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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 1, Number 2
September-October, 1994
EDITOR'S NOTES:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the internet -- starting with
this issue, on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short
stories, play scripts or excerpts of plays, excerpts of novels or
serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine
are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a
group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the
magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes
material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same
address. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail or
by anonymous ftp from
ftp.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines, or by gopher at
gopher.cic.net under "electronic serials."
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
ngwazi@clark.net
=================================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Notes
Contributors
"Deux Bagatelles Africaines"
Hamid Temembe
"Waking Up Is Hard to Do," a short-short story
Mike Barker
"Paulie," a short story
Judith Greenwood
"Braver Kerl," an excerpt (chapter 2) from the novel "In
Search of Mozart"
William Ramsay
"Speak, Muse," a ten-minute play
Otho Eskin
=================================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington.
His play "Duet" will be produced this fall at the Elizabethan
Theater at the Folger Library. "Speak, Muse" was produced at a
recent Source Theater Festival.
MIKE BARKER is a writer and a computer and network professional.
He has recently worked in Japan, where he has been an interested
observer of the clash of new technology with societal constraints.
JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international
interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer and
herpetophobe. She was the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group
of Washington, DC.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy
problems. He recently published a short story, "Heritage," in
"Nebo." His ten-minute play, "Susie B.," was produced at the
Source Theater Festival in 1992.
DR. HAMID TEMEMBE attended lycee in Abidjan and received his
medical training in Montpellier and Paris. Before his recent
untimely death, he was the director of a psychiatric clinic in West
Africa.
=================================================================
DEUX BAGATELLES AFRICAINES
by Hamid Temembe
Stars
Etoiles d'Afrique,
Donnez-moi la sagesse de ma race.
Remplissez-moi de la fortitude des lions,
La memoire des elephants,
Et la malignite des sorciers -- mes ancetres.
[Stars of Africa/ Give me the wisdom of my race/ Fill me with the
hardiness of the lions/ The memory of the elephants/ And the
cunning of the witchdoctors -- my forefathers] *
Ancient Gods
Dieux anciens, anciens dieux encore vivants dans nos coeurs,
Donnez-nous la puissance qui nous manque,
Enlevez-nous nos douleurs ravissantes et insupportables.
Enlevez-moi, emmenez-moi aux seins des anges,
Des anges blonds et pales,
Des etres lointains du coeur obscur de l'Afrique,
De la foret surabondante qui m'etouffe dans un tombeau de vert vif!
[Ancient gods, former gods still living in our hearts/ Give us the
power that we lack/ Lift from us our thrilling, unbearable sorrows/
Lift me, carry me to the breasts of the angels/ Blonde, pale
angels/ Beings distant from the hidden heart of Africa /From the
burgeoning jungle that strangles me in a tomb of living greenery]*
- Translations by the editor
==============================================================
WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
by Mike Barker
Some mornings you really should turn over, pull the covers
up, and go back to sleep.
That's what I should have done at the beginning.
Instead, when I heard the screech, screech, screech from the
closet door, I got up and opened it. Then I went back and
flopped on the bed.
Too many years with dogs. They might never have been trained
well, but I certainly was.
So I missed the invasion.
It could have happened to anyone.
I slept through the whole thing. Since I opened the door,
they let me sleep.
As they were leaving, I woke up again. Probably the hinges
on the closet needed oiling. So I turned over and managed to get
one eyelid up in time to see a purple face grinning at me from
the darkness while a tastefully green-tinted arm pulled the
closet door shut again.
Obviously it saw me, for it paused long enough to tell me,
gently, "If you have any more problems, we'll be in your closet."
I thought about it.
Then I listened to the silence outside. Monday morning, the
middle of the city, I'd overslept, and it was completely silent
outside.
So I turned over, pulled the covers up, and went back to
sleep.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
When I wake up, I'm going to nail that door shut.
=============================================================
MY COUSIN PAULIE
by Judith Greenwood
Some people are born lucky. That's what everyone
always said about my cousin Paulie and his wife Marie.
When I was a kid, everything I wanted to know was
something Paulie already knew. So he taught me. He
showed me how to track Indians through the cool silent
woods where we lived in Maine. I guess Paulie must have
broken the twigs and bent the ferns, because that was
real, but now I realize the Indians were imaginary. I
believed in them totally at the time. He taught me to
swim in their pond, and how to dive cleanly off the rock
in the middle, not bellyflopping like a dumb kid. We
stole my uncle's tractor one time and Paulie taught me to
shift gears. Paulie knew everything, I thought, and it
seemed like a miracle that he wanted to teach me what he
knew. The other boys his age, seven years older than me,
didn't even notice little girls, except when they wanted
someone to pick on.
My clearest memory of Paulie is of the last Fourth of
July night that we lived in Maine. He taught me how to
light firecrackers that year. I was twelve, and I was
secretly terrified by things that burned and exploded --
the grown-ups always told us stories about children whose
hands or eyes were blown away in accidents with
firecrackers. But Paulie patiently showed me the safe way
to light each kind we had. At the end we had only
sparklers left, and he pushed a ring of them into the
dirt, then stood inside. He had me light them while he
lit others that he held between his fingers, in fan
shapes, over his head. He looked like a fearsome god to
me, tall and cruel, surrounded by a ring of hissing fire
and holding fire in his hands. The vision still haunts
me. Paulie owned my soul back then.
Paulie seemed enormous to me when I was a child! He's
still tall, loose-limbed and rangy like a high school
track star. His face never aged like other peoples', even
grown he had a face that didn't show much, that seemed
innocent, and he had a grin that disarmed everyone -- his
teachers, his bosses, and then his clients when he opened
his own brokerage firm. No one ever called him Paul; it
was always Paulie.
We moved away from Maine, suddenly, that fall when I
was almost thirteen. I came home one day during the
second week of school, and my mother was packing. We were
moving to Baltimore. My father had a new job with a steel
company there. It all came up so fast that we didn't even
have time to see our families or collect my school
records. The grades and my medical reports came in big
brown envelopes to our house in Reisterstown, and my
mother took me and my grades to the big new junior high
school there, and I began the new life I had to learn on
my own, without Paulie to tell me what it meant or to show
me how to be cool.
It was hard. My parents didn't seem to understand how
scary it was to start a new school and learn a new city
all at once. My mother caught me crying in my room one
afternoon. She tried to comfort me, but I blamed them for
the pain and loneliness I felt, and I wouldn't be
comforted. "You're being selfish," she said. "You can't
imagine the sacrifices your dad has made to take this job.
He has enough to worry about without you whining about
things that he can't change. In a year you'd have been
going to town for high school. This is almost the same
thing, only a year early."
The only sign that they understood any of it was the
nervous attention my mother paid to the few new friends I
gradually brought home from school with me toward the last
of the year. She hovered a little too much, but it
reassured me that she did know that the town and the
school were way too big for a New England village girl to
handle entirely alone. But as I faced the challenges of
finding something, anything, I dreamed of home less and
less.
Eventually I understood that my whole life depended on
that move. Where I came from, no one had ever known a
person who made his living from art. The museums and art
classes that life in Maryland offered opened roads I'd
never known existed. I came to forgive them for the sake
of my new life, and when they died I prayed that they knew
how grateful I was that they had fearlessly moved on from
the country life they had always known and had later
willingly supported me through an education that must have
seemed strange and frivolous to them. As was typical of
our family, this was never spoken, and like love, concern,
caring and all other sentiment, it had to be taken as a
given. A mother loves her child. A child loves and
honors her parents. Each is grateful for what is given,
but there are no words.
