Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Fiction-Online Volume 5 Number 5
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 5, Number 5
September-October, 1998
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
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, 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
Achaean Songs
E. James Scott
"Life is a Game of Inches," a short story
Alan Vanneman
"Visitors from America," an excerpt (chapter 10) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Midsummer's Night," part 1 of the play, "Julie"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in
Washington.. His play, "Season in Hell," will be produced in
Washington in this fall.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. His play, "Topsy-Turvy," recently received a
reading at the N Street Playhouse in Washington.
E. JAMES SCOTT is an airline pilot and plays the viola da gamba. He
lives in La Jolla, California and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he
practices his hobby of photographing and charting the migrations of
cetaceans. He is currently studying Greek tragedy.
ALAN VANNEMAN is a writer living in Washington. He has
published short stories in numerous journals, most recently "3 AM
Zurich Time" in issue No. 14 of "Gulf Stream Magazine.". He is a
professional editor, currently working in educational research.
==================================================
ACHAEAN SONGS
by E. James Scott
Hermes' Song
Divine morning
The breeze blows softly
The sun glances off Olympus.
A heavenly radiance enfolds the city.
Mortals sleep, and the gods themselves doze.
The watchman yawns
The seagulls hover
The ripples of the ocean flash golden.
A heavenly radiance enfolds the city.
Mortals wake and sacrifice to the gods
If prayers are heard, we are safe.
Cassandra's Lament
Apollo, Apollo
Your golden arrows pierce my heart.
Apollo, Apollo, Apollo
O God of the Way and my destroyer.
Apollo, Apollo
You've brought me to the house of doom.
Apollo, Apollo, Apollo
I die your faithless love and humble slave.
==================================================
LIFE IS A GAME OF INCHES
by Alan Vanneman
I figure it's like boots. I never go anywhere without my boots.
Without my boots I'm nothing. I'm five eleven. What's that? That's
nothing. With my boots I'm six one. I fucking dominate. When I walk
into a bar, heads turn. They fucking turn. I'm a good- looking guy. I
know that. But without my boots I don't stand out. People see me, they
smile, and that's it. But with my boots it's Hey! Who's this guy! They
want to fucking know me. They feel they ought to fucking know me.
Chicks will fucking take my arm, like, this is the one I want. This is the
guy to have. I have my fucking pick. But I've done that, you know
what I'm fucking saying? I've done the bars. I'm not a kid any more. I'm
ready for more. I'm ready for the big time. Which is why I'm fucking
going for it. Real estate is like everything else in LA. You've got to
have a fucking edge. My boots give me an edge. I see those guys at
five nine and I laugh. What kind of a fucking life is that? So if I'm a six
one guy, why do I have a five nine crotch? So that's why I'm going for
it. I need the whole package.
Now, this is not an implant. That is crap, like they're going to
cut open your dick and stick in some plastic? That is so much crap.
What this is is a penis extension. Every guy, or at least just about every
guy, has a bigger dick than he knows, because part of your dick is
inside you. It's like you have about two inches of dick inside you, and I
figure I have at least that, like I could have three inches. Could I use
three more inches on my dick? I think I could!
I mean, I think I have a regular dick, like I have about six inches, which
is a regular dick. Can you imagine what it would be like to have a
nine-inch dick? Nine inches! Can you imagine what it would be like to
go into a sales meeting with a nine-inch pecker in your pants? Can you
fucking imagine? I see all kinds of couples when I'm out showing
houses, and I know what half those chicks are thinking. Yeah, they call
me, they want to see that little house one more time. And I ball them.
Oh yeah. Sure. Which is cool. But I want more than that. Because LA
is about image and attitude. Attitude creates image, and image creates
attitude. And if you have a nine-inch dick, you become a different
person. You become a fucking different person entirely. Because, I
mean, chicks talk. You ball a chick with a nine-inch dick. and the word
is going to get out. You ball a chick with a nine-inch dick, and she's
going to remember it for the rest of her life. Which is why I think I'm
going to go for it. Of course, it costs bucks, which is one thing. And
you've got to get the right doctor. You can definitely get screwed if you
don't get the right doctor. I heard about this guy who worked on Bruce
Willis, and I figure that's the guy I need to get. I figure, if he's good
enough for Demi Moore, he's good enough for me, right? Because that
fucking chick is fantastic. I need a good commission for this, a good
forty-five grand. That's the figure I need, because this is a serious
operation. I mean, it's cool, it's totally cool, but it's serious,
because what they do is they cut around your dick, not in your dick, but
around your dick, and the part of your dick that's inside you slides out,
so all of a sudden you've got two or three inches you didn't have before.
It's pretty fucking simple, when you think about it. I know having a guy
cut around your penis doesn't sound like a lot of fun, but I figure, this
is science. They know what they're doing. They got lasers and shit. I
know there was this article in Buzz about these guys who got screwed
over, like they were impotent and crap. So what is that? These are
guys who are assholes, who don't know their way around town.
