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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 6, Number 5
September-October, 1999
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
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Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
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The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
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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
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explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Lines on Sand," haiku
Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith
"The Shark," a short story
Yitzhak Herrera
"Good-bye, Felipe," an excerpt (chapter 16) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"No Way Out," part 7 (conclusion) 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. He is currently at work on a mystery novel set in high
circles in Washington.
NIGEL AND WENDY HAMMERSMITH, originally from the Isle of
Wight, now live on Martha's Vineyard. In addition to writing poetry,
Wendy teaches high-school French and Nigel is a cabinetmaker.
YITZHAK HERRERA, formerly a lieutenant in the Israeli Army, now
is a writer and export-import consultant in New York.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and playwright and his play,
"Through the Wormhole," will be read this fall as part of the Woolly
Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series.
LINES ON SAND
by Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith
1.
House among the pines
Gray waves plunge across the bay
Clinking of halyards.
2.
Shallow boat harbor
Sea grass doubled in water
Dock pilings intrude.
3.
Red-striped umbrella
Black-speckled sand oasis
Green surf threatening.
4.
Clearing after storm
White clouds drift -- the sea is still
Bright stripes bloom on sand.
5.
Lobster and champagne
As we toast the fleeting years
Sunset tints the sky.
Sundown: Martha's Vineyard,
July, 1999
Haze blends sea and sky
A tiny plane points straight down
Gay Head Light -- so far!
======================================================================
THE SHARK
by Yitzhak Herrera
It had been a good day. Snorkeling in the lustrous waters of the
Indian Ocean. And some fun people to talk to. Like Julia, the singer,
and her husband Palmer. As long as you could avoid the duds -- like
the retired high-school biology teacher from Kearney, Nebraska, who
had talked of himself and Jim as "colleagues." Poor old guy.
A good day. In fact, Jim had only thought about the co-enzyme
project once. Looking out at the sea that afternoon during whale-
watching had made him realize the project -- or ex-project -- didn't
matter. The cruise had been a great birthday present for him -- it had
definitely taken the sting out of getting to be fifty.
He was just pouring out the Chardonnay into the tulip-shaped
glasses on their table. Suddenly, Claire said, "What was that?" Her
china-blue eyes looked alarmed.
Voices were coming from aft. The maitre d' and another
passenger walked by them headed for the outside lounge deck. A
woman on the other side of the dining saloon said loudly, "Shark."
People began to get up from their tables. A crush formed at the
door leading outside.
"A shark," Claire said.
"Let's see," said Jim, thinking that nighttime fish viewing
sounded crazy.
A gentle wind blew over the lounge deck. Jim heard the flap,
flap before he saw the compact broad little fish, about four feet long,
doing its acrobatic dance in front of a line of deck chairs. The fish's
head jerked and Jim saw the line tighten on the rod a young seaman
was holding. The rod bent again. The small shark showed his pointed
teeth in his blunt jaw, he twisted like a gazelle tormented by a hyena,
jumping in circles, in ellipses. Jim felt his back tense as he watched the
struggle for life he felt the shark's longing to attack, to rip, to tear.
"Oh God, someone said. It was Julia Galbraith, her dark curls
awry, her slender body in a half crouch. She turned to Jim. "This is
just like a Bunuel movie."
"I can't stand it," Claire said. She turned her head away and
moved back and opened the door of the dining saloon and went back
inside.
Jim didn't know whether he ought to go back in too. The
flipflopping of the tortured animal mesmerized him.
"Not a very big one," said Palmer, putting his ham-fisted hand
on Julia's shoulder. "I've caught bigger."
"I suppose," said Jim. Jim fished for trout in Colorado in the
summers. Standing in the dappled shade of the willows hemming in a
mountain stream, struggling with the lines hooked inot the lips of the
cutthroats and rainbows. Fouling his line in the same damned willows.
Dumping his creel on the riverbank, cutting the bellies open, starting
close to the anus and forward to the gills. The smell of the camp cook
frying them over the lonesome campfire.
The shark weakened, then gave a desperate gigantic leap and
flopped, quivering.
Come on, Julia," Palmer said. "Our dinner's getting cold."
"You go on, I want to see this."
Palmer's face flushed. He stood looking at her for a moment,
then turned and went back inside.
Flop, flop, losing energy. Jim looked at the faces of the people
who were still watching raised eyebrows, faint smiles. Clenched
teeth.
"He's brave," Julia said.
"He has no choice," Jim said. "Maybe we should go back
inside."
"Are our chef's efforts as much fun as this?"
