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Fiction-Online Volume 6 Number 1
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 6, Number 1
January-February, 1999
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by downloading from the website
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
at the following URL:
http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage
performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
Two Poems
Tan Jen
"Writers' Group," a short story
Jeanne Coutant
"Fidel and Electronics," an excerpt (chapter 12) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Confidences," part 3 of the play, "Julie"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
JEANNE COUTANT, a native of France who has recently moved to
Washington, traveled widely as a child as a child with her diplomat
parents. A travel writer by profession, she has retired and is currently
taking courses in both fiction and poetry.
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, "Revenge," recently received
readings by the Actor's Theatre of Washington.
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.
==================================================
TWO POEMS
by Jeanne Coutant
House
O house of dreams in you I stand awake
And breathe the subtle scent of time gone by
I reach to touch the memories never mine
I lean to hear the secret footsteps on the stair
When sudden sunlight dances through the door
And lets in echoes of the laughter
I know that lying curled in sleep the dreams
That come are other dreamers other times
Ghosts at Marguerite's House
Silent and gray, like wisps of smoke
They curl around the edges of a room
Deepening the hues of present time
With softer shades of memory
===================================================
THE WRITERS' GROUP
by Jeanne Coutant
As Gary passed out the last piece scheduled for the evening's
discussion, Nancy bolted down the rest of the Chardonnay in her
lipstick-smudged glass and leaned forward in her chair, just enough to
offer a glimpse of well-tanned cleavage. She touched Gary's fingers
softly while taking the papers, then waved her empty glass in the
general direction of Porter, the group leader. Porter, however did not
jump up to offer another glass. James accepted the papers absent-
mindedly, seemingly busy shuffling the other pages in his lap.
Inwardly he was seething. "That arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he fumed,
"he thinks he's such hot stuff, always showing off!"
Jerry, her petite form etched sharply in black leotards and turtleneck,
was already perched expectantly as always on the very edge of her
chair. She snatched the proffered pages with one hand and quickly
adjusted her overlarge horn-rimmed glasses before plunging in to the
first paragraph. Next to her, Diana pulled the voluminous folds of
fabric which draped her very ample body to one side and quickly stuck
two fingers in the glob of melted Brie which was almost all that
remained of the evening's cheese and fruit tray. A long term member
of the group, she knew better than to hope for another glass of wine
from Porter but had her eye on the one remaining pastry however, it
was too far across the coffee table to reach. Watching the blob of
Brie disappear into Diana's pursed lips, James was struck forcibly by
an image of her large, fleshy thighs spread open tantalizingly. He
peered down at the piles of paper in his lap, aware that he had started
to harden slightly even as the thought of Diana's body filled him with
disgust.
Gary sank his long, lanky body into his chair and smiled amiably at the
group. Even though he had just joined recently, he had never seemed
to suffer the initial reticence which so frequently afflicted newcomers.
"You know, " he said, "I thought I'd try something erotic for this
exercise there's a great market for this sort of thing. I'll be
interested to see what you all think." Fury stiffened James's spine at
this remark. "Fat chance that this bastard Porter ever make any money
on his writing!" he thought, as he attempted to scan the pages in front
of him. Porter tapped the edge of his pipe thoughtfully, cleared his
throat a little, and without looking directly at Gary suggested, "Why
don't we all take a few moments to look over the piece?"
Jerry of course had already read the few pages straight through and
made a few tiny notes in the margin. Two bright red spots flamed in
either cheek, and she tapped her foot impatiently while the others read
through the piece. Even before Porter had time to offer his usual
overview, noting points of stylistic interest, she plunged in with a flood
of half articulated phrases, to the effect of "not erotic from the
feminine point of view", "strictly testosterone-driven", "compares
unfavorably with classics like "Story of O". Jerry's angry fusillade of
criticism completely disrupted James's reading of the piece. Peppered
with phrases like "throbbing member" and "warm little mound", the
pages seem to send off sparks that further enraged him. He glanced
sideways to sneak a look at Jerry's small, muscular legs and imagined
her tight little backside, so like a boy's. "Wonder if she's really a dyke
maybe all this stuff between her and Nancy is just frustrated lust!""
James tried as always to avoid looking in Nancy's direction but he
longed, just once, to tweak those erect nipples and grab her blonde
hair, forcing her head down, onto his "
As Jerry warmed to her subject, Porter could see that Nancy was
unsheathing her talons in readiness for another of the cat fights that
seemed so often to characterize what he always hoped would be a
measured, nicely balanced assessment of strengths and weaknesses
without assassinating the author. "Jerry dear, excuse me a moment,"
Nancy purred, "but I really have to disagree! Just look at this
wonderful description of the heroine's sexual arousal, where he 's
talking about that 'soft, tingling arc of desire beginning in her nipples
and radiating down to her warm little mound'" She glanced archly at
Gary, crossing her legs to expose a long stockinged thigh under the slit
of her skirt, and laughed, "it's not only realistic, but it really turns me
on!"
James's attention was riveted on Nancy as she sweetly demolished
Jerry. When she licked her lips and shot that look of pure
lasciviousness straight at Gary, an X-rated image of Nancy kneeling in
front of him, licking those lips, and rubbing her nipples against his
thighs popped into James's mind like a firecracker. However Diana's
large backside, swathed in fabric, momentarily blocked his view as she
lunged around the table to grab the last remaining pastry. Through the
crumbs, she mumbled "you both have good points but as I see it the
essence of erotic writing is in the indirect, the suggestive, the allusive,
rather than the explicit for example, language like "he thrust his
throbbing member into her wet pussy" is just a little too, ah, frontal
" she drifted off in mid-phrase, looking hopefully at James as she
ambled back to her seat. A new image of Diana came to focus in
James's mind, an image compounded equally of hope that she might be
an ally in his as yet to be declared war on Gary and the somewhat
exotic prospect of what lay underneath the long skirt as she settled
into her chair.