Because if you don't know your way around town, you will definitely
get screwed in LA. I mean, this town was built on screwing. There are
real estate agents in this town who will sell you shit, absolute shit, for
top dollar, if you don't know your way around town, and I am one of
them. But I will also get you a fucking dream house, that no one else
could fucking get, if you know your way around town. So what I need
is the Bruce Willis guy. This is the guy that I've got to get. Because I
know there can be complications, like your dick could turn purple,
which I think could turn off a chick. So I need at least forty-five grand.
They also have this thing, which I'm not so sure about, where
they take fat from your body and inject it into your dick, so it's thicker.
Is that good? I don't know. I don't know if chicks are going to say
"hey, this guy has a thick dick." I don't know that. But I also figure, if
you plough some chick, she may not think, "hey, this guy has a thick
dick," but if the chick is totally ploughed, she'll remember that. I mean,
if you totally plough a chick, you fucking own her. And maybe that
could happen, because you had a thick dick. It could be an intangible,
something that counts even though you don't know it counts. Like, I
once read this interview with Johnny Wadd in Penthouse and he said his
dick was thicker than his wrist. Well, shit. Who wouldn't want to have
a dick like that? So maybe having the injections would be worth it. I
mean, I'd have to check it out. Also I figure I need a Porsche. I know a
guy who can get me one. It would be unregistered, but I could handle
that. I mean, it's about fucking time, right? The agency gives me a
Bonneville, which is like shit, but really it's not a bad car. And, to be
frank, I don't need a car to get chicks. It's not that. It's just that I'm
ready to take my life to another fucking level entirely. Because there is
this chick at this fitness center I go to-if you saw this chick you would
fucking die. In fact, I don't want you to see this chick. This chick has
skin like you wouldn't believe. It's like satin. It's like dark honey. It's
like coffee and cream. I think she's some kind of Asian chick, because
her hair is like black silk. It is like fucking black silk. And she has the
world's biggest fucking eyes. I mean, when Bambi saw this chick, he
committed fucking suicide. She has these big dark-brown pupils, and
big eyes, and this fucking beautiful dark skin. This chick is so cool. I
mean, you never have to guess about where she's looking. When Chris
looks at something out of the corner of her eyes, it just about blows
you away.
Also this chick doesn't have a face. She has faces. She has like
about three or four different faces. When she smiles she has one face,
when she's straight she has another. Because this chick has fucking
incredible lips. There is no other chick in the world with lips like this.
They are so thick. I mean, they are fucking erotic. Her nose is kind of
like a black chick's nose. She could almost be part black, except that
her skin is so creamy, and she has that straight hair.
Usually she wears this black unitard, and when you see her in
that you don't want to see her in anything else. She has a fucking great
body. She thinks she's fat. I saw her with this one chick, and they were
both wearing shorts, and Chris was talking about how she had this fat
under her butt cheek that she hated. Well, Christ, you should have seen
that chick's thighs. Her tits aren't that much. I saw her once wearing
this white leotard, which she'd sweat through, and you could see her
nipples. She has these little brown sweet sexy tits. And her ass is
fucking unbelievable. She thinks it's big, of course. I hear her telling
the girls "I've got this big ass." Once she was in some kind of rehearsal,
and she was wearing this high-cut leotard and this fucking shiny panty
hose, and when she bent over I could see her fucking tan lines. I mean,
Christ, that gave me three inches right there. I had to go in the john
and whack off. I could have gone through a steel door with that bone.
I've been seeing this chick for two years. I try to talk to her but she
won't let me. I tried to tell her I could get her a job as a model-which
I fucking could. I could get this chick a job in a day. I could do her
career. I don't even know what she fucking does. I saw her first in this
aerobics class when I was working out, so I took the class. When I
started coming on to her, she dropped the class, so I went back to the
weights. Then I saw her in class again. I didn't want to spook her, so I
kept my distance. I've never seen her with a guy. There are definitely
gay chicks in that place, but I've never seen her with one. So she's
available. She's definitely fucking available. But this is no ordinary
chick. This is not a chick you get with a Bonneville. This is not even a
chick you get with a fucking Porsche. This is a very special chick. You
have got to be on top, absolutely on top of everything, to have a
chance with this chick. You have got to be the guy that, when you
walk into a room, and I mean any room, you are the party. Right now I
am a player. I am a fucking player. But I am not a star. I am not the
party. Which is why I need the whole package. I need the Porsche. I
need the dick. I need it all.
=================================================
VISITORS FROM AMERICA
by William Ramsay
(Note: the is chapter 10 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!"
I stood waiting while Dominguez searched in a battered leather
schoolbag. The adobe hut was cramped and dark and furnished with
thin mattresses with straw sticking out of the tears in the cloth. I
hoped I would never truly need a safe house, if this is what safe houses
were like in real life. Since my interview with Fidel and Pierre's
fiasco, I was fresh out of ideas, stymied, and the cloak-and-dagger stuff
really seemed like a sour joke.