The shark was lying still. Then he flipped once more and lay
still again.
"I'm going back inside," Jim, said.
Julia nodded.
As he opened the saloon door, he looked back. She was staring
fixedly at the shark. It twitched twice. She bit her lip.
Claire grabbed her glass of wine and drank a third of it.
"Disgusting."
"Oh, I don't know. It's like all fishing, I suppose." Jim sipper
from his own glass. He hoped the salmon would be good. He dug into
his salad.
"I don't understand watching something suffer and die. Men
love killing, I think."
"Death is part of life."
"Oh do spare me!" She shook her head. "And where the hell's
our entree?"
Later, at the bar, Jim and Claire found two seats next to Palmer
and Claire.
Palmer flicked his fingernail against his glass of gin and tonic.
"Not much of a specimen, I'd say."
"Still, you wouldn't want to meet him out there when you're
snorkeling, would you?" Jim said.
"You won't see that poor thing again," Claire said.
Julia laughed. Her laughter sounded like a glass breaking. "No,
Dimitrios told me that the officers are having it cut into steaks right
now."
"All's well that ends well," Jim said. "Death for a purpose."
Palmer shoiok his head. "And a little side show for the
tourists."
Later, Jim sat undressing in the cramped cabin with its one
porthole looking our on the blankness of the black sky and sea.
Claire pulled on her black nightgown. "I won't be able to
sleep."
Jim felt the anger crawl up his throat like hot bile. "Jesus, you
had halibut for dinner. Where do you think that came from? It gets
caught in nets, we raise steers for the hamburger you had at lunch.
What the hell are you making such a fuss about?"
He looked at Claire's face her bright eyes stared into his
fixedly, as if she had caught him out in some criminal act. "You know
that's not the point, don't you? You know."
"I don't know any such thing."
"Scientists."
Jim got up and looked out the porthole. Women were from
somewhere else. They lived in a fantasy, where you didn't have to
make the logical connections between all your actions.
Claire brushed out her long glossy hair. Her profile reminded
him of a hawk, a dignified bird of prey. "I think scientists display the
quintessential nature of man. all the worst aspects of machismo."
"I suppose female yoga teachers display all the glory of
womankind."
"Women are more consistent."
"Julia didn't seem to mind the shark."
"Oh, so you've got your eye on her, do you?"
Jim felt caught in a secret trap that he had hidden from himself.
"Oh, for God's sake."
"She's obviously used to being on stage --drama, drama
everywhere. I know you like that kind of thing."
"Oh, Claire. You know that's a pile of shit."
She pouted. "Do I now."
Jim put his arms around her and said that she did know that and
that he loved her.
After a moment: "Oh, you do know how much I love you, Jim,
don't you?"
"Yes. Yes," he said. "Yes, yes."
Her body softened in his embrace. His stomach felt hollow. He
squeezed his arms around hers. She put her lips to his bare, hairy arm
and kissed it.
He was drifting off to sleep.
"Jim,."
"Yes?"
"It doesn't matte about the project. You've still go lots going
for you."
"Thanks," he said. He lay awake for a long time. At two
o'clock he was waked by the sounds of rain on the porthole. He
visualized Julia's face, taut with excitement and the shark flipping his
way to eternity.
After lunch the next day, Claire went for a nap and he found
Julia sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck.
"A beautiful scene," he said, looking out at the mountainous
island and the greens and blues of the sea.
"Yes, the sea. 'Et la mer efface sur le sable, Les pas des amants
desunis,'" she sang, in a low vibrant alto.
Jim asked how she had become a singer. It was her
grandmother who had encouraged her, given her picture books on
opera before she could read, later gotten her a teacher and paid for the
lessons.
"It helps that I'm just a natural ham," she said.
"I envy you."
"You, the scientist?"
"I'm not all microbiologist."
"I see that," she said, her brown eyes peering out at him.
He looked away. "It does make you think about things."
"Yes, doesn't it. Like the shark."
"Wasn't it thrilling? I thought I was going to come."
He looked at her again. She smiled. "Not quite." She touched
the back of his hand with her fingertip.
Jim shivered. God, can it really be true? My God. He felt his
throat tighten. He lifted his hand and stroked her forearm. Her arm lay
perfectly still under his caress.
She took a deep breath. "The sea is really magnificent."
Yes, it was, he thought. Magnificent. The sun slithered into a
wisp of cloud, and as he watched, reemerged. The sea darkened and
then became light again.
The next day, Palmer had gone off on an excursion to another
island. Jim, Claire, and Julia had lunch together. Afterward, Claire said
she really needed her nap today. Jim said he was going to go to the
lounge and work on his paper.