He was suddenly aware of Porter, the peerless and always tactful
group leader, encouraging some comment from him. He could feel the
thin film of perspiration forming on his upper lip, and tried to control
the shaking in his hands as he stubbornly refused to offer the
thoughtful and reasoned comments on which the group always
counted. For a moment which stretched on an on, the group was
uncharacteristically silent. Gary's smile never wavered but stiffened
slightly. Jerry, frowning, foot tapping faster than ever, took refuge in
her third reread of the piece. Diana shuffled her chair slightly closer to
James's and gave him an encouraging little nudge with her knee.
Nancy arched back in her chair, so that her blouse stretched taut over
her nipples, just as James looked up, noticed the nipples, and blushed
to the roots of his hair. Glancing at his watch, Porter cleared his
throat slightly and said, "Well, folks, we're running out of time for this
meeting, even though we haven't given Gary's piece the full attention
it deserves. Why don't we break for tonight, and if anyone has any
further comments or suggestions for Gary, you can just e-mail them to
me or to him."
As the group dispersed, the words of a savage e-mail to Porter about
Gary's piece were forming in James's mind " no respect for literary
quality prurient with no redeeming value, social or literary
degenerates into nothing but soft-core porn an insult to the integrity
of our group if we are to adhere to our standards, we should insist
that Gary resign from the group shocked at the low level of
morality exhibited here " In the front hallway, he fumbled to help
Diana with her coat and said softly, "Why don't we work together on
a response for Porter want to come by my place for another glass of
wine so we can plan something?"
==================================================
FIDEL AND ELECTRONICS
by William Ramsay
(Note: the is chapter 12 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!"
As you can imagine, I was a bundle of nerves, waiting to see
what the "monster carrot" was going to do about things like me and
Valeska and Paco and the counter-revolutionary plot she had
discovered. After Valeska left, I tried calling Pepita at her hotel, but
she was out. The next day, Monday, there was still no answer at her
hotel. At about 7:15 that night, as I came down the avenue from a
stroll along the Malecon, I heard a "chh-chh" sound, the Latin signal
for attention, from behind a palm tree just inside the playing grounds.
I peered into the dark shadows from the faint street lights. It was
Paco. He was wearing a disheveled blue blazer and an undone tie.
"Chucho!"
I went over to him. The dim orange light glistened on the sweat
on his forehead.
"They've arrested Duran." Paco bit on his lip, worrying it.
"Duran?"
"Yes, they got to know something. I'm dropping out of sight,
maybe I'll get a fishing boat back to the States if I can find one.
Watch yourself."
"It was a crazy idea."
"I don't know how they found out."
I felt uncomfortable. "They know _everything_."
"Keep working on it, I've left the explosives and the detonators in
a safe place."
"Not with my mother!"
"No, no, Elena doesn't know anything. We've got to protect
her." He wiggled his little mustache as if his words were paining him.
I suddenly missed my own handsome _bigotes_. "Valeska's found a
safe place for the stuff."
"Valeska? You trusted her with the stuff?"
"She's a good kid, don't get jealous."
"But Valeska?" It was like entrusting a crystal goblet to a
two-year- old.
Paco smiled. His smile was always one of his strong points.
"Tell Elena I'll keep in touch." He shook my hand, gave me a brief
but breath- stopping embrace, and stepped back into the shadows of
the palms and ficus trees and disappeared.
The next day I got a note from Pepita. She had gone back to El
Salvador on the 6:30 plane. She said she hadn't mentioned my name
to the authorities in her voluntary report to them on "you know
what" and told me to stay away from counter revolutionaries and the
"hoodlum element." Her prose was firm, rational:
Felipe, those who aren't with us are against us. My glorious
meeting with Fidel has only strengthened my conviction that the
Revolution demands of all of us the highest standards in public and
private life. I don't go so far as to criticize your conduct from the
point of view of bourgeois morality, but I must confess to a certain
disillusionment on the personal level.
Remember also that the Counterrevolution operates through
sapping the ethical fiber of the continuing struggle to achieve
Socialist Personhood....
She went on like that for another paragraph. Then:
I've given them that Duran's name and description. But after
much soul-searching, I've given your friend Santos the benefit of the
doubt -- he seems like an honest, well-meaning fellow -- not too
bright though. Maybe he was led on by this Duran type.
After all that, her "_Salud_ -- _y_ _adios_" at the end was like a
vague shadow of a peace offering. If she hadn't mentioned Paco to
G-2, she certainly hadn't mentioned me. I thanked God or whomever
that I was apparently in the clear in the Great Prison Break Plot.
Provided Llemo Duran couldn't -- or wouldn't -- implicate me.
I had to go to Santiago for three days to give a lecture for
Comrade Deputy Assistant Administrator Millan of the Latin
American Bureau of MINEXT on "my work with the progressive
elements in the villages of the free zone of El Salvador." Maybe
everything was all right, maybe not, but I did more of the usual
amount of looking over my shoulder as I strolled back from my
lecture along the dark winding streets of the old colonial city. When
I got back to Havana, I stopped by the Club Pipi. A man in a red
shirt stood across the street smoking. I glanced at him twice before I
went in, but he seemed to be concentrating on his cigarette as if it
were a last meal. Inside, Valeska smiled at me and asked me how
things were with the "monster carrot." "Valeska, I'm worried."