Dominguez, looking every inch a legit ragman in his beaten-up
straw hat, scratched his scraggly gray beard with one hand as he
handed me the letter. He left his fingerprints on it in light brown
smudges. The envelope had been mailed from Miami to some address
in San Salvador. I tore it open. Dominguez looked up over his copy
of the "New York Times," which I figured must have been smuggled in
with the letter, and raised his eyebrows. I turned my back to him and
scanned the familiar loops and crotchets in the narrow lines of purple
ink.
Dear Chucho,
Darling. I hope this finds you well and that the _work_ is
progressing. Your mother wormed out of Paco the news about what
you were really doing. She joins me in sending you love -- but
naturally she's concerned, we all are. I know what the difficulties you
face must be, but I have every confidence in you.
My brother says his friends are grumbling, but I'm sure things
never go fast enough for people like _those_ _men_ -- don't let that
worry you. Not in itself. You're the man on the spot, you know what
must be done and why. But do make an effort to report on your
situation there through _secure_ _channels_ -- I agree with Paco that it
would be in your best interests to keep everybody informed. And if
you think it's safe, drop a line to your concerned and devoted "little
piggy-pie."
Love
Amelia
P.S. Elena says, "Tell him we'll do anything to help -- anything at all."
"You can write an answer," said Dominguez, "it will go out
tomorrow. And they said you'd have something else to send." I added
a note to a letter to her I'd already prepared and handed it to him with
the "report" I'd hastily written the night before for Marcus -- in which I
said as little as possible. What I needed now was a new idea on how
to get my father out, not a lot of hassle from a bunch of spooks and
gangsters. It was nice to have the offer of help from Mama, and
Amelia's support -- but that didn't change anything in my situation in
Havana. She and my mother could worry about me -- but I didn't see
any way they could help.
I knew something new had to be done -- but I didn't know what. I
had contemplated changing my name once again, and starting over in
Brazil or Venezuela. Walking away the long afternoons along the
Malecon and looking out onto the brilliant blue of the sea, I would
calculate how many weeks worth of "expense money" I could squirrel
away before someone really got impatient. Another three or four
weeks might get me a plane fare and a few thousand to get by on for a
few weeks in Asuncion, or wherever -- but I wasn't looking forward to
what would happen after that.
Meanwhile, while I was having all these troubles trying to fantasize
my way out of my situation, some of my new-found Party comrades in
the Ministry of Health found ways to keep me busy. I was asked to
"volunteer" to give talks at the Hospital Infantil Pedro Borras Astorga
on 27th Street and in the Clinico Camilo Cienfuegos in Matanzas, a
small town on the coast east of Havana. With the help of a few books
on tropical diseases and some papers that I had picked up at the
Ministry, I managed to plow my way through both of these talks.
There were some bad moments: "Dr. Elizalde, I notice that the patterns
of diseases you talk about in El Salvador are the same as those in
Cuba. Is that correct?"
Well of course it was correct, since everything I knew about the
subject I had learned from a paper entitled "Endemic Diseases in Rural
Areas of Cuba."
I scrunched up my mouth and nodded deliberately. "Yes, yes, the
pattern is similar, very similar."
"But the climate of El Salvador is quite different, isn't it,
Doctor?"
I continued looking thoughtful. "Yes, yes, that's partly true..."
But then someone else in the audience piped up and said that diet and
working conditions were the important factors, not climate. I nodded
even more rapidly. I could feel moisture on my brow. "True, very
true," I said. I looked at my watch, raised my eyebrows appealingly at
the chairman. Thank God, he got up and thanked me for my "most
enlightening talk." I wiped my brow -- it wasn't easy being someone
else.
One of the bureaucrats in Agriculture had asked me to stop by on
the way back from Matanzas and give a talk on the "Role of
Revolutionary Education in Rural Areas" at the ESBEC, or rural
secondary school, Politecnico Salvador Allende in the little town of
Campo Florido not far from Havana. Why not? I knew about as
much about that as I did about medicine.
The audience was different at Allende, however. Instead of
doctors and medical students, it was high school students in their light
blue sports shirts and dark blue scarves and shorts. Some of them
looked terminally bored, like students everywhere. I did all right
faking the talk itself, but I slipped into some trouble at the beginning of
the question period, when I had to improvise a lot about what the hell
"revolutionary education" really was. Then a tall thin student stood up
and asked a question about computers. I grabbed for the topic like a
life preserver. I gave a rundown on the latest in desktops, laptops,
network systems, anything I could think of. One of the teachers
protested that computers wouldn't be available in rural areas.
Someone else rose and said that it was a scandal, that more computers
were needed. Again I nodded, and I snatched the topic away and
wound up the discussion with everything under control. Afterward,
the tall student buttonholed me. He asked me questions about the
latest computers, the newest types of chips, topics that took me a little
far afield from what I knew. He smiled and looked at me intently. His
face was cadaverous but handsome, with long eyelashes and dark eyes
above the sunken cheeks. He walked along with me and the teacher
acting as my escort, as we headed toward the waiting Ministry car. He
told me that computer systems were his passion, but that they had
almost no equipment or references at the Politecnico.