In all that time, we never went back to Maine and no
one from Maine ever visited us. I had been so sure that
we'd go back to visit in the summer, that when we went to
Bethany Beach instead that first year, I asked my mother
why, why we weren't going back, at least to say the good
byes we'd never said. She was grim-faced. "Don't talk
about it. Don't say those things to your father. We live
here now. The beach is where people here go in the
summer." I decided that there had been some terrible
falling out between my father and his family -- some
breach between them that none of them cared to mend. This
also was never spoken, but I could tell that I made my
mother nervous for a long time.
I didn't meet Marie until Paulie brought her here
several years after they were married. They just showed
up one day. It had been almost thirty years since I had
seen Paulie, but I knew him at once. I was speechless
with surprise and didn't move, but Paulie came in my door
and wrapped me entirely in his long arms. My face was
pressed against his chest and his smell was familiar, a
scent of grass and good dirt overlying something animal
and disturbingly uncivilized; just the same in spite of
all those years. It took me minutes to overcome the shock
of finding it so, but he held me tight until I stopped
trembling and my sobs changed to something more
sentimental than hysterical. "She always did cry at
everything," he said to Marie. "Are you still a sissy?"
he asked me. I felt a wordless anger, and that was the
same, too.
It was Marie I had to learn about. Paulie seemed no
different. He had told her about me and how we had grown
together from the day my mother brought me home from the
hospital until I went away thirteen years later. He said
that when they showed him the little package, tightly
wrapped in a pink flannel receiving blanket, they told him
they had brought him something, a cousin, and that at
first he wished they had got him a dog instead.
Paulie and Marie had met on the West coast. At that
time Paulie was working for a brokerage in Washington.
They'd been nearby for a year, but Paulie had only
recently learned that I lived there too, and had begun
looking for me immediately. They lived in Virginia; I
live in a distant suburb in Maryland.
The peculiarity of Washington is that you can live "in
Washington" and actually live twenty-five miles and three
telephone books away. When I finally achieved a steady
and decent income as a free-lance illustrator, I gave up
my salaried work, took the modest inheritance from my
parents, and bought a house near a small town that was
several miles off one of the huge interstate highways that
plow out through the countryside and create the urban
sprawl that allows millions to say they are from
Washington. I was not easy to find.
But Paulie found me, and without so much as a phone
call, he reentered my world.
Marie was frail, but ignored it with an endearing
toughness; bright, but deferent to Paulie's quick
brilliance. She'd had a glamorous but hard youth as the
child of a foreign service family. She'd been everywhere,
but never had a real home or friends she could keep.
Without knowing all the details, I knew she'd suffered a
lot before she met Paulie. She had two little girls whom
Paulie had adopted, and people used to say how lucky she'd
been to find a man who didn't mind the children.
The second time they came they brought the girls.
They seemed a real family. Paulie had taken a wife who
was crazy about him. Marie had a man who gave her the
love and security she'd never had before. The two girls
had a father who couldn't love them more if they were his
own blood. They began to make me a part of their lives
from then on. How many people have that kind of luck?
I live in an odd house that once was part of a great
estate. The manor house burned down in the Forties,
leaving only the grounds and this outbuilding. When I
found it, it looked shabby and unpromising. The five
acres around my house conveyed with this unlikely
structure. The rest of the once grand gardens were
bulldozed and divided into two acre plots by rail fences
and built over with huge colonial style houses. I thought
that the five acres were left so that the new houses could
be properly buffered from this raffish building and its
pool, difficult to bulldoze into submission because of the
great rock ribs that surfaced only here and there, but lay
under everything and probably extended right through to
China. The idea of living in a house no one else wanted
appealed to me. I preferred the reference to former glory
still perceptible in the stone trimmed pool, the gone to
seed and awkwardly aging shrubberies and weathered cedar
siding of the former garages and pool cabana. It was
isolated from everything and everyone. It was
astoundingly right for me.
The building was squat and round, like a short, fat
silo, or the lighthouses peculiar to the Chesapeake Bay.
You could dive from it into the pool below, if you were
braver than I. Beyond the pool, the rocks and ledges that
had saved the place rose to a small cliff, hiding
everything except the road end of the driveway of the last
of the new houses. No one wanted it before me. I was
satisfied.
Paulie and Marie bought the house whose driveway I
could see. I was shocked and edgy when they told me. It
was only the third resale in the project; I hadn't even
known it was for sale. Marie explained, "We thought it
would be nice for the girls to be near family."
"And you have the best pool for miles," Paulie joked.
"Really, Connie, it just made so much sense. We were
ready to move up, the house came on the market, and it was
next to you! Now that we've found you, we wanted to be
near. We love you," Marie said softly, "you belong to
us."
I found it hard to work at first, after they moved in.
I was used to being alone. Suddenly I had drop-in
visitors. I was invited to dinner and to parties. I met
their friends and the clientele Paulie was building. I
had to learn how to accept them into my house and my pool.
I had to get used to seeing people in my landscape when I
painted. Debby Warner, a neighbor who had not, as others
had, given up on the reclusive artist who lived alone in
what locals called "the carriage house", called on me,
clearly curious about the new people.
"I didn't even know you had any relatives here. You
never mentioned them," she pried.
"I didn't know they were here," I said, "we lost touch
years ago."
"And they just happened to buy the house next door to
you? How strange!"
"Not really," I answered, "Paulie and I were close as
kids. When they found I was here, they looked for a house
near me. Paulie and Marie are very family oriented. It
isn't any odder than all the Kennedys having their summer
places together."
"So you knew they were coming? You seem so determined
to keep to yourself, I'm surprised it suited you.
Frankly, Connie, I'm the only neighbor who ever gets in
here, and that's only because you're too polite to refuse
me the door, and I'm too fascinated by you and your work
to give up," she babbled on. "Now, suddenly, you're
having a social life. I mean, they're like that; they
invite everybody. But you aren't like them -- or never
have been. And you still don't visit around with any of
the rest of us."
"Well, I didn't know they were coming," I admitted. I
was interested that someone as ordinary as Debby seemed to
confirm my uneasy sense of invasion.
"I think that's strange, Connie. The Kennedys have
always been together; they built that place on purpose.
You, on the other hand, have been living like a hermit all
this time, and they just show up and move in next door?
It's your right, after all, if you choose to be alone. It
seems very ... aggressive to me. Worse than me!"
I felt a ball of cobwebs form in my throat. I wanted
her out, out of my house and out of my face. I was no
longer interested in how her feelings jibed with mine. I
certainly didn't want to share my feelings or doubts with
her. I was suddenly afraid of her curiosity. I would
find it hard to retrace the tiny beginnings I had made at
acceptance if she wrecked them. "It is different, Debby.
They are my family, and the connection goes back over
forty years." She swallowed, measured the rejection, and
when I looked at my watch and exclaimed that I had a
deadline to meet by the end of the day, she apologized for
taking my time and left.
I had no deadline, so I spent the afternoon working
hard at cleaning my studio, the bathroom, the kitchen. I
let my mind wander and mend as I worked. By the end of
the day I had settled that what I told Debby was right,
and I wasn't irritated with Paulie and his family any
more. Over the next weeks I thoughtfully accepted the
connection and learned to fit the relationships into my
once private existence. I even developed a distant
interest in all of them.
Marie's girls were beautiful teenagers, but loud and
busy, too. Sandra was the older. She looked like Marie
-- tiny, wren-like, matter-of-fact and confident. She was
always ready to go, always had something to say; she moved
through life at full tilt.
Molly was fifteen. She was tall, with pale blonde
hair and gray eyes that were set perfectly straight under
blond brows as straight as the eyes. She looked sturdy.