"About what?" she said, leaning into the mirror in the half-cubicle
that passed as a dressing room and sponging away at her French
pancake makeup -- another little gift of mine.
"About the stuff," I lowered my voice, although only old Pancho
the club factotum was around. "The 'equipment' my friend Paco left
with you."
She pursed her lips as she scrubbed them clean of rouge. "Your
friend Paco's cool, I like him."
"That's great, where have you got 'the stuff'?"
"Don't worry. Paco didn't squeal on you. He said how much he
appreciated your helping him try to get his brother-in-law out of the
slammer."
'Brother-in-law,' I thought. "Of course I worry, if the secret
police get onto that stuff, you'll be in deep shit."
"No."
"What do you mean, 'No'?"
"I haven't got it any more. Hell, I haven't got any safe place to
keep anything like that."
"You haven't got it? But where is it?"
"Pierre's holding it for us."
Oh God, I thought, Pierre!
"He said you had told him it was all right."
I didn't bother telling her I hadn't even seen Pierre in over a
week. She wiped cold cream on her face, massaging her cheeks.
She glanced at me. "You sure look nervous." She cleaned off one
cheek and pointed at it.
"No," I said.
"_Un_ _piquitito_," she said.
"No, not right now," I said. "I've got to think!"
"_Si_! A little, little kiss."
I gave her a little kiss. She tasted of cold cream, sweat and lilies.
"Don't forget about the panty hose with the gold spnagles," she
said, reminding me of another item on my dollar store list.
The next week I spent fending off my mother's questions about
Paco. And her complaints about the time she was wasting in Cuba.
Amelia had offered to come down and help, but Mama had written
that it was pointless.
"Chucho," said my mother, "tell me that Paco is all right. Please."
"Don't ask, Mother."
A faraway look. "I know I can't keep him away from the young
girls. But still, I worry."
"It's not that."
"What is it?"
"I can't say, Mother, I really can't say."
And I really couldn't say where Paco was or what he was doing.
But in Friday's paper, I did find out what another one of my
"comrades" was up to. The Reserve Bank in Camaguey had been
robbed by "counterrevolutionary elements, using arms supplied by
the C.I.A., the F.B.I., and Emir of Bahrein." The outer wall and the
main vault of the bank had been blown up, "probably by mortar fire."
Elements of the Militia were being aided by volunteers from the
Committees for the Defense of the Revolution in carrying out
searches throughout Camaguey province. A night watchman had
been slightly wounded. He said that the attackers, faces masked in
stockings, had brandished the clenched fist and that one of them, a fat
man, had shouted "Viva 'Co-po-quin'," or something of the sort. I
didn't blame the newspaper editor for not recognizing the name of the
great Russian theoretician of Anarchism, but I for one now knew
where Paco's electronic detonators and plastic explosives had ended
up after the failure of the prison caper. At least I was in the clear
on the prison business -- or so I thought. You know, sometimes
when I think everything is O.K., when I've had a close call but have
come out all right, it reminds me of the day after I first went to bed
with a girl. I was fifteen, and I was sitting on the beach at Boca,
feeling good about myself, about life, about everything. It was a nice
day in November, looking out toward the horizon, and getting this
calm but complex feeling, like there was a sort of beauty that made
my mouth dry. Like music or poetry. But behind the line where the
dark blue of the sea meets the pale sky, I could feel a hint of sadness
-- as if it were all too good to be true. And life being what it is, all
too damn often it turns out to be exactly that way!
That's all philosophy, or whatever. But the tall man with the
wispy beard wasn't philosophy, he was flesh and blood. Or rather, he
looked more like a clothed skeleton, with his long legs spread out in
shiny black leather trouser legs, arrogantly half-blocking the main
pathway from the door to the reception desk. I think, looking back,
that I had half-noticed him around town before, but there in the
lobby was the first time I got a good look at him. Moving to one
side half behind a pillar, I stared at him, trying to see his eyes. His
dark glasses had fallen down halfway along his nose, but he kept his
head down over a copy of "Granma," and all I could see were his
eyelids. G-2, I thought -- even though he wasn't dressed in bright
colors. After me? I wondered. Maybe, I thought. Even probably.
But what could I do about it? The old beach-horizon melancholy
welled up inside me. I didn't sleep well that night. And the next day,
I felt tired and jumpy as I returned from attending a meeting of the
Vedado Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, the
neighborhood amateur spy network and social club, which had asked
me for a lecture on guerrilla tactics. (I had had to study up on the
works of Mao Zedong.) As I walked into the lobby of the
Presidente, a tall shadowy form arose from the skeleton's chair in the
Presidente lobby. But when he turned into the light to face me, there
was no beard, no dark glasses -- it was Eddy Paniagua. God, I was
relieved. I gave him a handshake and a sketch of an _abrazo_. I
found out he'd gotten a ride with a friend to Casablanca across the
bay and had been waiting for me all evening. I took him into the
coffee shop and bought him dinner. He ate fastidiously but steadily --
Cuban students may get fed better than manual laborers, but Eddy
looked at his steak as if it were a brand-new laptop computer. He
gazed up at me from time to time with his large eyes. I can only
describe the look as worshipful -- and hey! Not many other people
were worshiping me these days.
"How did you get here from Casablanca?"
"I borrowed a bike, Doctor. No trouble at all. We Cubans have
to be inventive."
"God, Casablanca's miles away," I said. I invited him to use the
other bed in my room for the night.
As I was getting undressed, I noticed that he was staring at me.
Then his eyes dropped as he saw me looking. Kids and their
curiosity! I thought at the time.
The next day, we did find a book, a kind of old one, on computer
software, at the bookstore. Then Eddy let it drop that it was his
sixteenth birthday.