"You see what it's like, being married to a microbiologist," said
Claire.
"Oh, well, men," said Julia. "I think I'll lie down for a while
too."
Jim searched Julia's face. She avoided his eyes as she got up
from the table. But she stopped behind Claire as she left and made a
puckish face at him.
Jim felt his knee shaking. He went back to the cabin with
Claire, picked up his notes and his laptop, and went to the lounge. He
sat there for six minutes, feeling when he was five years old and it was
Christmas morning. He looked at the notes for the experiment that
would now never be funded. He imagined the lab and tried to imagine
his life without it. Then he shuffled all the papers together, put them
and laptop neatly on a table, and stood up.
The key to the door of the Galbraith's cabin was in the door.
The shining rod of stainless steel stood out perpendicularly, breaking
the line of the flat corridor walls and recessed doors. Jim stood
looking at it a moment, feeling that his feet were made of lead. Then he
turned the key and pushed the door open. She lay on her back under
the covers in the far bunk under a single sheet. She smiled at nothing
and turned her head toward the wall. He sat down on the empty bunk
and began taking off his shoes.
As he eased his now naked body in behind her, she whispered.
"My little shark."
Jim gasped.
"Oh," she said, finally. "Yes, that's the way. Oh. No, harder,
harder." Jim, sweating, felt himself coming.
"No, not yet, don't leave ne hanging. Oh, shit!"
When he woke up, she was in the bathroom. Jim felt the word
"Sorry" coming to his lips, and he stepped on the impulse. "Julia?"
After a moment, she came out, a towel draped to cover one
breast and her torso. "Did you want some more?"
"Well I..."
"No, not at our age, I would think."
"Julia..."
"Everything's all right You can use the shower, but hurry."
Jim felt as if he were talking to his kindergarten teacher, Miss
Knobe. "I don't know what to say."
"Did you get what you wanted?"
Jim wondered to himself what exactly he had wanted.
She smiled tightly. "Maybe you don't know what you wanted.
As for me, I got what I wanted -- or almost. It was nice. Now get a
move on. We'll see you at dinner."
Dinner seemed to last forever. Palmer talked about his trip in
the rubber zodiac to the bird sanctuary.
"We had a dull day, didn't we darling?" Claire said.
Jim mentioned the pelicans they had seen at teatime. Julia
raised one eyebrow. "Well, that's what I like about cruises. Something
new every day."
"Like the shark last night," Palmer said.
"Yes," Julia said. "That won't happen again. One little shark is
enough, I think."
"You said it was like a Bunuel movie," Jim said.
"Oh, I still believe that -- after all, Bunuel deals in absurdities."
"It wasn't absurd, it was sadistic," said Claire.
"Well, it could have been both, couldn't it?" Palmer said.
Jim felt the darkness of the sea outside gathering about him.
His stomach glowed with wine. His mind ached with desire for
something unattainable.
========================================================================
GOOD-BYE, FELIPE
by William Ramsay
(Note: the is chapter 16 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
I should have known that trying to make Amelia do this or not do
that was an impossibility. But I was dumb, I was too busy
congratulating myself on finding a relatively safe place to keep my
father. I was only hoping that I could keep him pacified for a while, so
that he didn't gum up my plans -- plans which I didn't have yet. He had
had a rest and his bath and a shave, and he had put on a shirt and a pair
of trousers borrowed from Mr. Gupta, Valeska's neighbor. He looked
at himself in the mirror, cursed Fidel again, and said he was ready to go
out and demonstrate in the streets. I pointed out to him that that had
been tried -- by Mama, who Amelia told me was in a padded cell in the
psychiatric hospital at Palma Grande.
"They can't keep her under restraint," said my father. "It's unheard
of!"
I said that I thought she was safe enough in the hands of Fidel's
psychiatrists -- it was better than being in one of MININT's prisons.
"What have you heard about Pillo?" he said.
"He's supposed to be with friends, we'll be in contact."
"I want to see Paco's sister, Miss Santos."
I sure didn't look forward to Amelia's showing up at Luz Street,
and I finally convinced my father it was impossible. Maybe in
retrospect I shouldn't have been so sure that I had scotched that idea.
But what could I do? I couldn't stay there forever and I couldn't keep
total control of the situation from a distance. I had to be careful with
my visits, so as not to make G-2 suspicious about Valeska's place: I
didn't think that Pineda had clued in the grunts on his staff on my
actual name -- but I couldn't be sure. My G-2 shadows were used to
my visiting Luz Street fairly often, but I didn't dare change the pattern
too much. So I had to depend on Paco to keep contact with my father,
while I tried to arrange some safe way to get him out of the country.