"The Lenin School," suggested the teacher -- "You should be
there, Eddy."
The student pursed his lips. "You're right, profesor, I should be --
by rights. But what rights are there in this country now?" The
teacher looked shocked. He smiled uneasily, muttered a good-bye, and
walked off. The student introduced himself -- Eddy Paniagua. He was
almost sixteen. He said that he dreamed about going to the Lenin
School, the elite technical academy outside Havana, where secondary
education included both class work and practical production work on
calculators and TV sets.
"Why don't you transfer?" I said.
"It isn't that easy." His face fell. "My grades are good enough.
But my father isn't enough of a bigshot, he's just a foreman at an
avocado ranch here. He's not interested in politics -- he doesn't have
_pull_." His mouth turned down. "Pull -- that's what the 'Revolution'
has come to."
"Tough," I said.
"But maybe you can help me." He stared down at me.
"If I can."
He smiled slightly. "Can you help me get some references,
anything I can read on computers?"
I thought a minute. I liked the kid. Maybe sometime I would run
into something at one of the Ministries. Maybe even the big bookstore
opposite the Havana Libre or the other one near the Floridita would
have books other than Russian propaganda and unreadable
"revolutionary fiction." "I don't know, but give me your address
and I'll be in touch."
He wrote something in his notebook, left-handed, leaning his tall
body over and then tearing out the page. I told him I was staying at
the Presidente.
I was tired when I arrived back at the hotel in Havana. As I fell
asleep, I thought, maybe Amelia could find a book for the kid in Miami
and send it along. Let the C.I.A. do a good deed for a change.
The next thing I knew, the phone rang. The alarm clock read 2:15.
I heard my mother's voice. Oh-oh, I thought, as I usually do when I
hear from her unexpectedly, what now?
"Chucho, _amorcito_. How are you?"
"Fine, fine. How are things in Miami? Is something wrong?" I
said, thinking of the hour.
"No, but I'm very, very tired. I'm too tired right now, I have to
rest."
"Too tired for what?" I said, not making any sense out of it.
"We'll get together tomorrow. I'm in room two twelve.'
"Two twelve? Here?"
There was a long yawn and then a sigh. "I don't believe this seedy
hotel -- it used to be a showplace. Our poor country. And that flight,
like a cattle car, in the middle of the night." She gave another yawn,
this time a more ladylike one. I could picture her putting her tiny fist
to her mouth.
I asked her why she was here, feeling the minute I'd said it that I
wasn't being a very gracious son. _Mamacita_ was big on graciousness
-- at least in other people.
"If I weren't so tired, I would try to come up with a merry little
laugh or two, _hijito_." She yawned again. "We need some sleep.
Good night."
She hung up before I had time to wonder: who was 'we'?" I lay
back down, but I could feel in my backbone my mother's presence,
taking her nap, snoring in that well-bred way of hers, somewhere
probably not more than a hundred yards away from me. I tried
counting sheep, but that's never worked for me. All I could think was
what Mother -- and it must have been Amelia, the other part of the
"we" --- were up to in Havana. As I turned over again one more time,
trying to get my arm into a comfortable position, it seemed to want to
get in the way of the rest of my body. I thought I'd left Miami behind
-- now it was following me. If my mother was here -- who next? Mr.
Holbrook? The IRS? One of Mr. Gomez' men?
I did fall asleep again, because a noise in my dream about being
beaten with a squash racquet for being a bad boy resolved itself into
someone scratching, then lightly knocking on the door. The sound
stopped. Then it started again, scratching harder. With the light on,
the numbers on the clock had made it as far as the numerals 4:50. I
heard a voice, grumbling something. English or Spanish?
I went over to the door and bent over to listen. The scratching
stopped. "Who is it?" I found myself whispering in rhythm with the
gentle waves of scratching. There was stillness, and then a rooster
waked somewhere outside and let out a full crow.
"_Jesus_!" I heard from behind the door. I couldn't tell whether
the interjection was a call for me by name, but I did recognize the
voice. I turned the safety lock and opened the door. Uncle Paco was
wearing a beige jacket and carrying an American Airlines bag. He was
frowning.
"Quick, I thought I heard a noise," he said, pushing me inside,
turning back for a second to peer both ways down the hall, then doing
a rapid tiptoe in, pulling the door behind him very quietly.
"Everywhere," he said.
"What?" I said, just realizing that the other part of "we" was not
Amelia.
He shook his head and sat down, folding his jacket carefully under
his hips and slicking back his long black strands of hair to cover up a
patch of balding pate. He smiled and pointed to the bag. "Got 'em
through," he said, as if he had just passed "Go" and collected $200.