"Oh, your birthday!" I said, thinking fast. An idea. I asked him
to wait for me and I went into the dollar store across the street. I
found a little Japanese notebook computer with a memory of 640
whole words, not much by American standards, but to any Cuban
kid, a small marvel. Anyway, I gave it to him. He stared a moment
and then grabbed me, leaning over and giving me a really close
_abrazo_, caressing my back. I wanted to say, thank "The Men" and
the "Company," I'll put it on the expense account -- but I didn't. His
eyes filled up, he mumbled "Thank you, thank you." The caress
continued, but I broke it off. Latin male bonding! I thought.
I was in a good mood after Eddy left, cycling away, his legs too
long for the bicycle, headed east down the Calzada toward the
harbor. That night, going for my customary walk along the Malecon,
I was making a resolution to get together some more computer
references for the kid. The night was moonless and misty, the lights
along the Malecon shone dimly. I was passing a row of waiting
Turistaxis. Suddenly I noticed a lighted cigarette and a flash of
reflected streetlight from a pair of dark glasses on a tall form leaning
against one of the taxis. Back at the hotel, I walked upstairs -- the
elevator wasn't working that night -- and sat down on the bed, wiping
the sweat from my forehead. I had no idea what to do. I didn't know
where Paco was, I couldn't get help from my mother -- I could only
cause trouble for her. Pepita was back in El Salvador and probably
wouldn't have helped me if she had been there. How about
Dominguez in Cayo Hueso? Maybe. But maybe all that would
accomplish would be to blow Dominguez' cover -- the tall guy in the
dark glasses and his friends could presumably follow me anywhere
they wanted to.
But suppose it wasn't me they were after? Christ, I told myself,
I could well be worrying about nothing at all. So the next evening,
when "shades" was back in his appointed chair in the lobby, I willed
myself to smile jauntily as I approached the desk. The respectful
voice of the reception clerk saying, "_Buenas_ _noches_, Doctor
Elizalde," made me feel like a baby rocked in the cradle of a secure,
respectably socialist identity. I was safe, there wasn't anything to
worry about.
Lots of luck, Chucho! A few days later, I was scheduled to give
a lecture to the Revolutionary Action Committee at the College of
Fine Arts -- Dr. Felipe Elizalde was getting to be quite a flexible
fixture on the local lecture circuit. The car that picked me up at the
Presidente at eight P.M. was a Mercedes painted olive-green. As I
got in, I stuck out my hand to greet the short man, tieless in a dress
shirt and a pale gray suit, who sat on the edge of the far side of the
back seat. His handclasp was limp. We moved out onto the Avenue,
but then we turned left instead of right at the intersection with the
Pinar del Rio road. I started to say something, then I looked over at
the round face of the little man. He shook his finger at me and
smiled. The car accelerated.
Uh-oh!
Suddenly I had to piss like mad. First I thought of forcing my
way past shorty to the car door and jumping out of the speeding
vehicle. Then, abruptly, I had an insane desire to lay my head back
against the old, moldy- smelling cushion of the back seat and go to
sleep. In the wildly flapping streaks of light from passing streetlights
and autos, the man's little round face smiled faintly. Something
clattered on the floorboards, and the short driver reached forward,
picked up a Kalashnikov from the floor, and laid it down on the seat
beside him.
Shorty's smile was now wider and showed some gold teeth. We
passed one of the big red-and-white billboards that carried Party
messages -- I could make out as we passed some of the words of the
familiar message: "Cubans, choose to stay in Cuba."
The car drove up an alley near the Old Town and stopped. The
driver jumped out, took the Kalashnikov by the barrel and, reaching
in, slapped the butt into my thigh. From the other side, Shorty poked
me in the arm with a sharp finger. I got out.
"_Amor_, _amor_, _amor_," crooned Shorty in a wispy tenor
voice as we walked into a bare hallway and then through a door with
a small window set into it into a box-like room containing only a
chair and a bucket. The bucket was stenciled with the letters
MININT. Shorty frisked me, confiscated my pocket knife, and then
went out, interrupting his singing long enough to slam the door shut:
"_Amor_, _amor_, _eres_ _de_ _mi_, _eres_... SLAMMM. I faintly
heard.. _de_ _ti_, _eres_ _de_....."
I was in the cruel, grubby hands of Castro's secret police.
First I used the bucket, my urine splashing into a few inches of
clear water on the bottom. I sat down on the chair, my stomach
trembling. Then I got up and started to pace. After what seemed
like an hour, I finally eased myself onto the floor. The adobe felt
cold and when I shuffled my body into a more comfortable position,
something sticky pulled at my trousers. They hadn't bothered to
take anything besides the knife: in the Bogart flicks they always took
away your belt and shoelaces. I took off my shoes and tried to prop
up my head on one of them, twisting, trying to get comfortable. I
took off one sock and made a kind of sleep mask out of it. But the
sock was hot and smelled musty on my face, the bright overhead light
still shone in my eyes. I lay awake, thinking, feeling very alone and
very scared.
Duran must have talked after all.
Despite everything, I fell asleep. The shaking woke me up to the
brightness of the light, glowing with painful sharpness like the
pictures of the sun after an eclipse. Shorty stood above me, looking
tired too. He motioned for a guard in a blue uniform, who prodded
me to get up and follow them down a corridor and into an office.
Shorty sat down in a chair behind a desk. He looked very official, I
expected him to start shuffling papers or something. There was no
place for me to sit. He looked at me expectantly, raising his
eyebrows.
"You don't seem to have much to say," he said.
"I don't know what all this is about..." I started to say.
He laughed. He started to sing again: "_Y_ _tu_, _quien_ _sabe_
_donde_ _andaras_, _quien_ _sabe_..."