As a start, I left a message for Dominguez that night in the soda bottle
in the park.
The next afternoon, coming out of the hotel and crossing between
the two massive stone Indian caciques riding dolphins that led into the
park, an ice cream vendor awkwardly pedaling a rickety bicycle came
up behind me. I waved him away. He made a hissing noise. I stopped
and saw that it was Mr. Marcus, in a black curly wig. On a bench on
the other side of the lily pool, I saw my G-2 shadow.
The hiss grew louder and became words. "Don't stop here." The
bicycle cart moved away quickly, I followed it off through the grove
of fig trees. Marcus had stopped in the middle of the grove. A young
girl, running up to buy an ice cream, was the only person in sight.
"You've got him?" he said.
I nodded. "Don't you feel ridiculous in that getup, Mr. Marcus?"
"Shh!" he said. Then he looked up. My shadow, in a gray
tee-shirt and sunglasses, appeared behind us. "Move on, see you by
the pool," said Marcus, and I continued walking out from the shadow
of the figs. Marcus started to entreat the girl to buy an ice cream,
waving his arms rather wildly. She smiled fearfully, edging away from
him. She almost bumped into my G-2 fellow. Marcus switched
targets, riding up to "Senor G-2" and loudly yelling "Ice Cream." I
plunged through the lantana bushes beside the path and jogged along a
muddy stretch of ground. As I came out on the other side, next to the
pool, I looked down at the splashes of mud on my trousers and
remembered that the gardens in Havana were said to be in bad shape
because the gardeners were all released political prisoners. A moment
later, Marcus came around the turning of the path cycling like mad.
He passed by me, hissing "Pillo?" I threw up my arms, indicating I
didn't know where Pillo was. Gray tee-shirt came around the corner,
Marcus turned and headed for him rapidly, shouting "Ice Cream!" The
man ducked and Marcus squealed into a tight circle and came back past
me: "Should be hearing..."
Presumably he was going to say "from him," but at that moment
the cycle struck an ornamental plant in a large pot and veered off
toward the pool. The G-2 man fell over getting out of the way,
Marcus lurched and skidded full tilt into the pool. A giant splash.
When the water cleared, there was Marcus, sitting in three feet of
water -- which was turning strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate in
spiraling swirls. The G-2 man was lying flat on his back. His beeper
was beeping. Marcus was trying to get his legs out from under the
overturned cycle.
It was a good time for me to leave. I caught a dollar cab to the
intersection closest to Valeska's, thinking along the way that I could
have used some real help from the C.I.A. now, and if Marcus was all
there was to the Agency, I was in lots of trouble.
Marcus' little charade had also just made me speculate that Pillo
might not be just any old rightist -- he was quite likely Company,
somebody Marcus really felt obligated to spring from Fidel's embrace.
Inside the Luz Street apartment, Valeska gestured to me to be
quiet. My father was asleep on the couch, the Moscow version of a
Spanish-language "Reader's Digest" lying open on his chest. Valeska
was in her robe, a thin blue taffeta gown with gold Chinese dragons.
Her golden-brown skin glowed like a rosewood carving. She moved
close to me.
"No," I said, "not now, not here." My father turned in his sleep
and snorted.
Valeska smiled and shook her head. "I'm stressed," she said. She
began to undo my trousers.
"What did you see that you liked in the store window today?" I
said as she pulled my trousers down.
When I awoke, the light from the Chinese restaurant across the
road was shining on my face. I heard knocking at the door again.
Valeska lay beside me, snoring. I heard the knocking again and my
father grumbling, "Just a minute!"
"No, no," I yelled. The light went on. My father, in his shorts,
was opening the door. I jumped up, pulling a sheet up to cover myself.
Thank God, it was only Paco. I dropped the sheet.
"Hey, Chucho!"
Valeska raised herself in the bed, one round breast peeking out
from the sheet. "Why is it always 'Chucho', Flip? What's going on?"
"Amelia insisted, I'm sorry." he said.
I started to pull up my shorts. "Amelia what? Jesus, it's past
one."
"She said she has to talk to Don Federico."
"But she can't," I said, "not here," I said. I stuck my foot in the
other leg of the shorts.
"It's O.K., I didn't tell her where you were, I left her down at the
bodega on the corner."
"Oh, good," I sat down. I told Valeska to go back to sleep. And
my father too. I pulled my knees up to get into a posture I could try to
think in.