I had waked up, but my eyelids still felt draggy. What was
happening to my life? I remembered the mirror scene in "Duck Soup"
-- nothing was what it seemed. "La Vida es Sueno" -- "Life is a
Dream," as Mr. Fernandez had lovingly emphasized to us, telling us the
story of that famous Spanish play when I was in the first grade.
I didn't ask what was in the bag, I figured he was going to tell me
and I wasn't quite sure I wanted to know.
"Is there anyone else here?" he said, half-rising, his eyes staring
at the bathroom door. He made a face, satisfied, and sat back down.
Then he leaned over and peered under the bed.
"Raul Castro may be hiding in the closet behind my trenchcoat," I
said. "Take a look."
"Got to be careful, Chucho." He dragged out several
plastic-wrapped packets of what looked like modeling clay and then a
box marked "Handle with Care." "Got to be prepared too," he said.
He opened the box and shook out several little rectangular pieces of
metal with pigtailed ends. Plastic explosives and detonators.
I felt I had joined the Intifadeh or the I.R.A. "Oh, shit, Paco. What
are you going to do with that little cache -- and how did you get it
through Security and Customs?"
"Some friends," he said, "'The Men' have friends everywhere."
"The Men" were dissatisfied with my progress, he said, and when my
mother had decided to come to Cuba, they had sent Paco along with
explosives and detonators and orders to set up a jail break. He must
have seen something on my face, because he suddenly said, "Automatic
weapons too, Chucho -- they're coming." He leered. "Help from the
Company. Don't worry."
Jesus! Why was I supposed to "not worry" about automatic
weapons. And explosives -- in the hands of a _bobo_ like Paco. The
fact that he was openly talking about C.I.A. involvement made it
worse, if anything. I asked him if _mamacita_ knew about all this
materiel. He winked and shook his head. "Don't want her to know
too much. Amelia always says a gentleman -- he used the word
_caballero_ -- shouldn't endanger a lady." The expression on his face
was solemn. I saw my mother through his eyes as a finishing-school
product, a rosary bead-teller. I pictured an old-fashioned duenna in
black lace with a mantilla.
Just then there was a knock on the door. Paco hurriedly scraped
the little packets and the pigtailed rectangles and the boxes into the
bag. I went to the door. My mother's muffled voice said, "What are
you idiots up to in there?" Resplendent in a pink peignoir that was
fitfully covered by the narrow folds of a black kimono, she first
frowned, then evidently deciding on a "family first" policy, she said,
"Chuchito, _mi_ _amor_!" and gave me a firm, businesslike _abrazo_.
I tried to hug her back but was impeded by the rigidity in her arm
muscles, which embraced but did not caress.
I don't know why that always surprises me -- but it does. Amelia
always has reasons for why my mother is as she is but I always forget
what they are. I suppose it has something to do with being our only
parent for all these years, but maybe more with her being an Olivera --
of the Olivera Pescaderia, S.A., which had a stranglehold on the spiny
lobster and scallops concessions in Cuban waters under Batista. And
with being related to the Bourbon kings of Spain way back, and having
spent the first years of the Revolution in the safe _americano_ haven of
Mt. Vernon School in Washington. Anyway, she was the only Mom I
had, and she was now in Havana, where she could only be trouble.
"What are you doing here, Mama?"
She smiled. "What a greeting." She yanked on my arms and
shook her head in mock dismay. "Sharper than a serpent's tooth." She
glanced down, making a face as she straightened out the ruffles on her
nightgown.
Paco frowned. "They didn't like your reports, Chucho."
I reminded him to call me "Felipe."
My mother looked at me sternly. "And the letter to Amelia said
so little. We've all been worried."
"Mr. Gomez..." Paco started to say.
My mother shushed him with a wave of her hand: "We thought
you might need some help -- so we're here!" She giggled, as if we
were starting out together on a Hawaiian vacation.
I tried telling her about the situation in Cuba, about my alias,
about the danger. "Pooh," she said.
"The risks must be run, Chucho," said Uncle Paco.
I thought about the explosives and my mother's ignorance of that
aspect of the trip.
"We're here perfectly legitimately," said my mother, "as members
of the 'Cuban community' visiting relatives -- there's my cousin Marta
and my niece Mary. You can keep on working as this 'Felipe' character
-- I'll see what I can do on my own." She made a face. She took out a
pillbox, grasped a pinch of coke, and sniffed it up her nose. "'Felipe
Elizalde'! What a name!"
"We'll see what we can do," said Paco.
Now what was _I_ going to do? The cruelty of my position was
that my status was so phony that I couldn't assert any rights at all --
and certainly not any right of making my mother and Paco buzz off
back to Miami and get the hell out of my hair.
Paco handed me two little bottles. "What are these?" I said, and
then, reading the labels saw that one was Dalmane for sleeping and the
other was Valium. Paco nodded. "Amelia thought you might be able
to use these. Also brought along some toilet paper." (Toilet paper
was a scarce item, like so many quasi-essential consumer goods in
Castroland.)