I had already recognized the old standard "Perfidia." I found
myself shaking my head, my eyes felt heavy, irritated. "Come on,
what's going on here?"
"You tell me, Comrade Elizalde."
His voice had dropped, he was no longer a would-be lyric tenor,
but he pronounced the "Elizalde" without irony.
"I mean..." I started to say.
"Shut up." He sounded peevish. The narrow nostrils looked
reddened.
"I have an official status here..."
He jumped up. "'Official status,' Oh aren't we important." He
bowed at me. "How elegant!" he said. I shook my head, I felt as if I
hadn't waked up yet. He took several large steps around the room,
took his pistol from its long leather holster, and started to dance,
waggling his head like an irritated elf. "Of-fi-ci-al bu-u-u-ull-shit,
of-fi-ci-al bu-u-u-u-u-u-u-ull-shit," he started singing, to the tune of
"Guantanamera." He waved one hand like a ballerina, the other
flopped with the weight of his automatic pistol, while his head swung
and his body bounced to his own singing.
The door opened. Shorty's mouth stopped in mid
"Bu-u-u-ull-shit," and he raised his head high. A blue-uniformed
guard looked through Shorty as if he were some kind of insect and
said, "Pineda wants to see him."
Pineda was the name of one of the chief officials in G-2.
Shorty raised himself even higher and said, "Elizalde, move!" He
waved the pistol at me. Going out, the guard muttered "Cokehead"
under his breath.
We went up a set of whitewashed stairs. Pineda had
solid-looking wood furniture in his office. He needed it, he must
have weighed 250 pounds, his arms bulged out of his short-sleeved
uniform blouse, propped on piles of papers, inundating them with
flesh. He stared at me.
"There's nothing to be said," he said. He had buck teeth that
darted out at every other word.
"What?" I said.
"Don't talk, listen!"
"Yes sir," I said.
"Yes, _comrade_."
"Yes, comrade."
"But I forgot, you're not one of us, are you?"
"I'm Salvadoran."
He waved his arms as if he were warding off a swarm of bees.
"Lies, lies, all I get is lies." He stroked his little mustache.
I said nothing, I wanted to think, but my mind seemed to have
slipped gears.
"The Cuban Revolution is one of the most beautiful things
produced by mankind!" He glared at me.
"Yes, Comrade."
"Don't say 'Comrade'!"
"Yes, sir."
"And not 'sir,' -- God, the ways of the bourgeois past are with us
always. How can we build a new society without a New Man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Shut up, shut up!" He made a move as if to stand up -- I found
myself wondering if his muscles could handle the task. "SHUT UP!"
I said nothing. I felt as if there wouldn't be much time left for me
to say anything, ever.
"_El_ _paredon_ is too good for you!"
Oh shit, oh shit, I said to myself. The phone rang. He picked it
up. "Yes, yes, Comandante." He talked for a moment in
monosyllables, hung up and pressed a buzzer. "_El_ _paredon_ must
wait patiently for you, it appears," he said and turned away to stare at
a photograph of Che Guevara on the near wall. A soldier in
camouflage came for me, clamped my elbow in his fingers, and
guided me off down a darkened corridor, painted in what looked in
the gloom like pukey olive-green. Then into a small room. There sat
Fidel in an overstuffed chair by a small table piled with papers. He
looked up from under his thick brows and grinned. I didn't like the
thin-lipped economy of the smile.
"Comrade Elizalde," he said. The smile faded entirely. "_Mr_.
Revueltos." He pronounced the "mister" as if it were evidence of
criminal behavior -- which I guess in this case it was. I wanted to sit
down badly, my legs felt heavy -- I also had a wild desire to urinate
again. He rested one hand on an automatic pistol lying next to some
papers and with the other waved at the soldier to leave. After the
door was shut, he told me to come up to where he was sitting. He
peered closely into my eyes. His looked very dark, like pools in the
mangrove forest of the Everglades. He pointed a finger at a straight
chair and I sat down. He held out a box of cigars to me, looking
anxiously at them -- I knew he had quit smoking, but he looked as if
the addiction were merely lying dormant. I declined. He snickered.
"Fedy Revueltos' little boy," he said, rolling the phrase around with
his lips and smiling oddly. "A crazy man," he said. He rehearsed the
story of my lawsuit against the Cuban government, with a bare
mention of the outstanding charges for counterrevolutionary
activities, fraud, and alienation of state property. He needn't have
gone into details, I remembered it all. The need to urinate suddenly
disappeared as if the liquid in my bladder had evaporated, or rather
turned into a lump of metal under my navel.
I suddenly wanted my mother.
I've never been one for suicide. I don't know, I'm too chicken I
suppose. God knows I've felt bad enough about life sometimes --
doesn't everyone feel at one time or another that there's no way out
but to open a window on the tenth floor or so and lean out over the
ledge and just keep leaning? No, I never hope for death -- as a rule.
But at that moment with Castro, I played hard with the wish that I
could do the job myself -- anything but to be stood up against the
_paredon_ as an enemy of the Cuban state -- and to suffer God
knows what grim games the G-2 creeps would think up for me
beforehand.
My head felt as if it were about to explode. I stared at Castro,
seeing his mouth moving but not hearing anything but a loud buzzing
noise, like a swarm of hornets, with an occasional word like
"Revolution" and "crime" appearing out of the background.
Abruptly I noticed that he had stopped talking and was looking at me
as if I had just dropped in from outer space.
"Electronics," he said, evidently repeating the word.
"What?" I said. "What? What?"
