "Now! Chucho," and, hands shaking, I
wrestled the chloroformed pad onto the man's face as his head
twitched and bobbed in Sisi's armlock. We tied up in two bathrobe
belts and locked him in a closet. Pierre caught the other bodyguard
napping in a rocking chair, Sisi cold-cocked him and left him tied up
and stashed in an old sugarcane storage shed. Ernesto chloroformed
Raul from behind as he was writing a letter at an old pine table. I held
his head as we carried him back with us to the trailhead for our camp
in the Cristal. He was even slighter than he appeared on speaker's
platforms next to his large brother -- his anesthetized face looked
calm and serious, his wispy mustache looked like a woman's eyebrow.
From the trailhead, Sisi and Ernesto and I carried Raul the rest of the
way in a stretcher while Pierre went to Mayari to call Jerry in Alamar
to relay our ransom demands.
We settled down to wait.
Settled down with a hopping-mad Raul Castro. His small,
dimpled chin waggling, he cursed us in Spanish, English, and the
French that they say he had learned from Che Guevara. Struggling
with his tied wrists to get to his feet, he worked his head around,
bucking like a buzzsaw, and spit at Pierre. Pierre wiped the tiny
speck of spittle from his shirt, picked up a piece of old tire, and
brandished it in Raul's face. Raul growled. Pierre gave him a light
bop. Raul looked at him, said "Shit," and plunked himself down
again, collapsing on the ground. The evening was misty and the line
of the Bay of Nipe was invisible. Raul spit out something in French.
"Not 'worms,' Comrade. We fight for true liberty," said Pierre
also in French -- as he told me later, I don't know the language. Then,
changing back to Spanish: "The freedom not to be dominated by
capitalism or communism -- or anything else in between."
"The paredon for you," said Raul, straining against the bonds on
his wrist and making a pained face. Despite his slight physique, his
energy made him appear less wimpy in person than on TV.
"The sole real contribution of the famous Cuban Revolution to
our vocabulary," said Pierre. "The wall where the Revolution's
children go to be devoured."
Raul smiled as if he were enjoying sucking on a lemon. "You
won't get out of this one alive, fatty."
"If we don't, neither do you," said Pierre. And I for one had no
doubt that Pierre meant what he said. At that point we heard the
sounds of a helicopter and took cover under the trees, one of the men
dragging a protesting Raul after him. The helicopter passed us, more
than a mile away. But later that night, when everybody else was
asleep, I asked Pierre about what we would do if worse came to
worse.
"Fidel knows me," he said. "When I fought against him in the
Sierra Escambray, I was just a kid, fourteen. If I'd been older, they
would have shot me along with Morgan."
"You went to jail?"
"Yes, on the Isle of Pines. Re-educated." He snorted. "Fidel
talked once to us prisoners. I warned him not to let me go, that I'd
destroy him if I got the chance." Pierre frowned. "I wonder if he
remembers."
"He couldn't have taken you seriously."
"He was too busy worrying about the Playa Giron prisoners to
pay much attention to wild kids like me." He looked down at himself.
"I was awfully skinny in those days -- a tall stick, that's what I was, a
regular stick." We had a very small fire, its blaze shielded by a screen
of pine fronds to prevent giving away our position. "If Fidel
remembers, that's good."
"Why?"
"He won't want to leave his brother and successor in my hands."
Pierre's eyes shone with a peaceful but menacing glow, the spirit of
Nechaev contemplating an act of revolutionary terror. I knew that I
would do anything to avoid being the prisoner of someone with those
eyes.
There were more trips, first down to a phone in Moa. Pierre
came back from that one looking kind of sour, but later, sitting
around the glowing stubs of pine logs left from the dinner fire,
knocking off his second tot of rum, he smiled and told me that they
were coming around. The next day he went down early in the
morning to use another phone at Sagua de Tamano and came back at
midday with a look like Kropotkin's after his daily tin plate full of
condensed milk. Fidel had decided that the Revueltoses and fifty k
weren't worth taking a chance on his little brother's life. He was
willing to exchange -- my father and mother and Pillo for his brother.