She surprised me by becoming giggly in bursts like gun
shots out of a quiet, thoughtful character. Where Sandra
would brag about her popularity and her accomplishments,
Molly said little. When I went for a walk, Sandra would
jump up and ask to go. If I asked Molly, she would send
me a stunning smile and she would go eagerly, but she
never asked. I liked Molly best. She wasn't like anyone.
Not like Paulie and not like Marie.
Sandra would stand under my window and yell, "Connie!
Are you taking company?" If I wasn't busy I would gesture
her in. Molly never did that. I had to call out to her
and invite her. and then she would come in for tea, hardly
talking, but what conversation we had was punctuated with
those charming bursts of glee.
Sometimes I would see one of the girls walking alone,
head down, feet scuffing at my overgrown paths. I noticed
that Molly would run to the pool and throw herself in,
swimming as if her life depended on it until she could
swim no more. At first it seemed like very strenuous
exercise, but I soon saw that it was more than that.
Afterwards, she would lie exhausted for a long time on the
warm stone coping. I painted her there like that.
There was something abstract about her prone brown
body on the gray stones, my shaggy garden and bright pool
large and indistinct around her. No matter how I played
with the composition, she was never just a shape in the
design. She was always the focus.
Paulie kept irregular hours, sometimes up before dawn
to catch the European market news, often home in the
afternoons. He invited himself to lunch a few times. We
drank wine and he tried to make me laugh at the silly
little kid who followed her big, hero-cousin around like a
faithful pet. I didn't want to laugh at my childish self,
but in his fashion, Paulie would become more outrageous
and exaggerated until I laughed at his caricature of
little me. I felt a twinge of insecurity at the way the
past might seem to be reasserting itself, but he never
made the connection, and somehow we too never talked about
the sudden and complete rupture between our families.
The third time he came, he saw one of the paintings of
Molly. He looked at it very seriously. I waited for him
to say something about her limp exhaustion; the picture
reeked of it. Every time I painted her I wondered why she
punished herself that way, and why no one else seemed to
notice.
"That's interesting, what you've done with her," was
what he finally said. "She's a beautiful young woman,
isn't she?" Then he went on to something else.
A few days later, Sandra came to watch me work. Break
time came, and we had Cokes and sat in my canvas sling
chairs. "By the way," she said, "Mom wanted me to tell
you to come to dinner on Saturday. She's gonna drag out
another man for you, but don't tell her I told you."
I shrugged and grinned. Marie piped in a seemingly
endless supply of hot and cold running young men who made
me feel old. Molly appeared in the garden below. "Oh!
Dad's home." Sandra jumped up. "I better go see if he
wants anything. Don't forget Saturday!"
Molly started to swim her laps. For a second I
wondered why Sandra connected her appearance with Paulie
being home, but then I realized that he must have been
doing a car pool or something. I pulled out a canvas I'd
prepared that was ready for another Molly, swimming this
time, I'd decided.
Sandra came back the next day to talk about my clothes
for Saturday. "It's important, Connie. I found out who
it is, and he's a good one. I promise! He's just come
back from overseas, so you haven't met him yet."
"They're all okay," I said, "they just haven't been
for me."
She tipped her head and studied me. "This one's
different." She pulled things from my closet, strewing
them over my bed until it looked like her room. "You need
to find a good man," she earnestly told me, "art is all
very well, but a woman needs a good man."
"You're prejudiced," I laughed, "because your mother
has been so happy with Paulie. Marriage isn't like that
for everyone."
"You haven't even tried it," she snorted. "I think
you're afraid about love. But you're right, there aren't
any like Dad. But he's taken now." She had by then put
together an outfit she seemed to like, a getup that
drooped and swayed like an exotic dancer's costume.
"Don't you think there should be a little more to
this?" I asked her. "Like maybe pants or even a dress
under it? I've never worn an outfit consisting entirely
of accessories before."
"Try it!" she insisted. "It might change your life."
She grinned at me. "You can't hide your light under a
bushel. Men are more visual than women."
"Is that so!"
"Trust me, Con, this I know."
"And how is that? Is there a man in your life that I
don't know about? I thought you couldn't date yet."
She sobered. "Mom and Dad don't think it's a good
idea for young girls to go out except in groups until
college. Well, do what you want." She threw the clothes
down on my bed and walked out! I couldn't imagine what I
had said to offend her, but all I know about teenagers is
that no one seems to understand them.
We had dramatic storms that summer, and when they blew
I could hear something flapping on the roof. There was a
panel in the ceiling that led to a trapdoor in the roof.
When I went up I found that a weathervane had come loose
on one side so that in a high wind it would jerk back and
forth instead of turning smoothly. I went back down for
tools and then up again to fix it. The roof barely
sloped. It was easy to stand on.
When I'd finished, I sat and looked out over the
neighborhood. As wide and beautiful as my view was, it
was oriented in one direction. The view from my roof was
spectacular. I could see everything from here. I could
even see over the cliff to Marie and Paulie's house.
Paulie's car pulled into the driveway. Marie's car was
gone. I waved at him, but he didn't see me and he went
into their house.
I lay down in the strong sun. It felt good, but the
shingles soon poked into my back, so I gave it up and went
inside, closing the trap behind me. I worked distractedly
at something I suspected wasn't any good. Then Molly came
into the garden. Bored with my work, I wandered toward
the window and concentrated on seeing her as a painting
again.
The dry garden looked hard and browny-green. The pool
was as still and dark as smoked mirror. Molly was the
only soft thing out there. She looked as soft and
meltable as a beige sun cream I use, and just as
impermanent. I felt a sharp gut-wrench of guilt at my
ability to depersonalize her so, to force her into my flat
design.
It made me think. What was it about Molly? I stared
at her while she walked, no, she marched around the garden
for long minutes. And then, as unexpected as those bursts
of hilarity, she exploded into the pool. She swam, hard
and fast. When she pulled herself out, she was even
weaker than usual, she was barely able to crawl. For a
minute I thought I should go out and rescue her, she
seemed so worn, but then I saw Sandra coming to get her.
It was dinner time. I started to go to cook mine, but I
turned back and watched them -- Sandra supporting Molly
and looking into her face with worry and fear.
So they knew. They see it too. They know something
is wrong with Molly, I thought. I was relieved.
The next time Sandra came I made sure one of my Molly
paintings was out. She walked toward it and looked for a
long time. She asked me quietly, "What happens to girls
like Molly?"
"Like what?" I asked her. "What about her?"
"Girls who have a hard time growing up, becoming
women."
"Do you think that's what's wrong with Molly?"
"What else?" she cried. "We try to help, but she can't
get past it."
"Why do you think that's her problem, Sandra?" I
urged.
She jerked her head up at me. "What do you think it
is?"
I shook my head. "I don't know, Sandra."
"Oh...I thought...with the painting," she stumbled a
bit with her words. "I thought maybe you knew..."
"No, I don't." And I didn't.
It was almost the end of that long summer when it
finished. I'd been out shopping in the city for food and
art supplies. When I drove up the rough track that wound
toward my house, I noticed Paulie was just leaving their
well-groomed drive. I pulled around to the back and
wrestled my heavy bags up the stairs. I put away the
groceries and threw the bag of supplies into a corner
until I felt more like organizing them. I went to shower
away the dirt and sweat of the humid day.
When I was done, I dressed in crisp, clean cottons and
went down my lovely stairs into my gorgeous room and
looked out at my wonderful view. It was one of those
rare, smugly triumphant moments. The world was right with
me.
Then I noticed a scrap of something quite large just
showing from behind a huge boulder under the cliff. I
couldn't imagine what had blown into my idyllic scene to
mar it. Damning my careless neighbor, whose trash it
would be, I went out, although I knew I'd lose the cool
freshness of my shower. I walked toward it, and when I
reached the top of the submerged boulder, I saw that it
was Molly. I ran, frightened by her stillness. As I
neared, my panic grew to rage that her casual invasion of
my property had scared me to such a state. I reached her
and touched her arm.