Paco strolled around the room, looking for a bottle, determinedly
shaking a couple of empties on the window sill. He explained that
Amelia had talked to the Minister of Justice and the government was
considering a deal involving an exchange for the tapes on the Lenin
Park incident for letting my mother go and commuting my father's term
to an eighteen-month spell on a work farm.
"Did they say anything about the money in New York?"
"What money in New York?" said Valeska.
I explained to her to shut up for Christ's sake.
Paco said they hadn't, which I thought was strange.
"Well," I said, "we've got to get Dad and Amelia together, but not
here."
"Why not here?" said Amelia's voice. Amelia herself, dressed in a
neat gray suit, appeared in the doorway. My father pulled on one of
Valeska's robes, the little white pompoms on the hem trembling in the
draft from the open windows.
"Who's this, who's Amelia?" said Valeska.
"Wait," I said.
"Who's she?" said Amelia, nodding her head at Valeska. "Oh, I
recognize you."
"Sorry," Paco said. "My sister," he said to my father, bowing as if
he were making an introduction at court.
"I remember you too -- the schoolteacher," said Valeska.
My father bowed slightly and reached out his hand gingerly, so as not
to disarrange the frilly robe. "How do you do?" he said to Amelia.
Valeska jumped up in the bed, the old springs wobbling beneath
her. She raised her arms. "Hell, I'm awake now, Felipe, get everybody
a drink -- especially your girl friend there.
"Amelia," I said, "This is Valeska, a friend of mine."
"Oh," said Amelia. Her cheeks seemed to turn to porcelain.
Paco grinned, embarrassed. "Amelia has to talk to don Federico
about Elena. The government is offering her a deal."
"Damn it, Paco, at least close the door, will you?" I said.
"Don't bother, I'm going," said Amelia. She pulled at the door
handle. As she opened it, a man half-fell in. It was Arnoldo. "Come
in," said Amelia to him. She turned to us. "I met this nice gentleman
in the cafe and when I mentioned 'Felipe Elizalde,' he showed me the
way."
"'Comrade," not 'gentleman,'" said Arnoldo.
"I thought you were playing tonight to cover for Jaime," said
Valeska. Arnoldo half-turned his face away, as if he were expecting
someone to slap it. Then he moved his arms as if he were going to do
the slapping. "Jaime got better. Unfortunately." His eyes began to
squint and his mouth hardened. He raised his hand, but as he started to
swing, my father jumped up and grabbed him. Arnoldo gave him a
heavily-muscled shove and papacito fell over.
"Hey," said Paco. I leaped on Arnoldo but he brushed me off and
headed for Valeska, who ran naked toward the bathroom, holding her
wobbling breasts in her hands. Suddenly Amelia brought up her foot
sharply into his crotch and Arnoldo yelled "Ay" and fell over onto the
bed. Amelia kicked him again with her high heel and he moaned and
clutched his belly.
"Dr. Revueltos," she said to Arnoldo, "has suffered enough from
you damned comrades, and he's not going to take any more."
"Yeah, twenty years in La Cabana is enough," said Paco.
"Oh," said Arnoldo, sitting up. He moaned once, then he said
something about 'that green-haired bitch.'" Finally he frowned and
said, "La Cabana?"
"Well," said Amelia, "I'll leave you lovers alone. "Dr. Revueltos,
I'll see you later when it isn't so much of a madhouse. I'll call or send a
message."
"Amelia," I said.
"'Felipe,'" she said, imitating the whine of my voice, "your ass is
showing," and turned on her heel and left.
Valeska had come out of the bathroom, draped in a towel, and
Arnoldo flung himself out of the bed and prostrated himself at her feet.
He tried to kiss her toe.
"No," she said.
"Yes," he said. His sobbing grew loud. "Give that foreigner up,
darling."
"No," she said.
"Yes!" he said.
She made a face. "You look like an awful mess. Felipe, check to
see if he's all right."
"I'm a doctor," said my father.
"So is he," said Valeska."
"What?" said my father, staring at me.
I smiled and shrugged. I reached down to feel Arnoldo's pulse.
"Don't touch me, creep." Arnoldo pulled himself upright. He
took a deep breath.
"Arnoldo!" she said.
Another breath. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, sweetheart," Arnoldo
said, lifting himself to his feet.
"Go home, we'll see."
"And leave you here with him?"
"Go home!"
He went to the door. "Querida, please!"
She shook her head.
Arnoldo, looking as if he were going to be sick, walked to the
door. There he turned, raised his head high and said, "My pride has
been injured." He opened the door and stomped out, muttering,
"Betrayal, betrayal."