I couldn't believe that the whole nightmare might be beginning to
dissipate. Suddenly it was like the thinning of a mist -- like one of the
pea- soup fogs that sock in the Fort Lauderdale Airport some winter
mornings, just when it's my turn to take the Cessna up. At first you
hardly see any change, you think you're imagining that the grayness is
becoming brighter, then abruptly you can clearly see the base of a
hangar that was only a fuzzy shadow before. And so on, until the
mist is like a shredded spider web being pulled apart by some gigantic
bug.
My parents out of Cuba. With Pillo part of the package. And
with access to the safety deposit box in New York -- the end of my
troubles with Mr. Gomez, with the wholesalers, with the Internal
Revenue Service.
And me out of Cuba too. That was one of the conditions Pierre
had attached, a safe-conduct for himself and me. Jerry had gotten
word to us that Eddy hadn't been arrested, and I considered including
him in the deal, but I thought better of even mentioning his name --
after all, he did have a family in Cuba.
Now we had to worry about arranging the details. First of all, we
needed someone, not in Cuba, to negotiate for us. Pierre had friends
in San Salvador, others in the States. But our best bet was to let
Amelia find a reliable agent to handle the on-site negotiations for our
side.
And a place. Obviously not in Cuba. I mean, logistically it
would be easiest to get it done right there -- but we needed to be sure
we would be able to get away afterward. I went into Mayari to the
post office and talked to Amelia about it on the phone.
"We need an idea," I said. "I can't talk long." I had spotted an
old woman with a CDR armband and the beginnings of a fine
mustache leaning against a wall, talking with two other women.
"I'm only doing this for Elena. Understand that, Mr. Revueltos."
"You don't understand, Amelia, how it was with Valeska."
"I'll talk to this Pineda."
"I'm really sorry. It wasn't what you think."
"Maybe the U.N. in New York -- or Mexico City or Caracas
would be more neutral."
I couldn't stand the chilliness in her voice. "Come on, Amelia."
"You'll be informed." A pause, the line crackled. "And you're
still a shit, Chucho."
The click in my ear felt like the blade of a guillotine clunking into
the block.
The next afternoon, during siesta, I was waked up suddenly by
somebody shaking me. Pierre said, "Come on, we have company."
The camp had been moved again, a few kilometers along to the
next ridge, and only pieces of the sky could be seen through the jungle
of pine trees. A man was standing by the Coleman stove. He turned,
and it was Mr. Marcus, dressed in a stained long-sleeved yellow shirt
and blue trousers and wearing an Australian-style hat with one brim
turned back. Half of his shirt tail, streaked with grime, hung down in
back. Some things didn't change.
"Mr. Marcus," I said.
He looked around at the two or three men nearby and made a
face like a sad chimpanzee. He wiggled his head, shifted his eyes and
walked with a faintly prancing gait, like an arrogant orangutan, over
to the two boards that marked our makeshift privy. Pierre followed
him and I followed Pierre. Marcus peered into the hole between the
boards as if looking for communist agents. "It has to be El Salvador,"
he said.
"El Salvador!" I said.
"In FMLN-controlled territory."
"Ridiculous, isn't it?" said Pierre to me.
Marcus smiled, showing lots of teeth -- I had decided they were
dentures. "Don't worry, they won't get around us. We'll have them
covered. Government forces nearby. Helicopters at the ready,
everything, we'll give it to them right up the ass if they try to pull
anything."
Pierre nodded. "This deal isn't our idea, the Cubans wouldn't
listen to us -- and they insist on negotiating directly with your agent."
"Our agent? Who?"
"Amelia Santos," said Mr. Marcus.
Pierre nodded forcefully. "They trust her -- as much as they trust
any gusano."
Amelia. The sunlight scattering through a wisp on clouds to the
southwest over the Sierra Maestra reminded me of Florida and the
beach at Boca Raton. And Amelia in her cherry-colored bathing suit.