She was a fool to think that falling from a thirty
foot cliff would kill her, but she was right. I was too
late. Maybe it had always been too late for me. She wore
the stained and stretched out white tank suit she swam in.
She didn't look soft any more; she looked broken.
I've told you what I think I knew. I think I have
been truthful, and now you must tell me. Should I have
known more? If I hadn't spent those hours painting her,
again and again, would I have touched her instead? Asked
her the right questions? Given her someone to tell? Is
that what another woman would have done? Would have
another woman have seen the scars in Marie's eyes? Or
would anyone, seeing only the fringes of tragedy cross her
window, have failed to find the fabric of which it was
wrought?
You see, I'd forgotten about Paulie. I only
remembered in great painful gasps and terrors as Sandra
babbled out the story over the next few days to the police
and the child protection counselors. What was wrong with
Molly was that she couldn't find the ways we lucky ones
found to cope. Molly wasn't like any of us.
My cousin Paulie, the brilliant, funny, childish
friend to all, had systematically introduced his lovely
adopted daughters to -- what? He called it love.
He called it the same thing when he was eighteen and I
was eleven. We had moved to Baltimore right after my
first "grown-up" exam by my pediatrician in Maine.
And now I remember. I must remember it all for them
at his trial. They won't let me do what he deserves from
me, but will allow me only to tell what is was like to be
eleven and to have a lifetime of love turn to terror and
pain, all the worse because it was mixed up with the habit
of loving and hero worship. I will tell how I was taught
to hide this thing because he was my cousin, and cousins
are not allowed to be in love, and then how I knew even I
must never remember, because I was so bad that my father
had to turn his back on his brother. But I remember, and
now I remember things I never saw and will never forget.
She creeps out onto the cliff. I know just what it's
like for her out there. She walks (or does she crawl?)
across the stone, rough and silver like the shingles of my
roof. She would seem small from my window. And then she
bursts off it, arching through the air, soft, soft and
melting with despair, until she breaks on the ground.
Any one of my paintings would do as a record of her
death.
===========================================================
BRAVER KERL
by William Ramsay
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 2 of the novel "In Search of
Mozart"]
Leopold stared at the runnels of frozen rain on the uneven
panes of the window overlooking the Rue Benoit. Wolferl was
still crying. Soon it would be New Year's, 1764, his son would
be turning eight on January 27. He had been watching Wolferl for
the past few weeks and he was worried. Wolferl had been acting
listless, it was even beginning to affect his playing. The
glamour of their Grand Tour of Europe and the novelty of the
"visits" to the palaces of kings and nobles were beginning to
wear off. He was trying everything he could think of to distract
the children. Excursions, puppet shows, lessons. Wolferl liked
languages and he had started giving the children hard candies as
prizes for keeping journals in French or English. But Wolferl
had just had a vicious quarrel with Nannerl -- his son had thrown
himself on the floor, tearing his hair, while Nannerl shouted at
him that he was stupid.
Wolferl, sobbing, cried out, "I can so speak French!"
"Nannerl, go run and help your mother," Leopold had said,
and he had pushed her gently toward the door.
Now he looked at his son's slight figure, the whites of the
eyes pink, the little button nose runny. Leopold was
embarrassed. He had told Wolferl last Christmas in Vienna that
soon they could go home "for a long time." Now, less than a year
later, he had committed them to being away for Lord knows how
long. But it wasn't his fault, it had to be done. They just had
to seize the day, the children must make the most of their
"prodigy" years. He leaned down to give Wolferl a hug -- but
Wolferl yelled, "You're crushing Paul!" and grabbed at the thin
air, making stroking motions. Him and his "Paul"!
Something must be done before Wolferl did something really
stupid -- he didn't look forward to a grumpy "Paul" being
presented to King Louis at Versailles!
***
The coach was drafty, but Wolfgang felt warm under the blue
blanket on the road from Paris. Paul sat on the wooden ledge
under the little isinglass window in back. They drove right into
the courtyard of the palace, where they found a crowd of people.
Everybody shoved and pushed, and somebody stepped on his toe --
right on his new blue satin slipper. A very tall man in a great
white wig, a servant, shouted to his father to step back.
Wolfgang felt his father's hand pushing him forward, his head hit
the tall man's leg. The servant raised a long black rod and
Wolfgang thought he was going to hit Papa. But then his father
said, in French, "Kapellmeister Mozart and his family!" Someone
behind the big servant repeated, "Maitre de Chapelle Mozart."
Then the noise died down, and other servants pushed people aside,
making a path for them, and the tall servant led them, his father
first, with Wolfgang pulling Paul by the hand, into a vast
mirrored hall with the longest, most shining table he had ever
seen. It was New Year's Day, when all the nobles and other
important people from all over gathered to stand behind the
chairs of the royal family while they ate dinner. What a table!
There were fresh flowers in vases of crystal and gold, and
candelabra holding eight candles, lots of them, even though it
was broad daylight. And on the tablecloth there were layers of
colored sand, pink and green and purple, with designs of harps or
bouquets of flowers drawn into them. He had thought that the
palaces in Vienna were beautiful, but this one was something
marvelous. Even Paul was impressed. But it was so strange that
people didn't bow down to the King as he went by, and nobody
kissed his hand or anything, like in Vienna. Paul was going to
bow, but he warned him not to, just in time.
It was very crowded and he felt awfully small. But then
another tall servant pushed him into a spot right in back of the
Queen. Wolfgang was afraid, everybody seemed to be looking at
him, and he lost sight of Paul. Then the Queen spoke to him --
in German. She asked him all about what he had been doing, and
how he liked Paris. And he told her he liked Paris, but that he
liked Versailles even better -- which he knew would please her,
and which besides was true. When he heard the German words, Paul
sidled up to them. Wolfgang could speak French, he could say
"Merci" and "S'il vous plait," and just anything he wanted to,
but Paul hated the French and wouldn't learn the language. Down
the table sat a fat-faced but pretty lady they called Madame de
Ponder [Pompadour], who looked like the Empress in Vienna.
Madame de Ponder was very important, even though he couldn't
figure out why exactly -- but she had a frown on her face and
wouldn't talk to him. She looked like someone who might bawl him
out. He backed up into somebody and fell down on his hands and
knees. The skin on the palm of his hand got scraped and he
thought he would cry. But then Madame the Dolphin -- or whatever
her name was, her husband was the King's son -- reached down and
lifted him up and gave him the biggest bonbon he'd ever seen. He
asked for another one, for Paul. They may not have kissed the
King's hand, but there were lots of other kisses. Every one of
the Royal Princesses kissed him! And the Queen, too, she put out
her hand for him to kiss, and he gave her a lot of kisses,
because she had been so nice to him -- and because she was the
Queen. She even kissed Paul, although Paul didn't usually like
kissing, but after all, it was the Queen. Wolfgang wished he
were the Queen's son. He loved Mama, but still!
"I'd like to be a prince and sit down at the table, not just
stand behind it!" he told his father afterward. His father's
face looked pained, and he thought for a minute that his father
was going to get angry at him.
But then Papa laughed. "You have something better than rank
and titles."
He looked at his father's stern face.
"You have genius," his father said.
He meant his music. Wolfgang saw Paul making one of his
faces. Why did everybody make such a fuss about his music?
And nobody could tell him that "genius" was as good as being
a prince. Princes didn't have to practice so many hours a day.
Besides, if he were a prince, he could command them to find
more friends for him to play with! Even Paul would like that!