"I'm confused," said my father.
"Join the crowd," I said.
"I'm not," said Paco. "I don't think I am, anyway. I'm not sure."
"I'm going next door and see if Gupta is awake," said my father. "I
need some advice." He grimaced. "Everything has changed."
"Yes, hasn't it?" I said. Miami, Florida, U.S.A. seemed like a lot
farther than ninety miles away. I felt like Ronald Colman in the last reel
of "Lost Horizon," searching for the pass back to Shangri-La. The
next day, I was too distracted to worry about Valeska and Arnoldo. I
had other things on my mind, like trying to retrieve my position,
whatever it was, with Amelia.
I heard from Paco that his sister had met with my father, down at
a cantina on a callejuela off Merced Street, but he hadn't liked Fidel's
deal. I wanted badly to point out to him that any deal getting my
mother out might well be a good one, if he was going to hang around
in cantinas where he was liable to get picked up by the G-2. And if, as
it seemed, the Cubans weren't hungry any more for the bearer bonds in
the New York safety deposit box -- all the better. I also had heard that
Marcus had finally heard from Pillo, which I suppose made him feel
better and certainly made it easier for us to arrange a deal that might
satisfy both the Americans and the Cubans.
But no, Father kept refusing, saying that his outlook on things had
changed, and that he violently objected to this deal. Too bad, I
thought. I knew that while we were happily fiddling around, taking
our own sweet time about things, Fidel's boys would be looking hard
for my dad. And I was getting nervous about keeping my father at
Valeska's. Too many people were involved, including my G-2 tails.
Amelia suggested contacting Pillo, and I didn't have any better ideas.
So after a couple of telephone calls, Father was sent off with a suitcase
to a "meet" with Pillo at the old Hotel Inglaterra downtown.
Next day I was working in my office at the Hilton, trying to
troubleshoot a few bugs in the cellular system, when Paco called around noon.
"Chucho!" he whispered.
What was it? I asked him.
"Problems. Stay away from Valeska's -- the cops have been
there." As he told it, a policeman and a guy in sunglasses had banged
on the door of Valeska's apartment at ten that morning. Paco and
Valeska heard them from next door, where they were playing Parchesi
with Gupta, and they slipped out through a back window. From the
alley down the street, they could see police and presumably G-2 men
standing talking with Arnoldo. It was a case of jealousy leading to
betrayal -- almost like Doug Fairbanks and Raymond Massey in
"Prisoner of Zenda."
"Thank God we got my father out in time."
"Yeah, let's hope he has better luck at the Inglaterra.""
How about Valeska?"
"She's O.K."
"Be careful," I said. "Both of you."
I tried to go back to work. Then I noticed it was noon and I tried
to eat lunch. Not much appetite. I was getting sick of shrimp, rice and
beans anyway, which seemed to be the main rations for the week at the
Havana Libre. I had just gotten back to the lab upstairs, when the
phone rang again.
"Chucho!" Paco's whisper was even shriller than before.
"Yes!" I said.
"They've picked up your father and Pillo -- I just got a message
from Marcus."
"Shit!" I said. "How did that happen?"
"I suppose they were tailing him, who knows?"
"Shit!" I said.
"Kind of blows it, doesn't it?" he said. "What do they know
about you and me, do you think?"
I told him I didn't know and I asked him what he was going to do.
He told me he was trying to get out. To Miami? I asked. To El
Salvador, he said.
"Things have gotten so screwed up here, Chucho, I think I'd better
let Gomez and the other Men cool off a bit before I hit Miami."
"I hope we haven't gotten Valeska into bad trouble," I said. There was a
long silence.
"Where is she?" I said.
"Well, Chucho." The smirk seemed to leak out over the wire. "I
thought it was best if she came along with me to El Salvador, you
know, what with this crazy jai-alai player after her and so on."
"Oh," I said.
"Hey, I knew you wanted her to be safe, and she's a good kid.
Never been out of Cuba, she's as excited as a little girl. I picked up a
Nicaraguan passport she can use for herself and another for her kid if
she needs to. We'll try to get the Company to get us out, a small plane
or a boat."
"Yeah," I said.
"And hey, don't worry about Amelia. She'll come around, I'm
sure."
"Amelia? What's happened to her?"
"Flew back to Miami. Never mind, she just got excited, she may
have said wild things like she hopes Fidel hangs you up by the gonads
-- because that's your toughest part. But she doesn't mean it, you
know. When she gets back, try talking to her again."