Marcus made a face. "She's got balls, that one. We demanded
neutral territory, the Cubans insisted on somewhere in-country, and
she came up with the compromise."
Pierre pulled on a twig of pine needles. I could smell the resinous
odor of the needles mixed in with the stink of the privy. As Marcus
went on to explain the details, Pierre made a face at me. He might
well grimace. It all sounded dangerously complicated. My father and
mother -- and Pillo -- would be delivered to the rendezvous in one
plane, and Raul Castro in another. The exchange would be effected
under a temporary truce between the government and FMLN forces in
the area near Sosuntepeque, in the northeast part of the El Salvador.
Amelia would represent us, the Cubans would supply an FMLN cadre
as their agent.
"And with this location," said Marcus, our side doesn't have to
worry about Raul's getting away without delivering the goods."
I tried to think of my parents as "goods." "We," said Marcus,
"can bomb the hell out of the area and put five thousand men in to
find Raul if he tries to escape." He tapped his fingers together, as if
he were sitting in a conference room in Washington. "Of course we
all would rather get this done without bloodshed." Pierre looked
slightly disappointed on hearing the phrase "without bloodshed."
Raul would be taken out of Cuba on a small plane -- supplied by
Marcus - - with Pierre along with an automatic weapon to discourage
recapture attempts by the government. Airspace clearance would be
arranged with Havana and with Honduras and El Salvador.
"As for you," said Marcus pointing at me, "the Cubans will look
the other way as 'Felipe Elizalde' flies to El Salvador to arrange things
with the FMLN contact there. Your agent should be there in San
Salvador soon, maybe she's there already. She'll make contact with
the FMLN agent."
It felt good to think of Amelia in there, doing her thing,
organizing this tricky exchange plan. She was a good woman to have
on your side -- even if she still did think that I was a shit. "But who's
the FMLN agent?" I said.
"Oh," said Marcus, "Fidel told your agent he knew just the
person." Marcus smiled at me as if he had caught me cheating at
cards. "An old friend of yours -- Dr. Josefa Sanchez-Schulz."
=================================================================
OH?
by Otho Eskin
(This is the second part of the comedy "Shell Game")
CHARACTERS:
HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop.
HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress
as a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a
woman (Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed
with clothes, shopping and make-up.
HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator.
CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special
assistant. Corliss is a closet gay.
ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat
dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her
wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's.
BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate.
CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife.
PLACE
Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very
expensive resort.
TIME
The present
ACT 1 (continued)
HIRSCHEL
You're certainly fortunate to get this room without a reservation, Mr.
McKool. The Empress Suite is usually reserved months in advance.
BOOM-BOOM
Make me happy, Pops. Shut up!
HIRSCHEL
Yes, sir.
BOOM-BOOM
(To HIRSCHEL)
Put my luggage in the bedroom.
HIRSCHEL
Yes, sir.
(HIRSCHEL takes the luggage into the bedroom. In the
Honeymoon Suite TREADWELL picks up the phone.)
TREADWELL
Room service! I want a chilled bottle of Champagne sent to my room.
Immediately. Make that two bottles. And a bag of your best quality
tortilla chips.
(TREADWELL hangs up. In the Empress Suite,
HIRSCHEL returns and heads for the front door.)
BOOM-BOOM
(To HIRSCHEL)
Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't recall saying you could leave.
HIRSCHEL
Yes, sir. No, sir.
BOOM-BOOM
First I want you should inform my colleagues who are staying in
rooms 709 and 711 that I have arrived and they should stay where they
are until they hear from me.
HIRSCHEL
Yes, sir.
BOOM-BOOM
Two I'm looking for a young lady. Name of Birdsong. Zenobia
Birdsong. Ever heard of her?
HIRSCHEL
I..I'm.. not sure...
BOOM-BOOM
Think harder, boy. She's blond. Used to work in my club in Vegas.
Left a couple of days ago. Unnerstand what I mean? She come here
looking for a job. I am eager to talk with her. I want her here in this
suite in fifteen minutes.