***
The engraving finally arrived one misty day in November.
Leopold had to smile as he showed his wife von Mechel's work.
Their son was shown sitting on the bench in front of the keyboard
with the stiff tails of his fancy coat sticking up and out like
some kind of jaunty rooster. With luck, they would sell
thousands of these. What wonderful advertising!
"I like the pose," he said. "Look! Wolfgang at the
keyboard, me standing behind his chair playing the violin, and
Nannerl leaning on the harpsichord with one arm, with the other
holding music, as if she were singing."
Wolfgang, at the harpsichord practicing, had been listening.
"But why is Nannerl pretending she's singing, Papa? She doesn't
sing!"
"I do so sing, I sing all the time, you've heard me sing,
you little idiot!" said Nannerl. Her hands were on her hips and
the ribbons in her hair jiggled.
"You can't sing a note! It's all a lie." And Wolfgang
jumped up from the keyboard. "I can sing, I can do anything in
music!"
"Sit down! You sit down now or you won't be able to sit
down tonight," said Leopold.
Wolferl lifted his little chin high, as if he were about to
crow. "And better than anyone!"
Leopold raised one finger and shook it. "I've warned you
about constantly saying things like that!"
His son sat down.
"That's better. You'll learn, Wolferl, that what we're
doing is posing." He added, under his breath, "We do a lot of
posing."
"Can I do the posing as a singer next time?" asked Wolferl.
Nannerl yelled in protest.
"Quiet," roared Leopold. "There will be plenty of posing
for everyone on this tour, that I promise you."
Wolferl stood looking thoughtful for a minute. Then he
whispered something to his imaginary friend. "Paul and I like
posing," he said earnestly.
Leopold chuckled, and his wife laughed until tears glittered
on her cheeks. That night in bed, Leopold smiled to himself and
then turned to his wife. "That was amusing about the 'posing'
today."
"Yes," she said, "our son seems ready to take center stage."
"Yes, he certainly does."
"And he isn't the only one," she said, pushing back a ribbon
on her nightcap that had come untied.
"You mean me, I suppose?" She nodded. "Well, I guess
you're right. I like the 'posing' too."
"But will Nannerl get her share of it all, Mozart?"
"Her share? Of course she should by rights, she's a
talented musician. But I know what you mean, it isn't the same."
No, she's just a girl," his wife said bitterly.
Leopold moved over and put his arm around her. "She plays
superlatively, better than most women -- or men. It's just that
she isn't as quick at improvising and she hasn't got his trick of
playing pieces from memory after just one hearing. Lord," he
said, shaking his head, "he really is remarkable."
"What happens to her -- and to him -- when they grow up,
Mozart?" Her voice was solemn as a sermon.
He thought for a minute, pushing the feather bed down away
from his chin. He sighed. "She'll marry, he'll be a great
musician -- another Handel. What do you mean, 'What will happen
to them'! Sometimes I just don't understand you, Marianne!"
***
It was another rainy Parisian day. "Ah, my ace takes your
queen at last," said the Countess van Eyck to Marianne Mozart.
The Countess' lovely cheeks were flushed with pink blotches.
The queen of hearts' one visible eye stared up reproachfully
at Frau Mozart.
"You lost again, Mama!" said Wolferl.
She swatted at him with her fan. He ducked.
"You missed!"
"I'll 'miss' you," she said, rising from her chair and
slapping out at him again. He didn't move quickly enough and her
fan caught his face with a loud crack. He stood there a minute,
his cheek turning red. Tears started to form, but he bit his
lip. "I'm sorry, Wolferl," she said, catching her breath, "I
didn't mean that."
"It's all right, Mama."
She chucked him under the chin. "Remember, son, bear up --
call on the strength of a lion."
"I'll remember," he said. "Come on," he said to Paul and
walked away slowly out of the room, shuffling his feet as if he
were cleaning the carpet.
"Marianne," said the Countess, "what's the matter?" "Didn't
the concert go well last night?" The Countess coughed.
"Oh yes, it went well, they always do." The pale winter
light vaguely illumined the card room at the palace from the one
tall but narrow window, surrounded by heavy puce silk hangings.
"He's such a serious little boy when he starts to play
music, not at all like when he's around here," said the Countess.
"Yes, sometimes his father has to pick him up and carry him
away from the keyboard, he can't bear to stop playing." Marianne
picked up a piece of marzipan and ate it. She licked her chubby
fingers.
"He works hard for a little boy."
"Yes, Lotte, but he does love it, you know. And we have to
make the most of this opportunity -- Archbishop Sigismund was
very kind to give Leopold a leave of absence so that we could do
this tour."
"Of course." The Countess shook her head slightly. "But I
suppose you do worry about Wolferl? The little imaginary friend
and all? He's a little old for that kind of thing."
"To tell the truth, I worry about Nannerl, and I let Leopold
do most of the worrying about Wolferl." She shuffled the cards,
let the Countess cut, and started to deal.
"Wolferl's so alone here," said the Countess. "No one his
own age. I think I'll invite my nephew Rupert over."
Marianne smiled. "No wonder Wolferl loves you, Lotte."
"I feel the same way about him."
Marianne took the Countess' jack with her king. "I only
wish that love -- anyone's love -- were enough."
***
"Wolferl, why don't you go and see what Rupert is doing?"
The Countess was sitting at her needlework stand. The December
sunlight poured in, shining off the brass lion ends of the
andirons. Wolfgang sat gazing into the fire. He didn't answer.
"Wolferl?"
He didn't feel like talking. He felt alone, Paul had stayed
in his closet today.
"Wolferl, come here." He got up slowly and walked over
toward her, than suddenly flopped down and started to turn a
somersault.
"Wolferl, please. Come here." He stood in front of her,
his chin on his chest. She lifted his chin up gently. Then she
took his head under her arm and hugged him close to her. He put
his arms around her. After a minute, she pulled away. She took
her handkerchief from her bodice and wiped off his cheeks. He
put his fist up to his nose. "Wolferl, go find Rupert," she
said. Her eyes were very large and very blue and liquid, like
the sea.
"I already asked him, he says he's busy and..." He was
ashamed to hear his voice breaking.
"Rupert! Rupert!" she called. After a pause, she said more
loudly, "Rupert!"
"Yes, Tante," said Rupert, his blonde hair neatly combed,
wiping his reddish snub nose, as he ran in from the next room.
"Take Wolferl along with you to play."
"But he doesn't know how we play games here in France."
"Well, he can learn."
"He doesn't know how."
"Rupert!"
"Anyway, there's nobody else around to make up a game right
now."
The Countess thought a minute. "Why don't you show Wolferl
that wooden figure you're carving with your big knife."
"It's not finished yet," he said pouting.
"It doesn't matter, I think you've been very clever with it.
And I particularly want Wolferl to see."
"All right, Tante," and, swinging his arm high and then
dropping it very low, he led the way out of the room. Wolferl
followed him. He looked back, but she was intent on her
needlework.
Once they got into the other room, Rupert said, "I've got a
hunting knife. With a big, wide blade. Have you got a knife?"
"No," said Wolfgang.
"Everybody has a knife," said Rupert.
"I don't. I don't need one!"
"You act like a sissy."
"I am not a sissy!"
"Always playing the harpsichord -- la-di-da-da," he said,
mimicking a keyboard player.
"Shut up!"
"Make me!" said Rupert.
Wolfgang hesitated. Rupert was bigger than he was. He
thought about going back to Countess Lotte. But he was afraid if
he did, he might break into tears. Then Rupert pushed him,
knocking him over. He grabbed at Rupert's leg, yanking hard.
Rupert staggered, then he felt Rupert's fists pummeling his head.