He looked annoyed, he picked up a file folder and waved it at me
and said that I was supposed to be an electronics expert. I suppose I
qualified as an expert in electronics, all right -- but at that moment I
would have admitted to being a prima ballerina if that's what the big
man with the long wispy gray beard wanted me to be. "Sure," I said,
"Sure."
He still looked annoyed. "What kind of electronics -- be
precise!" I said TVs, VCRs, stereos, you name it, all the standard
items in a retail store. He raised his eyebrows, and I realized that
_no_ electronics store in socialist Cuba -- if such a store even existed
-- would have as many different kinds of merchandise as any single
row of the white vinyl counters back in my store in Miami.
"Nothing special, you know," I said in modesty or terror.
"Could you get me one of the Philips DX-360 VCRs?" I nodded.
"With stereo capabilities?" I nodded again. He started to discuss
television and satellites, the role of video in the recent upheavals in
Eastern Europe. My stomach muscles were softening, and my
bladder started to ache again. Somewhere inside a small voice was
wondering what the hell was this, was he looking for a bribe or just
passing the time of day before my execution the next morning, or
what? But I said shush to that little voice as I concentrated on
hanging onto the present moment, clasping onto the image of Fidel
sitting there, blabbering on about Lech Walesa's TV image and
Havel's speeches. My throat was tight, my heartbeat felt irregular.
My ass ached slightly from being scrunched into the hardness of the
solid wood chair. My body reassured me I was still in this world.
For the present.
He stopped and raised a finger for emphasis. The finger was very
large, almost fat. He said that the really interesting development was
the cellular phone.
"Phone communications will replace speech, comrade -- Mr.
Revueltos. All over the world people will soon use miniature
handsets, even ear-and-throat- sets -- everywhere, even at home." He
laughed and said that even in bed between a husband and wife...
He broke off, chuckling, and looked at me. But when I tried out
a smile, his face turned stern, puritanical. The plump finger again.
The Russians, it turned out, had promised him some help in getting a
system -- this was before the Soviet Union had cooled off so
completely on aid to its Caribbean comrades. But the engineer they
had sent had been incompetent -- worse, the Cubans had gotten the
idea that the Russians knew precious little more about cellular phones
than they did themselves. He stopped and looked at me again from
underneath the gray-flecked bushy eyebrows.
I said that the technology was relatively simple, but the systems
problems, how to forward and relay the calls, required some analysis.
We had had some problems in Miami, I admitted, but we had solved
them. He raised his head.
Him: You worked on these systems?
Me (wondering if toe-dancing might really be coming next):
Sure, I was involved.
Him: Involved?
Me: Yes, I helped set up the south Dade County cells. (Well, a
friend of mine had been on the staff of McGraw Cable, and he had
told me stories about it, I _felt_ as if I had been there. And I had to
learn something about these things to help out the customers who
bought cellular phone sets in my shop -- I mean, I knew
_something_.)
Him: Good.
Me (now catching on completely): Yes.
Him: I'll need fast results.
Me: Fast results?
Him: They must be ready for the Latin American Rural Initiatives
Conference here next month.
The explosive feeling in my head now started to sputter and fizzle
in all directions, like an uncoordinated Fourth-of July display. On the
one hand, I grasped immediately that I wasn't headed for the
_paredon_ in the near future. On the other hand, did I really have the
know-how to put together a cable network for Fidel -- which is what
he obviously wanted? And -- when and if I succeeded in giving him
what he wanted -- what would happen to me afterward? I looked
into the gentle-looking eyes, with their deep lazy wrinkles radiating
from the outer edges, and wondered about if any real gentleness -- or
mercy -- lay in them.
Fidel was famous for his enthusiasms -- methods of secretarial
education, cassava cultivation, new types of flame-throwers. I had
been elected to provide him with a new toy. The king must be
amused. The aging, long-bearded Merlin-King Arthur of Cuba. But
what was the outlook for the jester?
He smirked. "I'd like to see the Mexicans' faces -- they've been
having a lot of trouble with the American consultant they hired!" His
face grew truly radiant. He told me to keep my alias going -- it
would "reduce complications" - - to keep him or Pineda informed of
progress, to get started immediately, to "redeem myself."
"Maybe something can after all be done about your father, if
everything works out," he said.
Or maybe I could join him in La Cabana if everything went
blooie, I thought. Maybe "mercy" would mean prison instead of the
Wall, I thought.
I left feeling as if I had just pulled back from the edge of a
high cliff above a deep river gorge -- but that now I had to cross a
swinging rope bridge to get to safety on the other side.
But first -- I needed to piss.
How come Errol Flynn never had to piss?
=================================================
CONFIDENCES
by Otho Eskin
(Part 3 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.
JULIE
(Continued)
You know, like they do in the movies. With the pretty flowers and
the waltzes and the beautiful girl and her gallant.
(Obviously
uncomfortable,
RANSOM takes JULIE's
hand and kisses the back
of her hand. Instead of
letting go right away, he
holds her hand, gently.
JULIE pulls her hand
away, slightly flustered.)
JULIE
That wasn't so terrible, now was it? I do believe you are truly shy.
RANSOM
(Angry)
I think we better stop play actin'. Right now.
JULIE
Why on earth would we want to do that?
RANSOM
We not in the movies. Besides somebody might see us.
JULIE
What if someone did? Who cares?
RANSOM
People talk. They already begun to talk...
JULIE
(Delighted)
What are they saying, Ransom? Do sit down and tell me what they're
saying.
RANSOM
They suggestin'... well, you know, they see someone like you alone
with a man like me, at night, drinkin'...they get ideas.
JULIE
What ideas?
RANSOM
You know ideas.
JULIE
Stuff and nonsense! We're not alone. Cora's here.