HIRSCHEL
What if I can't find her...?
BOOM-BOOM
Do you know who I am?
HIRSCHEL
Yes, sir. You're Boom-Boom McKool. I've read about you many times
in the papers. Like when all those witnesses during the grand jury
investigation disappeared...
BOOM-BOOM
Then you know that I have many virtues, as my friends and associates
will attest. Unfortunately, patience is not one of them. Unnerstand my
meaning? You got fourteen minutes left. If she's not here by then, I
will personally break both your legs.
HIRSCHEL
Both?
BOOM-BOOM
You got a problem with that?
(HIRSCHEL hurries out the door. BOOM-BOOM dials
the phone)
BOOM-BOOM
Smitty! I just checked in at Shangri-La. What you got for me?
(As BOOM-BOOM is speaking, YURT slips from behind
the curtains and tiptoes toward the cosmetics case, which
lies just outside BOOM-BOOM's line of sight. BOOM-
BOOM's back is to YURT.)
BOOM-BOOM
(On the phone)
Who? You say Henry Yurt? that piece of despicable shit.
(YURT freezes.)
BOOM-BOOM
Sure I know him...A gonif. Used to be a jewel thief around Atlantic
City way back when. The one likes to dress up like a girl? Seen him
around the clubs in Vegas. Been working at the Kitty-Kat Room as a
bartender last couple months. My club! Tony used to go there.
Probably was mouthing off about the delivery and this prick overheard
him. This person was one of my employees! One of my own people!
And he took my money? Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't it company
policy, any employee makes off with corporate funds, he ends up at
the bottom of the river in cement Reeboks?
(BOOM-BOOM is becoming increasingly agitated. YURT
silently retraces his steps toward the balcony.)
BOOM-BOOM
(Continued)
What's that?... The wise guys from Jersey already know about Yurt?
... They think I put him up to this? ...Make me happy. Have the boys
locate this miscreant and get the money back.... I would like to hear
that his body has been found in the desert of Southern California. And
Nevada. And New Mexico. Have I made myself clear? ... And be sure
you first cancel his medical benefits.
(BOOM-BOOM slams down the phone and goes into the
bedroom. In the Honeymoon Suite, there is a knock at the
door and CORLISS and ZENOBIA enter. ZENOBIA
carries the cosmetics case.)
CORLISS
(To TREADWELL)
Sir, this is Miss Zenobia Birdsong.
TREADWELL
Come in and make yourself comfortable, honey. Have a drink.
ZENOBIA
No thank you. I'm on duty. I have an audition this afternoon.
CORLISS
(Solicitously)
Perhaps a glass of milk, Miss Birdsong? Some fruit juice?
ZENOBIA
Thank you very...
TREADWELL
Beat it, Shaw!
(CORLISS shows extreme reluctance to leave ZENOBIA
alone with TREADWELL.)
CORLISS
Perhaps it might be better if I stayed. You recall what happened last
time. The trouble with the State Attorney General because of that
unfortunate incident at the Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred...
TREADWELL
Miss Birdsong and I want to be alone. Right, sweetie? Now get out of
here!
(CORLISS hesitates)
TREADWELL
You hear me? Get outta here! (To ZENOBIA) You have any idea
how hard it is to get good help these days? (To CORLISS) Beat it,
birdbrain!
CORLISS
Yes, sir.
(CORLISS reluctantly exits.)
TREADWELL
Nothing to drink? We need to create a mood here. Perhaps I can find
something suitable on TV. Let's hope they have modern, made-for-
video material. I hate those old elitist films where people sometimes
had clothes on.
(TREADWELL examines the channel listings on the hotel
TV guide.)
ZENOBIA
(Squinting)
Have we met?
TREADWELL
In Las Vegas, last week. What about "Road House Harlots"? No?
"Jurassic Hussies"?
(ZENOBIA puts down the cosmetics case, takes a pair of
glasses from her purse, puts them on and squints again at
TREADWELL. While this is going on, YURT, in the
Empress Suite, carefully steps out from behind the curtains
and moves stealthily toward the cosmetics case.)