"Ow, ow, ow!" The pain throbbed in his skull and the room
jiggled around him.
"What's going on in there?" came the voice of Countess
Lotte. Rupert stopped. There was silence a moment. "Nothing,
Tante!" he yelled. "We're just playing."
"You louse!" said Wolfgang hoarsely. "You dummy!"
"You sissy," whispered Rupert, who turned and ran off into
the back hall.
Wolfgang pulled himself up. The parqueted floor was cold on
his hands. He remembered the feel of the plain oaken floors of
home. He heard the Countess' step as she entered from the other
room. Then he felt himself folded in her arms. He held back the
tears that were scalding behind his eyes. Then he felt her
handkerchief under his nose. He blew, hard.
As he lay awake that night in the big bed in the tiny room
under the third-floor stair landing, he could still imagine
Countess Lotte's face. Beautiful and sweet, that's what she was.
That's what a good fairy should be, someone who could make
anything come true. He hoped Paul was still in the closet.
"Wolferl! Are you still awake?" His mother's face loomed
over his.
"Yes, Mama."
"What are you doing, lying there staring at the ceiling?
Close your eyes and go to sleep. Now!"
He closed his eyes, but he still thought about the sweet
eyes and the bright red cheeks.
A few nights later, they had just returned from a concert at
Maitre Clouet's. The soiree had started late, and he was tired.
But as he started to climb the stairs, the Countess called
"Wolferl" and he ran into the library to see what she wanted.
There it lay on the marble tabletop, in front of the Count. A
bright shining hunting knife with a blade as wide as his wrist.
"Oh!" His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe.
"Yes, was that what you wanted?" said the Countess.
"Oh, yes. Oh thank you, thank you."
"Now be careful, don't cut your fingers, young musician,"
said the Count.
"Oh, he won't, darling. Anyway, even if he did get a little
cut, boys have to have knives, didn't you tell me that?"
"All right, as long as his father doesn't blame me." And
the Count picked up the knife himself to test its balance. Then
he offered the knife to him. Wolfgang stared at the intricate
incising on the blade. Then he picked it up, holding the
enameled handle in his hand for long minutes. It was heavy and
had a beautiful shiny black finish. It was the most magnificent
thing he had ever owned. He couldn't wait to show Paul.
He was going to stay in Paris for ever and ever. He'd never
leave. Maybe when the Count died, he could marry her. They
would be happy together for ever and ever.
Then January came and the weather turned bitterly cold.
Some days when he saw her in the library or the salon, the
Countess' cheeks would be glowing a fiery red. At night he could
hear a racking cough from her room just underneath his.
Sometimes he would go and stand outside her door, listening,
under the picture of the man in armor with the red plumes on his
helmet. He would wait and wait, thinking about everything,
imagining himself as a grown man and her husband. Count and
Countess Mozart.
Then it was the first Wednesday in February, soon after his
eighth birthday. He was asleep, and the sound woke him up. It
was hooves clattering and the clanking of metal-rimmed wheels on
the cobblestoned courtyard. He heard talking in the hall. Next
day he saw Dr. Moreau standing outside in the courtyard talking
to the Count. He overheard the butler talking to the downstairs
maid.
"She's very bad this time, I..." Then they noticed Wolfgang
and moved off down the hallway. But he could hear the words
'weak' and 'blood.'
The next morning, when he came out for breakfast, the hall
was full of men in dark coats. He ran into his parents' room.
His father put his arm around his shoulder and said, "The
Countess has gone to meet Our Lord, son. I'm sorry."
He felt nothing, as if he had been stunned. Later he went
up to the picture of the man in armor again and waited. It got
very cold in the bare corridor. Finally he went downstairs
again. He passed his sister on the first landing, by the potted
palm. Her face was buried in her handkerchief. As he passed by
the salon, he heard a man's voice -- the Count's -- moaning and
sobbing.
That night at the supper table, the stunned feeling began to
go away, now he suddenly felt as if a crushing weight had fallen
on him. The world looked dark and lonely. Later, he said good
night to Paul. Then, as he lay down to sleep, he came to the
mention of her name in his prayers.
"And also Countess Lotte and the Couuu..." He felt a sudden
gush of hot tears. There would never be anybody like her! Now
he was really alone, no one who loved him for himself -- not just
because of his music. Finally exhausted after some minutes, he
closed his eyes, his head swam, he said good night to Paul over
in the corner, and he fell asleep.
A few days later, after the funeral, Papa took them all to
Fontainebleau, where there was a monkey on the sidewalk that
lifted his hat when people said to him, "Vive le Roi." A giant
soldier in a tall hat talked to them. The soldier let him try to
lift his heavy sword -- he staggered under the weight -- and
asked him whether he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.
"No," he said, "I want to be a prince." The soldier opened his
mouth in a comical way. His father laughed. Why did he laugh,
princes could do everything, couldn't they? Everybody liked
princes -- they had to. At the supper table that evening, he
realized that he had forgotten about the Countess' death all
afternoon.
That night, while he was getting ready to say his prayers,
he asked his mother,
"Is Countess Lotte in heaven now?"
"She certainly is, yes, I'm quite sure she is."
"I want to go to heaven too, not to purgatory. I'm afraid
of purgatory." His mother stroked his head. He looked up at
her. "Mama, when are you going to die?"
His mother looked flustered. She said, "I hope not for a
long time yet."
"And me, Mama, when will I die?"
"Not for ages, don't fret yourself about it, Wolferl. Go to
sleep now. Sweet dreams."
But after she left, he did worry about death. He had to
make his plans. If he was going to die, he wanted to know when.
He had a lot of things to do. Maybe there wouldn't be time
enough for him to become a prince. But at least he could do
things his father wanted him to do, like being a Kapellmeister.
But he couldn't fall in love and get married if he died young.
If he died in the night, he'd never see his Bimperl again,
jumping up on him in welcome, short tail wagging. All of a
sudden he was very afraid, and he pictured the room with its
heavy drapes all dark, and his body lying on the bed in his best
suit, with flowers around it and his hands crossed. He was
afraid to go to sleep, he tossed and turned.
He awoke tired in the morning, but the sun was streaming in
the windows, and he was alive. Alive! He jumped up and looked
out the windows at the trees in the park. He thought he'd never
see anything as beautiful in his life as the sunlight and shade
speckling the bare branches and the brownish green lawn below.
He thought of Countess Lotte in her coffin in the ground, then he
looked at a pigeon pecking at the bare stones of the courtyard.
It was good to be alive.
He took a look in the closet. Paul wasn't there again
today. He wrote down in his journal, in English, "Life is good."
They were going to England soon, he could hardly wait. He would
only speak English at the dinner table from now on. He had to be
able to talk English to the little English boys.
***
The pale sun of the London spring shown dimly in colored
flashes through the gigantic rose window of the Great Chapel.
"Like this, Papa?"
"Yes, just like that, on Mr. Bach's lap." His father was
smiling his concert smile. Wolfgang felt uncomfortable -- and
silly, like a baby. He could hear stirrings in the audience.
Some coughs. The old church was cold, streams of light from the
stained glass windows filtered bleakly into the nave. There were
two candles placed above the topmost keyboard to cast light on
the score.
"And now," said a voice from down below the pulpit, "Mr.
Johann Christian Bach and Mr. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who is
eight years old, will play a toccata by Handel."
More stirrings in the audience. He could feel Mr. Bach's
big belly pressing against his back. "Don't be afraid," he
heard, "when I say 'jetzt,' then you take over and play from the
start of the following measure, and when I saw 'bitte,' you'll
turn it over back to me."
Mr. Bach started it out, and it was easy to go back and
forth. He had no trouble with the tempo. At one point he
improvised a few extra notes. Then Mr. Bach improvised a few
more in answer when it was his turn. What fun!