It turned out that Amelia had told Paco she could do more good
for my mother and father from Stateside -- and that anyway she didn't
give a damn what happened or didn't happen to me.
I suppose there had been other low points in my life -- really low,
low, low points -- but I couldn't think of a lower-down one. There I
was, my father and my mother in custody. And I didn't know, after the
raid on Luz Street and my father's arrest, how soon the criminal police
would be after me too. If they and Pineda were on speaking terms, it
would be sooner rather than later. I had nowhere to go in Cuba and no
motivation to return to the States and the fond embrace of Mr. Gomez.
But you know, in some way it was having hurt Amelia that was
the worst. I know, that may it sound fishy. I hadn't been exactly the
ideal boy friend over the past six months. Well, she hadn't been the
easiest person to get along with either. But behind the "Why don't you
do this?" and "Why don't you do that?" I still felt, well, that she was
always really concerned about me. Now suddenly she was shoving me
out of her life. It gave me an awful feeling -- like falling on your belly
and having your breath knocked out. You can imagine it was difficult
to concentrate on cellular phones after all this. I sat staring out the
window at the traffic down on the Rampa and then at the corner of the
park showing from my window, where I could just make out from my
window the beginning of the path to the Copelia cafe. I struggled with
the hunger for Amelia -- and, when I thought about the G-2, another
sensation that was more like heartburn.
I knew I should probably do something, get out of town, go into
hiding - - like Bogart in Key Largo. Or maybe it would be best to ask
for an interview with Pineda -- or even with Fidel -- and try to clear
myself. After all, I really hadn't been involved in the escape plan. Of
course, getting them to believe me would be another matter -- and I
was an accomplice after the fact.
As is usual when I get caught up in such a complicated problem, I
have a tendency to do none of them. I wanted to talk it over with
Eddy, but I was afraid to get him involved, both for his own sake --
and maybe for my own. After all, how far would his loyalty go?
Anyway, a few hours later, out of ideas, I was on my way out of
reception area and into the outer lobby of the Havana Libre. Eddy was
with me. I had promised him a ride downtown in my MININT vehicle.
It was just getting dark, but I saw in the lights over the loading area,
standing on the other side of the cab rank, my old G-2 friend with the
sensitive irises. Today he was wearing a pink shirt whose tail stuck out
in back in the Mr. Marcus style, and he was talking to a policeman.
Another policeman stood behind him. Well, I thought, here it is, I
guess maybe I'll get that talk with Pineda sooner rather than later.
Then I heard someone call my name -- "Felipe."
The voice was hoarse. I looked around -- down a hallway leading
off the lobby, and saw Jerry standing there. Or rather, he wasn't
exactly standing, he was doing a sort of cross between a shimmy and a
St. Vitus dance, nodding his outsized head and motioning for me with
his pudgy little hand to follow him. I took a look outside and saw my
man from G-2 glance in my direction. I looked at Jerry. He leaped
forward toward me, grabbed my hand with his thick, moist little paw,
pulling me away from Eddy. Quick, we've got to get out."
"But..." I started to say.
"What's wrong?" said Eddy.
"Come on," said Jerry. "We have to run for it!"
But run where? I thought. They'd be sure to catch up with us,
there were a lot more of them than there were of us.
"Come on!" said Jerry, pulling harder.
But not so many of them yet, I thought. "Eddy, run back upstairs
and give them the salsa across all three channels in turn, now's your
chance.
"His eyebrows rose and he smiled. "Sure, ingeniero." I pushed
him toward the elevator. He held me back by the arms. "Just kiss me
good-bye," he said.
Outside, the pink shirt was pacing, head lowered.
I gave Eddy a quick abrazo.
"No," he said, "A real kiss good-bye. Quick."
"Oh, for God's sake!"
A pouting expression on his wide, narrow lips. "You're not really
my friend!"
"No! Eddy!"
Jerry yanked at my hand. "Kiss him!"
"No!"
Jerry giggled. "Close your eyes and think of Fidel!"
So I reached up and put my lips to Eddy's. He gave me a large,
moist kiss. For a split second I spaced out, trying to think about
Amelia. I pushed Eddy away and followed Jerry. As I looked back, I
saw the pink shirt heading for the front door, followed by the two
policemen -- they weren't exactly running, but they weren't standing
still either. Eddy had already entered the nearest elevator. Jerry began
to run, loping with a swaying wobble, and I jogged along. We went
through a gray door toward the middle of the hall, through a room full
of air conditioning equipment, passing by another room with stacked
cans of paint. Through a swinging door, and then we were out on a
loading dock, and before I knew what was happening, Jerry had jumped
into the back seat of an old Ford with tail fins that was sitting there,
motor running, and I had gotten into the front next to the driver, and
we were speeding down an alley. I was breathing hard, my eyes
watering, it was dark in the car, and it was only when the alley
debouched onto 25th Street that I saw there was someone else in the
back seat. I heard the meow first. Then I looked. A major portion of
the back seat was occupied by a bulky figure holding a white cat.