ZENOBIA
I remember you...
TREADWELL
What about "The Bitches of Madison County"?
(YURT has almost reached the cosmetics case.)
BOOM-BOOM
(From the bedroom)
What the hell!
(YURT freezes.)
ZENOBIA
You suggested something improper last week at the Ding-A-Ling
Club.
TREADWELL
You must have misconstrued my actions.
ZENOBIA
I don't think so.
TREADWELL
Sit down. We won't be disturbed..
(YURT moves cautiously toward the cosmetics case. There
is a sound from the bedroom and YURT rushes to hide
again behind the curtains just as BOOM-BOOM enters and
goes to the phone.)
ZENOBIA
I told you last week in Las Vegas, I'm not that kind of girl.
TREADWELL
Yeah, right.
ZENOBIA
I'm an artist.
(TREADWELL tries to press a drink into ZENOBIA's hand.
SHE puts it down.)
TREADWELL
Whatever. Just relax, honey.
ZENOBIA
I got to go now. I can't be late for my audition. It's my big chance.
BOOM-BOOM
(On the phone)
Hello! Front desk?
TREADWELL
I'll tell you something in confidence, girlie. I'm very tight with the
management here. We're like that.
ZENOBIA
Really?
TREADWELL
If you want, I could put in a good word for you.
ZENOBIA
You'd do that for me?
BOOM-BOOM
This is Mr. McKool in the Empress Suite. ...Somethin's fishy here.
There are clothes in my closet. Girl clothes.
TREADWELL
Why don't you show me your audition piece? I'm a great judge of
talent.
ZENOBIA
(Doubtfully)
I don't know.
TREADWELL
Maybe some strip action.
ZENOBIA
Oh no! I tap dance
BOOM-BOOM
Don't tell me that's impossible! My closet's full some broad's clothes.
TREADWELL
(Disappointed)
Well, let's see what you can do.
ZENOBIA
You sure you wouldn't mind?
(TREADWELL relaxes on the couch, glass in hand.)
BOOM-BOOM
You send that old geezer up here and get rid of these things.
Unnerstand?
TREADWELL
Go right ahead, Honey. Show me what you got.
(BOOM-BOOM returns to the bedroom. ZENOBIA places
her cosmetics case on the floor, strikes a pose and does a
brief tap dance number very badly. TREADWELL
interrupts, clapping loudly.)
TREADWELL
Terrific, Honey! Really terrific! (Pats the sofa next to him.) Come on
over here and sit down. Relax.
ZENOBIA
I told you before, I think you're a disgusting, sex-crazed brute.
TREADWELL
I can live with that.
(YURT cautiously puts his head out from behind the
curtain and surveys the scene.)
ZENOBIA
I've got to get to the audition. This is my chance of a lifetime.
TREADWELL
Miss Birdsong, I don't think you quite realize just who I am. I'm a
member of the most august and revered body on earth.
ZENOBIA
You're a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?
(YURT cautiously moves toward the cosmetics case. There
is a loud banging on the door to the corridor outside of the
Honeymoon Suite.)
CYBIL
(From Off Stage)
Horatio! Open this door. It's Cybil. Open this door at once!
(TREADWELL leaps from the couch.)
CYBIL
(Continued)
Open this godamm door! Now!
ZENOBIA
What's going on?
CYBIL
I know you're in there, creep. Open this door!
ZENOBIA
Who's Cybil?
TREADWELL
She's... she's.. my secretary.
CYBIL
I've got a gun and if you don't open the door at once I'll shoot my way
in.
(TREADWELL grabs ZENOBIA and pushes her
toward the common door between the two suites.)
ZENOBIA
Your secretary?
TREADWELL
She's here to take dictation.
(YURT has reached the cosmetics case and is about to
pick it up.)
CYBIL
Open the door now or you're dead!
ZENOBIA
She must be very devoted to her work.