After they finished, Mr. Bach held him up on his shoulder
while the people applauded. Then Wolfgang jumped down from the
bench and ran over to his father. He held onto the altar rail
and lifted himself up, swinging his legs back and forth. "We
fooled them, didn't we? Nobody knew who was playing when."
"You're right. I knew, but that's only because I know you
and I also know Herr Bach's style."
"That was fun." He looked out at the departing audience.
Another little boy, about his age, with hair as blonde as his
own, was looking at him. The boy's mouth was open. He stared at
Wolfgang. Wolfgang waved to him. The boy remained staring.
Wolfgang started to walk over to the railing. The blonde boy
looked at him again, then a slightly older, dark-haired boy came
up behind the blonde boy and shoved him, knocking him against the
pew. Then the older boy ran away, back down the aisle toward the
great door. The blonde boy turned and ran after him, yelling,
"Jim, Jim, wait for me, Jim!"
"Come, Wolfgang, we'll be late for the reception at Hampton
Court." He followed his father down the long cold aisle.
***
The weather was cooler. Leopold gave thanks to the Lord,
from whom all blessings flowed. Finally he was over his fever --
it had been terrible, face burning, sweaty bedclothes glued to
his body. Bach sat back in the plush chair, the musical scores
in his hand, a big smile on his jowly face. Leopold was glad to
have company, and lunch had tasted good for a change. "Well,
what do you think?"
"They're very well done, quite correct musically. And a
good sense of rhythmic interest."
"He wrote them while I was sick, the doctor told him not to
disturb me by playing the spinet. So he sat down and composed
these!"
"Impressive."
"Of course, I know as symphonies go they're not profound."
"One could hardly expect that," said Bach, wrinkling his
long nose. "But for his age, they are truly amazing. Often we
see performing talent, but this. He has a remarkable career in
front of him."
"I hope so." Leopold pulled up the woolen jacket he was
wearing. "The child himself certainly thinks so."
"A little conceit is natural. As long as it doesn't get out
of hand."
"I'll see that it doesn't, Bach!"
Bach pursed his lips. "Mozart, how is the boy doing, I
mean, in general?"
"In general? Quite well. His health is good. Oh, if you
mean his spirits, quite good. Just look at these new
compositions."
"Does he get out enough? I mean to play with other
children?"
"As best I can. It's difficult in a foreign
country. But I try to keep his life well-rounded, Herr Bach.
Please give me some credit."
"No, no, you must excuse me, Mozart, it's just that I come
from a large musical family. I know some of the problems with
having talented children."
"I'm sure you do. Your brothers, I know their music, and I
understand your father was quite gifted too. "
"Yes, he certainly was. More than the rest of us, by far."
What a loyal son. Johann Sebastian Bach's music was quite
old-fashioned and uninteresting. "I'm certainly glad to have any
advice you can give me."
"Be sure he has a chance to be a boy." Bach's mouth was
twisted and his eyes looked sad. "My father tried his best, but
I can't say that we Bach children led a normal life."
"'Normal life'! What's so good about that?"
"We're all only human, Mozart."
"Yes, of course," Leopold answered. But when Bach had left,
he realized the other musician didn't understand. The Bach
children had been talented -- but not like Wolferl. There was
plenty of room in life for music and everything else. There had
to be.
He had better be sure that Wolferl was still working out the
problems in that last violin sonata he had composed. "Wolferl,
Wolferl!" he called.
"Yes, Papi. Here I am," called his son from the parlor.
"Come here, son, let's go over that sonata."
"Yes, Papa."
A good son, that's what he had, a remarkable son!
***
In the dark back room at the Aux Trois Soldats in Lille,
Wolfgang sat at the keyboard, waiting while his father got his
violin out and tuned it. Suppose he got sick like Papa in
London, could they go home then? No, nothing ever stopped them.
Next month they had to go to the Hague, then back to Paris.
Father said they could go back to Salzburg the following winter.
In Vienna, the old Emperor had died. Now that stuck-up
Joseph would be Emperor -- he probably still didn't count when he
played. But he did at least like music. Papa said it might be
worth their while to go to Vienna, once they got home, and see
about opportunities at the new Court.
Home. Salzburg. He had almost forgotten what it was like
at home. His friends, Damian, Willy, Melchior, he wouldn't know
them. They wouldn't remember him. Hardly. A whole year more.
Why couldn't they go home?
Because of music. His 'genius.' Nannerl's 'talent.' Lucky
them!
He got up, went over to the cupboard, and took out the
silver medal King George had given him. The lion on its face
roared at him. At him, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart -- it was a medal
struck especially for him.
He knew he was not like everybody else. He was a wonder, a
marvel -- he had overheard people call him a monster, a freak of
nature. How much of him was a marvel or a freak? Just the
musical part of his brain? Or the rest of his brain, or his
total self? God knows he was like ordinary people too. He felt
starved right that minute -- and it was still an hour to supper!
If he was a monster or a genius, there were certainly no special
privileges for monsters -- or geniuses.
So what did the word "genius" mean? What difference did it
make that he was or wasn't one? Did "genius" apply to just music
or to all of him? What could he do about it all, anyway?
Nothing.
He had to live his life. Just like everybody else. Even
though he wasn't like everybody else.
It just wasn't fair.
If he had to be a "genius," he was going to make sure that
there would be something in it for him! Something besides just
music.
But what would that something be?
If he could only grow up faster!
Waiting was awful. But meanwhile, he knew one thing.
Nobody could ever take his music away from him.
[CHAPTER THREE OF "IN SEARCH OF MOZART" WILL BE EXCERPTED IN
VOL.1, NO.3 OF "FICTION-ONLINE]
=============================================================
SPEAK, MUSE
by Otho E. Eskin
CHARACTERS:
A Playwright
A Muse
SCENE:
Your typical artist's garret. There is chair and a table on which
sits a manual typewriter.
TIME:
The present.
=================================================================
AT RISE: The playwright is slumped over the typewriter.
ENTER MUSE. She is dressed in a suitably squirrely
outfit and carries a Filofax. The playwright
becomes conscious that he is not alone, slowly
raises his head. He is unpleasantly surprised to
see the Muse.
MUSE
(Cheerfully)
Good evening!
PLAYWRIGHT
How did you get in here?
MUSE
I flew upon sweet Zephyr's radiant wings.
PLAYWRIGHT
You're supposed to call up from the lobby. Would you get out.
MUSE
I'm here to help you, sir.
PLAYWRIGHT
I don't need your help.
MUSE
Oh, yes you do.
PLAYWRIGHT
If you don't leave right now, I'm calling the police.
MUSE
Oh, dear, I hope I haven't gotten it wrong again. Aren't you a
playwright?
PLAYWRIGHT
(Suddenly conciliatory)
Well, as a matter of fact...
MUSE
Aren't you the author of "All This And Philadelphia Too"?
PLAYWRIGHT
How'd you hear of that? It's never been produced. Who are you?
MUSE
My name is Euterpe and I am your Muse this evening.
PLAYWRIGHT
You're my what?
MUSE
I've been sent here to inspire you to create things of noble
beauty and immortal grace.
PLAYWRIGHT
You can't just come barging into people's homes like this.
MUSE
(Showing the PLAYWRIGHT a plastic, laminated identity card.)
It's all right. I'm a licensed nymph.
(MUSE walks to the typewriter and looks at
the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter.)
MUSE
Uhmmm.
PLAYWRIGHT
I've been going through a bad period. Can you really help me?
MUSE
Of course. How do you suppose those other guys do it? You think
all the great artists just pump it out? No way. It takes
inspiration. You take Andrew Lloyd Weber or even Anthony Newley.