RANSOM
She's sleepin'.
JULIE
I'll wake her then. (Calling out) Cora! Are you asleep? Wake up!
She's dead to the world. Wake up, you silly girl!
RANSOM
(Angrily)
Let her sleep!
JULIE
(Offended)
Don't give me orders!
RANSOM
She been standin' all day at the cook-stove. Let her sleep.
JULIE
Yes. Let's stay by ourselves.
RANSOM
You not like other ... other people...
JULIE
You mean I'm not like my father and other white people you've met.
RANSOM
I think you not like anyone I ever met.
JULIE
Perhaps I am different. So are you. I think we understand life better
than other people. We know that life, people, everything is just a
bubble, pretty and bright, floating on top of the water until finally it
bursts vanishes.
RANSOM
I don' know what you talkin' about, Miss Julie.
JULIE
I used to have this dream. For years I had this dream. I'm on top of a
pillar. I look over the edge and I become dizzy. I'm terrified of
heights. I know I have to get down but I can't jump. But I can't stay
there either. I want to fall but I can't. There's no peace for me there
no peace for me until I'm on the ground. Even then there's no
peace. Not until I'm under the ground. Maybe not even then. Have
you dreamed too, Ransom?
RANSOM
No, Miss. Nothin' like that.
JULIE
Don't you dream at all?
RANSOM
I got dreams. Sometimes
JULIE
Tell me.
RANSOM
I rather not...
JULIE
I want to know.
RANSOM
When I was a boy there was this old elm tree by the creek...
JULIE
I remember that tree.
RANSOM
Sometimes I dream I'm lyin' under that tree. I want to climb to the
top an' look out to where the sun shines. I climb an' I climb but the
tree trunk is thick an' smooth an' the first branch is very high. I know
if I can just reach that first branch I can get to the top. I haven't got
there yet. But I will, I can tell you that, even if only in my dreams.
JULIE
Do you believe in dreams?
RANSOM
My grandma used to say to me, if you want your dreams to come
true, you gotta sleep on nine Midsummer flowers tonight.
JULIE
Let's find out. Let's go into the garden.
RANSOM
With you, Miss Julie?
JULIE
Pick some lilacs for me.
RANSOM
I don' think that's a good idea.
JULIE
You don't think...? You don't think that I...?
RANSOM
I don' think nothin'. But others will.
JULIE
What will they think, Ransom? That you and I are having an affair?
You, the family chauffeur? And me? The daughter of the Judge? A
man known throughout the county as a hater of colored people?
RANSOM
People 'round here are ignorant. They don' know no better. They
think all kinds of things.
JULIE
And you're not like them.
RANSOM
I didn' spend my life in the fields. I lived in the city. I got some book
learnin'.
JULIE
So you're a gentleman.
RANSOM
If you say so, Miss.
JULIE
What does that make me?
RANSOM
I s'pose that makes you a lady.
JULIE
Does a lady spend the night alone with the family's colored servant?
RANSOM
No, ma'am.
JULIE
Maybe I'm no lady.
RANSOM
I can't say, Miss.
JULIE
Why don't we find out?
(JULIE takes
RANSOM's hand and
draws him toward the
door to the garden door.)
JULIE
You're trembling, Ransom
RANSOM
Miss Julie!
JULIE
Yes, Ransom?
RANSOM
I'm not made of stone. You'll be responsible if anythin' happens.
JULIE
What could you mean? Responsible for what?
RANSOM
We not children. We playin' with fire.
JULIE
Fire keeps me warm.
RANSOM
You can get burned.
JULIE
Are you going to burn me?
RANSOM
I'm a man an'...
JULIE
... and good looking.
(RANSOM tries to kiss
JULIE; she steps back
and slaps him.)
JULIE
How dare you!
RANSOM
(Angry)
This all a joke to you!
JULIE
I'm deadly serious.
RANSOM
You playin' games an' I too old for games. Besides, yore kinda
games are dangerous. If you don' mind, I think you better leave.
JULIE
Don't you dare order me!
RANSOM
I won' become one of your toys. I'm better than that, Miss.
JULIE
Have you ever been in love, Ransom?
RANSOM
People like us we don' talk much 'bout love.
JULIE
Did you ever want somebody so bad you could die.
RANSOM
Once. Once there was this girl I wanted her so bad I got sick for
wantin'.
JULIE
Who was she? (Silence) Tell me, who was the girl?
RANSOM
You can't order me to tell you!
JULIE
What if I ask you as an equal...? What if I ask you as a ...friend?
Who was this girl who made you sick for love?
RANSOM
You.
JULIE
That's ridiculous.
RANSOM
Yes, it is. That's the story I didn' wan' to tell you before.
JULIE
Please tell me now.
RANSOM
You got any idea what the world looks like when yore someone like
me? I was born not more'n a mile from here on the Larson land. My
daddy was a sharecropper. I was the youngest of seven brothers.
One room. No runnin' water. No 'lectricity. A couple hounds an'
some chickens. There was nothin' there 'cept a packed dirt floor. But
when I stood on the front steps of the house I could see the apple
orchard at the edge of the field where we worked. An' beyond that, I
could see the Big House in the distance, surrounded by trees. For me,
that was a Garden of Eden, guarded by terrible angels with flamin'
swords. My mama tole' me never to go near the Big House. But I
used to climb that ol' elm tree an' from there I could look at the house
an' garden. For a long time I didn' go no nearer the house than that
elm tree. But one day I was still little my mama took me with
her to weed the onion beds. She was workin' just out there in the
kitchen garden an' I saw this wooden buildin' hung all over with
jasmine an' honeysuckle. What you call it?
JULIE
A gazebo. We call it a gazebo.