I did use the pills -- both kinds, and I slept like a log. Late
the next morning, I stood a long time looking out across the Avenida de
los Presidentes, watching runners jog along the track by the Malecon, with
the light mist over the sea wispy along the water's edge. As I felt the
warmth of the sun rise up from the concrete below, I began to look on
the brighter side of things. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have my mother
there -- she wouldn't be able to do anything, I thought, but she couldn't
do any harm -- as long as she didn't blow my cover. I thought I had
made my mother understand that if they didn't try to be extremely
circumspect about contacting me, if she kept calling calling me
"_amorcito_" on the phone, the secret police would soon have her
"little love" in jail -- and probably herself too. "_Ay_ _tonterias_,"
she said in reply. "I would never tell a soul about the 'Felipe' business.
I'm not a dodo, you know."
Naturally I also needed to think of some way to keep Uncle Paco
from playing dangerous games with his homemade bombs. As I lay on
the beach that afternoon, watching a group of red-backed Russians
playing volleyball, and deciding whether to try some mango juice as an
antidote to orange soda and sugar cane juice -- I missed my diet cola --
I felt the sudden crazy temptation to allow "Mommy" (and "Uncle"
Paco) take care of me, get me out of my difficulties. "Crazy" is right.
Mama was sure full of business. I told her about my experience
with MININT, and I hinted about Pierre's contretemps. She nodded
knowingly when I described the interview with my father -- "Just like
Fedy," she said, and took a sideways look at Paco, who was watching
a soccer game on TV and fiddling with one of the heavy-linked gold
chains she was always giving him.
She wasn't impressed by my story about Fidel. "I knew his wife's
people, the Diaz-Balarts, a good family. He married out of his class."
(As if that had anything to do with anything -- you'd think she was
considering inviting Fidel to a cotillion.) She said, "I'll take it up
with the courts, I used to know quite a few judges."
"Don't let them catch you sniffing coke," I said.
"Nonsense! What a fuss you make about that."
Well, she soon found out that there wasn't any judicial system in
Cuba anymore, there were courts, "People's Courts," "Special Courts,"
and so on, -- but no _system_. The judges were all non-professionals,
there were no rules of evidence. Undeterred, from there she attacked
MININT, but unlike me, she went to the Minister himself, who it
turned out was a distant cousin. But she came back from the interview
with a grim face. We were sitting on the terrace of the President,
looking toward downtown, with the Habana Libre -- formerly the
Hilton and still called that by many -- and the other highrises in the
Vedado area standing like jagged teeth in the near distance. Paco was
sipping a _mojito_, the national rum drink, I was making do with a
beer, Mama was downing her daiquiri as if she had just come in from
the desert.
"You know, Chu..." -- she caught herself "Felipe, there's one
power that they can't suppress here."
"What's that?" I said.
"The power of the press."
"But they control the press."
"They don't control the American press," she said, "not 'El
Herald,'" she said, referring to the Spanish edition of the Miami
newspaper.
"He doesn't care what the _gusanos_ say," I said.
She smiled. "We have to make him care this time, don't we
Paco?"
Paco was staring at a long-haired blonde in a very short dress.
"What?" he said. He stared at us and then smiled, "Sure Elenita, sure,
you're right as always."
"But first I have to see Fedy," she said, reaching over, taking
Paco's hand, and squeezing it tightly until he made a face.
My mother went, as I had, out to La Cabana to see Father. As she
described her visit, she gave him a piece of her mind. She was allowed
to see him alone, or almost alone, with a guard at the far end of the
room and no chicken wire in between. The guard even left them alone
for a few minutes -- a partial "conjugal visit." She told him that he
looked terrible, that he wasn't taking care of himself. She said he
started to raise his head in a familiar gesture of defiance, then stopped
and stared down at her as if she were a rare insect. At that, she said,
her throat caught, and she had to suppress a sob. His eyes also looked
misty, and he took her hand.
Her: Fedy, this can't go on.
Him: It can't be helped, Elenita.
Her: Come back to us, back to the family.
(At this point in her narrative, she stopped suddenly. I was
imagining that she wondered what she was going to do about Paco and
her other male friends if our "family" were reunited. But then she
sniffed and began again:)
Him: Nothing can be done. Fidel...
Her: Don't even mention that name. _Him_!
(Even many _habaneros_ were now calling their Maximum Leader
"_El_," or "He," so Mama was right in style.)
Mamacita made a face as she said this, and I wondered then if she
was thinking about taking on Fidel himself.
Him: He still respects me.
("Well," she said, "I didn't even try to argue with him about that,
I know it's craziness." She made a cuckoo sign with her hands and
continued her story:)
Her: Your son needs you, he's in trouble.
Him: Oh.
Her: Yes, your son needs you.
(At that point she described to him some of my "financial
problems" in -- "you know, a way he would understand." Or perhaps
deliberately _not_ understand, I thought. Good old Mama.)
Him: I'm sorry.
Her: Don't be sorry. (Then, whispering:) Just be ready!
Him: You don't understand.