Without inspiration from a muse, they'd be nowhere.
PLAYWRIGHT
You worked with them?
MUSE
Not me personally. Now, sit at the table and start writing.
(PLAYWRIGHT sits at the table, leans over
the keys -- and freezes.)
MUSE
Go on.
PLAYWRIGHT
(Desperate)
I can't think of anything to say.
MUSE
(Very firmly, like a school teacher.)
You're not even trying.
(PLAYWRIGHT struggles at the keyboard,
then slumps.)
PLAYWRIGHT
I can't.
MUSE
OK, how about this. Shut your eyes and think about beautiful
scenes and music -- like in that movie, "Fantasia."
(The PLAYWRIGHT closes his eyes intently.
There is a long silence.)
MUSE
Well?
PLAYWRIGHT
I think I'm falling asleep.
MUSE
(Impatiently)
Oh, for Pete's sake! Try again. This time, put your back into
it.
PLAYWRIGHT
Somehow, I expected inspiration would be different.
(The PLAYWRIGHT sits miserably at the
typewriter, staring at the blank sheet of
paper. The MUSE wanders around the room,
humming to herself in an annoying,
distracting manner.)
MUSE
Got any rocky road ice cream?
PLAYWRIGHT
I don't think you're being any help to me at all.
MUSE
That's all I hear. Want. Want. Want. Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.
Have you tried drinking yourself into a coma several times a
week?
PLAYWRIGHT
I can't tolerate alcohol.
MUSE
How'd you ever become a playwright in the first place?
PLAYWRIGHT
I've always loved the theater. Ever since I saw Peter Pan on
television. It's in my blood.
MUSE
Did you ever stop to think there might already be enough plays
and playwrights? After all, they've been writing plays in
English for over four hundred years. Maybe we've got enough by
now. Do we really need another play about a family tortured by
guilt? What I think is, what this country needs are people who
can do really competent work on transmissions.
PLAYWRIGHT
You're not making me feel any better. Are you sure you're a
Muse?
MUSE
To be absolutely precise, I'm a Muse trainee.
PLAYWRIGHT
How many artists have you helped?
MUSE
You want the actual figure?
PLAYWRIGHT
Yes.
MUSE
Including you?
PLAYWRIGHT
OK.
MUSE
One.
PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, my God.
MUSE
Don't get the wrong idea. I've got lots of experience.
PLAYWRIGHT
Such as?
MUSE
I did my internship with a lyric poet.
PLAYWRIGHT
So what did he achieve?
MUSE
(Nervously)
I don't want to talk about it.
PLAYWRIGHT
I think I was better off before you came.
MUSE
You don't like me, do you?
PLAYWRIGHT
It's just that you're making me feel really depressed.
MUSE
That's what everybody says.
PLAYWRIGHT
I don't think you have any idea what you're doing.
MUSE
Please give me another chance. I need this job. I'm on probation
you know. Ever since that incident with the sculptor.
PLAYWRIGHT
What incident?
MUSE
I'd prefer not to dwell on it, if you don't mind. (Beat) My
mother told me I wouldn't make it. Of course, she always does
that to me. Never has any confidence in me. No matter what I
do, she finds fault. Never builds up my self esteem. This from
the woman who could only cook two things -- meat loaf and tuna
casserole.
PLAYWRIGHT
Miss...
MUSE
I mean, our entire family lived for years on tuna casserole with
fucking corn flakes on top. No wonder my brother likes to wear
dresses.
PLAYWRIGHT
I'm sorry about your brother.
MUSE
I thought we were talking about my mother. Am I boring you?
PLAYWRIGHT
Not at all.
MUSE
Maybe you should write a play about me.
PLAYWRIGHT
I don't think so, really. Do you want me to call you a cab?
MUSE
Call me a dreamer. Call me a fool. Just don't call me a cab.
PLAYWRIGHT
I think it's time you left.
MUSE
I'm not helping you, am I?
PLAYWRIGHT
So far, all you've done is suggest I become an alcoholic or a car
mechanic.
MUSE
I'm a failure.
(The MUSE begins to cry.)
PLAYWRIGHT
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.
(The MUSE sits on the floor and weeps.)
PLAYWRIGHT
Please don't cry. I hate it when you cry.
MUSE
I never do anything right.
PLAYWRIGHT
Don't talk like that! It's not that bad. Remember, it's always
darkest before the dawn.
MUSE
It is?
PLAYWRIGHT
You've just had a run of bad luck. That's all.
MUSE
You don't know the half of it. Did I tell you about my ex?
PLAYWRIGHT
When you fall off a horse, you've got to get right back up and do
it again.
MUSE
Do what again?
PLAYWRIGHT
Keep telling yourself -- I'm good. I'm good.
MUSE
That helps?
(The PLAYWRIGHT takes the MUSE by the hand
and pulls her to her feet. He points
somewhere grandly off stage.)
PLAYWRIGHT
There's a brave new world out there waiting for you to conquer.
MUSE
Really?
PLAYWRIGHT
You just need someone to believe in you. We'll do it. You and
me. Look out world, here we come.
(The MUSE straightens up.)
PLAYWRIGHT
(Singing)
When you walk through a storm keep your head up high and don't be
afraid of the dark.
(MUSE dries her tears and looks out at
the world off stage.)
MUSE
(Singing)
I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it after all.
MUSE
(Taking a deep breath.)
OK, where were we?
PLAYWRIGHT
Nowhere. That's just the problem.
MUSE
Perhaps we should review your whole play-writing technique. (The
MUSE puts on her glasses, opens her Filofax and studies several
pages). Uhmmm. Do you have a clear protagonist?
PLAYWRIGHT
Of course.
MUSE
A balanced situation? A disturbance?
PLAYWRIGHT
Naturally.
MUSE
You develop complications and sub-stories leading smoothly
through a crisis to climax and resolution?
PLAYWRIGHT
Every time.
MUSE
(The MUSE slams her Filofax shut emphatically.)
That's your problem right there!
PLAYWRIGHT
I don't get it.
MUSE
Your whole approach is bad. You're writing the wrong plays for
the modern theater. I took a workshop in this once.
PLAYWRIGHT
What can I do?
MUSE
Do you use plots in your work?
PLAYWRIGHT
Yes, of course...
MUSE
Get rid of them. Character development?
PLAYWRIGHT
I try.
MUSE
Forget it. Clarity of diction? Beauty of style? Dramatic
dialogue?
PLAYWRIGHT
Well, I...
MUSE
Trash all that. Do your plays make any sense?
PLAYWRIGHT
Sure.
MUSE
Really bad idea.
PLAYWRIGHT
(Suddenly inspired)
Maybe you've got something.
(The PLAYWRIGHT rushes to his typewriter
and begins to type furiously.)
PLAYWRIGHT
That's it! That's it! I feel it coming. Mindless symbolism.
MUSE
Right!
PLAYWRIGHT
Meaningless dialogue!
MUSE
Beautiful.
PLAYWRIGHT
Pretentious rhetoric!
MUSE
I think you've got it.
PLAYWRIGHT
Incomprehensible plots! Unbelievable characters! Boring story
lines!
MUSE
You've made a breakthrough.
PLAYWRIGHT
I can feel it coming. Total absence of motivation. Obscure
literary references. Offensive language.
MUSE
Congratulations! You're a modern playwright! Now there's
nothing to stop you. Agents will be begging for you. Critics
will eat out of your hand. Starlets will leave indecent messages
on your answering machine. Make room on your mantelpiece for
your Tony awards. Mr. Playwright, you're a success.
PLAYWRIGHT
How can I ever thank you?
MUSE
Just doing my job.
=================================================================