RANSOM
I never seen nothin' like it. All painted white an' cream. It was the
most beautiful thing I ever 'magined. After that, I used to come back
to the garden an' just look at the gazebo. I didn' know what it was
for. I jus' liked lookin' at it. I'd watch people white folks go in
an' out. Then one day, when I come to the garden there was no one
'round. I snuck inside. It was like I was in a dream. It was like I was
drunk with the smell of the flowers, with the sunlight streamin' onto
the floor. I don' know how long I stayed there. I 'magin it was a
couple of hours. Then I heard someone comin'. Footsteps on the
gravel path. I was young but I knowed that was no place for a
colored boy. I was able to slip through a space in the floor an' crawl
out from under the gazebo an' hide in the honeysuckle. From where I
was hidin', I saw a pink dress an' white stockin's. It was you. I lay
there for a long time just lookin'. You sat on bench readin' a book.
An' I looked. You know what I was thinkin'? What was goin'
through my head? Why couldn' I visit this beautiful place and play
with this beautiful girl? Why couldn' we be friends?
JULIE
Is that what all colored children think?
RANSOM
Yes! They all dream that.
JULIE
It must be terrible to live that way.
RANSOM
That's right, Miss Julie. It's terrible. Much more'n you can ever
know. A dog can play with you in the garden. But not a nigger boy
like me. We not allowed to even look. The niggers are too much like
animals to 'ppreciate a gazebo on a spring mornin'.
JULIE
You mustn't talk like that.
RANSOM
Sometimes one of us gets the chance to change. To stand up an'
walk heavy in the world. I did. For a while. In Chicago. For most
niggers, the mos' we gotta dream on is to look from a distance an'
hope we don' get caught. The next day, I got up early and washed an'
done put on my best Sunday clothes an' went to the front gate to the
big house down by the interstate an' waited. In the afternoon I seen
you. You was ridin' a horse. You rode right by me an' never seen
me. But I was happy. I thought, if I die today I be happy. After that,
whenever I had the chance I watched you, from a distance. I knowed
we'd never be friends, we'd never play together.
RANSOM
(Continued)
I knowed I'd never be 'vited to sit next to you an' read a book. But
you meant somethin' to me. You meant there was another life.
Somethin' better than a sharecropper's life, livin' an' dyin' on another
man's land. That's what I saw when I was watchin' you, Miss Julie.
JULIE
You're not like the others. You speak well.
RANSOM
That's 'cause I listen... listen to white folks talkin'. That's where I
learned the most.
JULIE
You listen... to us?
RANSOM
Sometimes I think maybe there ain't that much difference between
people like you an' people like me.
JULIE
How dare you!
RANSOM
Remember, Miss, I see an' hear a good deal I not supposed to. No
need to ack innocent with me.
JULIE
You're talking about my fianc, aren't you? I saw you that day,
watching us. Pretending to work on the car. Watching us. Well, he
was a terrible man a brute.
RANSOM
I think you better go now.
JULIE
Go to bed on Midsummer eve? Nonsense! Let's go for a drive. Get
out the LaSalle and drive me into the country.
RANSOM
I don' think that'd be a good idea.
JULIE
You sound as though you were afraid. Are you worried about your
reputation?
RANSOM
They's a lot of folks 'round here I mean black folks as well as white
folks who don' look kindly on seein' a black man out with a white
woman. I don' wan' to get ridden out of this place on a rail, Miss. Or
worse.
JULIE
You're exaggerating.
RANSOM
No, Miss. Any number of black boys ended up hangin' from a tree for
less. Yore daddy, in the old days, he put a rope 'round a lot of
niggers necks. He like to shoot me down like a dog if he knowed I
was even talkin' to you. He don' take kindly to uppity niggers. Least
of all a nigger messin' with his only daughter. I 'spect he'd skin you
alive too.
JULIE
Don't you worry about my father. I can handle him. Let's get the car
and go for a ride.
RANSOM
We both had too much too drink, I think. An' the music, it's gotten
into our blood. Take my advice: go to your room' get a good night's
sleep. You'll feel better in the mornin'.
JULIE
Are you giving me orders now?
RANSOM
For your own sake, jus' go. 'Fore it's too late. It's been a long day an'
we both tired. When people tired they do dumb things.
(The sound of music
swells as musicians and
members of the party
approach.)
RANSOM
(Continued)
(Very anxious)
They comin'. Lookin' for me an' Cora I 'spect.
(RANSOM goes to the
kitchen door and looks
out into the garden.)
RANSOM
(Continued)
They comin' here! You can't go through the garden now.
JULIE
Let 'em come in. I don't mind. They're mostly my father's field hands.
They're our niggras. I've known them all my life. I know them all and
I love them. And they love me...
RANSOM
No, Miss Julie, they don' love you. Believe me, they hate you an'
everthin' you stand for.
JULIE
How horrible! I never knew.
RANSOM
They comin'. We gotta get outta here. We can't stay here in the
kitchen.
JULIE
The gazebo! At the end of the garden. We can hide there until they
go back to the barn.
RANSOM
Alright. The gazebo. But hurry.
(RANSOM takes JULIE
by the hand and leads her
quickly to the kitchen
door. JULIE looks
around in panic; stops at
the door.)
JULIE
Ransom.
RANSOM
Come on! They' at the gate.
JULIE
I'm relying on you to behave like a gentleman.
RANSOM
Come on! They'll see us.
JULIE
You promise you'll be gentleman.
RANSOM
I promise, Miss. Now let's get outta here.
(JULIE and RANSOM
rush out through the
kitchen door. The sound
of the approaching
musicians grows louder.)
=================================================
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