Her (whispering loudly): JUST BE READY!
"So there!" she said, finishing her story. But I was wondering,
"ready" for what? And I pictured my father just sitting there
stubbornly, waiting impatiently for the Marxist millennium to turn up.
Waiting with dignity in his jail cell for his old pal Fidel to see the
light.
We were in her room at the Presidente. Through the window a
block of darkness lay between us and the lights of the Rampa and
downtown. Probably another power outage -- I imagined I could hear
the sound of the hotel's emergency diesel generators.
"I have not yet begun to fight," said my mother in Spanish, echoing
Juan Pablo Jones.
"Leave it to me and Chucho," said Paco.
She went to the window, her short, plump body casting a dark
shadow on the glass. "Castro!" She snorted. "_Canalla_." She
turned around, looking as if she were about to spit. "I'm just beginning
to enjoy this," she said. "I'll tell him. He can't do this to a good
American family!"
She spoke with vigor. I caught myself irrationally wondering
whom to feel sorry for: her -- or Fidel.
==================================================
MIDSUMMER'S NIGHT
(Part 1 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a
new version by Otho Eskin)
CHARACTERS:
MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of
a "patrician" family in the deep south
RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family
chauffeur.
CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook.
PLACE:
The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep
South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to
Cora's bedroom.
TIME:
Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's
Night (June 23). At Rise the sky, seen through the doors, is still
light. As the play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again
with morning.
SCENE 1
AT RISE: Somewhere in the distance can be heard the sound of a
trumpet playing a jazz tune. The trumpet fades. CORA stands at the
stove, cooking.
(CORA sings to herself.)
CORA
Some glad morning when this life is over, I'll fly away
To a land where joys shall never end, I'll fly away.
(Ransom enters, carrying a
trumpet. HE wears a
chauffeur's uniform.)
CORA
The Judge gone?
RANSOM
I put him on the four o'clock train for Memphis.
CORA
That was hours since.
RANSOM
I sat in at the dance Maybe you heard me playin? (He listens to the
music for a moment.) You mad 'bout missin' that dance?
(RANSOM carefully wipes his
trumpet with a cloth.)
CORA
Me? Not for a little thing like that.
RANSOM
You a sensible girl, Cora. You gone make a mighty fine wife.
(RANSOM puts his arms around CORA's waist.) Everbody there
tonight. You should go, Cora. You have some fun.
CORA
What 'bout the old man?
RANSOM
He won't be back to tomorrow mornin'. We got plenty of time.
CORA
(Shakes her head)
I be up since dawn at the cook-stove, makin' breakfast, makin' lunch,
gittin' dinner ready. Now you want some supper, I 'spect. I ain't been
off my feet for more'n five minutes. An' tomorrow I gotta git up real
early. It's Sunday, 'member, an' we gotta go to church.
RANSOM
It's only once a year, Cora. It's Midsummer night. Forget 'bout church
this once. It's gone down heavy over there. Jus' listen.
(THEY listen to the distant
music.)
CORA
You gone dance with me?
RANSOM
Of course. I promise. You my girl.
CORA
Maybe later, Ransom. Maybe later.
(RANSOM puts his trumpet
away.)
RANSOM
That woman crazy. I swear to God, she plumb crazy.
CORA
What you talkin 'bout, Ransom? Who crazy?
RANSOM
Miss Julie! I swear, that women be genuine crazy. You shoulda seen
the way she acted. Everone was laughin' at her. She didn' pay no mind.
What's wrong with her, you reckon?
CORA
I know her since she was a baby chile an' I ain't never been able to
make her out right. 'Course, anyone raised in this house bound to be
strange.
RANSOM
When she come in I was playin' an' she spot me an' rush up an' just up
an' ax me to dance with her.
CORA
(Turning to the stove)
She got no more sense than a flea. Course' she always be a sometimey
girl but it got worse ever since the fire.
RANSOM
Why didn't Miss Julie go with the Judge to Memphis 'stead of stayin'
here by herself with nobody 'round but the house servants? That not
natural.
CORA
Maybe she 'barrassed to be with her kin what with her 'gagement broke
off an' all.
RANSOM
Her young man seemed like a nice person for whitey. Always
treated me right. Even when he was liquored up.
CORA
It's not our place to talk personal 'bout the Judge an' he family...
RANSOM
Know what I saw, Cora? The two of them. With my own eyes.
Cora
You spyin' on them? You shouldn' spy on yore betters. You gotta
show respect.
RANSOM
I was workin' on the LaSalle when I seen them two down by the lilac
bushes at the corner of the garden. Miss Julie was doin' what she called
"trainin'" him. Know what she was doin'?
(CORA, despite herself, is
listening with interest. SHE
shakes her head.)
RANSOM
She was makin' him jump over her ridin'-crop like when you train a
dog. He done it twice. An' each time she hit him hard with the crop.
CORA
You tellin' a bald-faced lie, Ransom!