(TREADWELL unlocks the common door. YURT,
hearing the sound at the door rushes back to the
balcony. Just as YURT disappears behind the curtains,
TREADWELL pushes ZENOBIA out of the
Honeymoon Suite into the Empress Suite and slams the
common door shut, locking the door but leaving the
key in the lock. Zenobia's cosmetics case remains in the
Honeymoon Suite. Simultaneously, BOOM-BOOM
steps out of the bedroom and stops stunned to
see ZENOBIA standing in his living room. Surprised,
ZENOBIA lets out an astonished squeak.)
ZENOBIA
Eeek!
(The door to Honeymoon Suite leading to the corridor
bursts open and CYBIL rushes in, gun in hand. CYBIL
crouches, pointing the gun at TREADWELL.)
CYBIL
OK, dickhead, where is she?
TREADWELL
Why, Cybil! What a pleasant surprise.
(CYBIL still crouching and holding the gun on
TREADWELL glances warily around the room.)
BOOM-BOOM
Why, ..eh .. Miss... Miss Birdsong. What are you doing here?
ZENOBIA
(Breathless)
I have no idea.
CYBIL
Save the sweet talk, Horatio. You're dead meat. Where is she?
TREADWELL
(Innocently)
She? Who are you talking about she?
CYBIL
(Screaming)
The girl! The one you've been screwing.
ZENOBIA
(To BOOM-BOOM)
Who are you?
BOOM-BOOM
My name is McKool. Boom-Boom McKool. Maybe you heard of me?
(ZENOBIA shakes her head. She quickly takes off her
glasses and puts them into her purse.)
ZENOBIA
You gave me quite a fright. I almost swallowed my gum.
CYBIL
(Continued)
I've had it, Horatio. Twenty years you've been cheating on me. It's
time for revenge! Sweet revenge. Blood-soaked revenge!
TREADWELL
You seem overwrought, Cybil. Bad flight coming out?
(CYBIL, still holding the gun on TREADWELL,
moves quickly around the suite, then goes into the
bedroom.)
BOOM-BOOM
We've never met but I know you very well.
ZENOBIA
You do?
BOOM-BOOM
I've seen you perform at the Ding-A-Ling Club. I go every night you're
on.
ZENOBIA
(Flattered)
Oh, really?
BOOM-BOOM
I'm a great admirer of yours, Miss Birdsong. I followed your career
ever since you arrived in Vegas.
(CYBIL returns and slumps into a chair.)
TREADWELL
I told you there was no one here, Cybil. Now why don't you give me
that gun, like a good girl.
ZENOBIA
'Course I was only in the line and then only when one of the
regulars got sick.
(TREADWELL gingerly reaches for the gun. Hissing,
CYBIL pulls away and glares at TREADWELL with
fury. TREADWELL steps back, frightened.)
TREADWELL
That's OK, Cybil. You can keep gun if it makes you happy.
BOOM-BOOM
You were terrific in the line, Miss Birdsong.
TREADWELL
I don't know what could have made you think I was seeing someone
else, Cybil.
CYBIL
I've had a private detective following you. He tells me you were seen
in Las Vegas last week with some blonde named... named.. Zenobia.
Do you deny it?
ZENOBIA
Did you see me in the Beauty and the Beast Act?
BOOM-BOOM
It was one of the most moving experiences of my life.
TREADWELL
It's all a misunderstanding. I was in Vegas on a fact-finding mission.
CYBIL
You told me you were here at Shangri La at a trade conference.
(TREADWELL begins to move slowly, cautiously, toward the
front door.)
TREADWELL
I am. I am. There's an international conference on pickle quotas going
on right here at the hotel.
CYBIL
No one at the front desk knows anything about a pickle conference.
TREADWELL
It's very hush-hush. You know how international affairs are. (Looks at
his watch.) My goodness, would you look at the time. I'm late for the
brine committee.
(TREADWELL exits hurriedly. CYBIL resumes her search of
the suite.)
END OF PART TWO
======================================================================
======================================================================