"Felipe!" the high-pitched throaty voice of Pierre Diaz-Ginsburg
sang out. "I was afraid we were going to lose you."
As we raced down 25th Street, I said, "What the hell?"
Pierre ifted Kropotkin up as he ran one hand over her tawny fur.
Don't worry. We'll lose them instead." A streetlight shone off his
bald spot. He looked less comical with his natural hair and no mustache.
"Where are we going, Pierre?" I realized Valeska must have
gotten word to him.
He pursed his lips. "Back to the fight, Felipe, back to the fight."
Shades of "Casablanca," I thought.
We turned the corner at the Malecon and headed east along the
water. Light from the first quarter moon behind us glinted white on
the breakers along the beach. The sea looked like a dark blanket on a
bed in a dimly lit room. We passed several cars and a truck but no sign
of the cops. Eddy must have done his job.
"All right, Felipe?" said Jerry.
"'Felipe' be damned," I said. Call me Chucho!"
==================================================
NO WAY OUT
by Otho Eskin
(Part 7, the conclusion 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.
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
AT RISE:
MISS JULIE and RANSOM in the kitchen. He has just refused to
leave with her. The sky is quite light now.
SCENE
JULIE
What can I do?
RANSOM
There's always one way, if you had the courage.
(JULIE picks up the gun from
the sideboard.)
JULIE
You mean this?
RANSOM
Me, I wouldn' do that. That's not the way I am. That the difference
between us.
JULIE
Sometimes.. sometimes I'd like to. I've thought about it. A lot. But
I've never had the courage. That's what my father wanted. To end it
like that. Clean and neat. But he failed. He couldn't do it. He tried
once. He couldn't do it.
RANSOM
Maybe he really didn't want to. Maybe he thought at the last minute it'd
be better to get revenge on yore mama than to blow his brains out for
her.
JULIE
It looks like my mother has the last word, though the final revenge
on him, through me.
RANSOM
I gotta go, Miss Julie. The judge be waitin'.
JULIE
Maybe all this is my mother's fault. Maybe my father's. I don't know.
My own fault, I suppose. Should I make Jesus responsible, like Cora?
I can't do that. That's all lies and fairy stories. I suppose it really
doesn't matter whose fault it is. I don't know what to do. I can't run
away. I can't stay. I can't live. I can't die. Help me, Ransom. Order
me. You're the strong one. I'll obey you like a dog. Help me. You
know what I have to do. But I don't have the courage. Order me to do
it.
RANSOM
I can't.
JULIE
Do me this one last service. Order me!
RANSOM
I can't order you. I bin in service too long. If the judge appeared right
now in this room an' told me to jump through the window I'd do it. I
don't know no other way.
JULIE
Pretend you're a white man and I'm a field hand. Tell me what to do.
Order me! Do it for me.
RANSOM
I can't, Miss Julie. I don't know how.
JULIE
You know what a hypnotist is, Ransom? The ones that come to the
theater.
RANSOM
I know what a hypnotist is.
JULIE
A hypnotist says to someone "Take this broom" and he takes it. He
says "sweep" and he sweeps.
RANSOM
But the person gotta be asleep.
JULIE
(As if in a trance)
I am asleep. The whole room has turned to smoke. The stove there
looks like a man in black with a tall hat.. Your eyes are glowing like
coals when the fire is low...
(The sunlight now has flooded
the kitchen.)
JULIE
(Continued)
How nice and warm it is. So light and peaceful.
(RANSOM puts the revolver
into JULIE's hands.)
RANSOM
Go on now.
JULIE
Tell me that even the first can receive the gift of grace.
RANSOM
I can't tell you that.
JULIE
I can't move. Tell me to go.
RANSOM
I can't
JULIE
And the first shall be the last.
RANSOM
Don' think. Don' think. Yore takin' my strength away. Makin' me a
coward. I gotta go. The judge waitin' for me at the depot. He 'spectin'
me. I can't keep the man waitin', can I? There no other way, Miss
Julie.
(JULIE stands up, still holding
the gun, and walks out the door,
not looking back.)
CURTAIN
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