RANSOM
Gospel truth! The third time she tole' him to jump, he done up an'
grabbed the crop an' broke it in two an' walked away. They 'nounced
the engagement was broke off a week later. But I knowed it was all
over when I seen them two by the lilac bush.
(CORA turns back to the stove
and puts food onto a dish.)
CORA
This used to be a fine place. A fine, 'spectable family. Never been the
same since the fire. I know it's not our place to judge but...
(CORA brings the dish to the
table. RANSOM sits and begins
to eat.)
RANSOM
Sugar, I need somethin' to drink.
(CORA goes to the refrigerator
and takes out a bottle of
buttermilk.)
RANSOM
Not buttermilk, girl. This Midsummer's Night. Fetch me a beer.
CORA
You think that right, Ransom? Suppose somebody see?
RANSOM
Who gone see?
(CORA gets a bottle of beer
from the refrigerator. She opens
it and places it on the table.)
RANSOM
(Continued)
What 'bout a glass? We no field niggers. We know how to drink outta'
a glass.
(CORA laughs and brings a
glass.)
CORA
Where you get this here beer, Ransom?
(RANSOM begins to eat and
drink heartily.)
CORA
(Continued)
You done stole it from the Judge's cellar. Lord help the woman who
gits you for a husband!
RANSOM
You be lucky to get someone as good lookin' an' smart as me, girl.
(CORA runs her fingers through
RANSOM's hair. HE pushes her
hand away.)
RANSOM
Stop that! You know I don' like that.
CORA
It's only love.
(RANSOM returns to eating.
CORA begins to prepare
something on the stove.)
CORA
(Continued)
You the most conceited man I ever did meet in my entire life. An' that
includes my Pa, my three brothers and'the Dornan twins.
(RANSOM pushes away the
plate and gives a satisfied sigh.)
CORA
Whose fool idea was it to hold a dance tonight?
RANSOM
Me an' some of the boys...
CORA
You know the Judge wouldn' 'llow that kind of music on his place.
RANSOM
Well, the Judge ain't here, is he?
CORA
Somebody might report to the sheriff.
RANSOM
I don' worry none 'bout the sheriff. If you wan' somebody to worry
'bout, worry 'bout the night riders.
CORA
They ain't been no night riders in these parts for years.
RANSOM
I bin hearin' things, Cora. But don' you worry. I kin take care a'
myself.
CORA
What you talkin' about, Ransom?
(RANSOM walks to a dresser,
opens it and takes out an old
revolver from under a pile of
clean shirts. CORA stares in
shock.)
RANSOM
Any those crackers tries to come here an' make trouble, they gonna find
it, sure.
CORA
I cain't hardly believe you talkin' like that, Ransom. Where'd you git
that gun?
RANSOM
My daddy found it years ago out back in the bushes behind the big
house. Give it to me 'case I needed some protectin'.
CORA
You put that gun away! I don' like guns.
RANSOM
I'm jus' tellin' you, you got nothin' to fear from Mr. Charley.
CORA
I got plenty to fear from you, Ransom! You gone kill somebody with
that thing. You don' know a damn thing 'bout guns. You git rid of it,
hear!
(RANSOM puts the gun away.)
RANSOM
Don' worry, sugar, I don' aim to make no trouble 'less trouble come
lookin' for me.
(Disgustedly, CORA goes to the
stove and begins to make a
concoction in a large pot.)
RANSOM
What that you makin' over there, Cora?
CORA
Somethin' for Miss Julie's bird.
RANSOM
How come you gotta cook for some bird on a holiday? The bird sick or
somethin'?
CORA
That what she say. I promised I'd make a special medicine my mama
taught me. It'll cure a bird a' any sickness. You know how particular
Miss Julie be 'bout that bird a' hers.
RANSOM
I say Miss Julie be altogether too particular about a lot a' things.
(RANSOM goes to the refrigerator and takes out another beer.) An'
then, sometimes, she not particular enough to my way of thinkin'.
CORA
I reckon she favors her mama there.
RANSOM
Was the Judge's wife crazy as they say?
CORA
She had her ways. She'd spend all her time here in the kitchen or out in
the old stables. But when she went to town she insist the LaSalle it be
polished so bright it hurt you' eyes to look at. She git her skirts all
filthy out there in the garden or the fields but she wore her good jewels
all the time. 'Course, after the fire she took poorly. At the end, the
old lady she crazy as a betsey bug.
RANSOM
Our Miss Julie, she got no respect for herself or for her position neither.
Like jus' now, in the barn, dancin' with the field hands. That's not right.
We wouldn' do somethin' like that. That's what happens when white
folks try an' ack common. They become common. But I gotta say...
(CORA turns and regards
RANSOM.)
CORA
What you gotta say, Ransom?
RANSOM
She's a damn sightly woman...
CORA
I don' like talk like that. Talk like that mean nothin' but trouble.
(MISS JULIE enters through the
garden doorway.
CORA
Why, good evenin', Miss Julie.
===================================================
===================================================
