FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 2, Number 5 (corrected) September-October 1995 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e- mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from ftp.etext.org where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. AOL users will find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines." 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 Note Contributors "Flowers and Parties: Poems" Diana Munson "A Bad Day at the White House," fiction Ivy Main "Baesle," an excerpt (chapter 8) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Time Trials," short story 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. His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in Washington, as well as at other theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia. IVY MAIN is a writer living in MacLean, Virginia. "A Bad Day at the White House" was recently published in _The Belletrist Review_. DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C. She writes short stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in _Rent- A-Chicken_. She has published numerous poems in magazines and anthologies. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. His comedy, "The Importance of Being Elvis," was recently produced at the Source Theater Ten-Minute Play Festival. ============================================================== FLOWERS AND PARTIES: POEMS by Diana Munson ARGUMENT AGAINST DAFFODILS When I was young I lived to grasp the yellow moments, catch falling stars, and things that glimmered bright if briefly; I sought the light, I bought daffodils, and never asked the time. But now, age mellowed I know that daffodils wilt quicker, and I prefer muffled tones, dusk, and violet times and muted hues, chrysanthemums... THE LITERARY PARTY (Per me si va nella citta dolente) Secluded, in the talk about Lust, In the reference to Love, In the appeal to Passion, Between the olive and the vermouth, Between the smile and the tongue Taste gets lost Among these tasteful, Comes undone. What remains: A brimming ashtray's disarray, The slick printed cards in the pocket, And a few phone numbers scribbled illegibly Between a black book's covers (no one ever looks there to find lovers), Burnt marks on the mantlepiece, Broken glass in the bath, A matchbook on the floor near the door. Tomorrow in the aftermath no one will say: Greed came in casual dress, And Ennui in decollete, and Powerseeking in purple lip, But isn't every Hell, in its own way, looking well? ==================================================== A BAD DAY AT THE WHITE HOUSE by Ivy Main "You are the greatest. You are the supreme being. You are the ne plus ultra of world leaders. You are the -- " The President reached over and slapped the "off" button on the alarm clock. For a moment he contemplated going back to sleep. He was on the verge of blissful unconsciousness when a thought floated to the surface of his mind, crystallized into realization, and brought him fully awake. This was to be his day of triumph. Today a Justice Department special prosecutor would formally charge his arch-rival, House Speaker Jim Deerborn, with misappropriation of campaign funds. Deerborn would be forced out of the primary race, the President would reunite his party, and he would sail to reelection in November with only enough of a fight from the likely Republican challenger to make the race fun. President Bruce Dudley sat up in bed, rubbing his hands. "Petersen!" he yelled; and then, as nobody came running, he strode to the door and opened it to call out again, wrapping a silk paisley dressing gown around his ample frame as he went. "Petersen!" "Here, sir." A freshly-scrubbed young aide trotted forward with the morning's news clippings already assembled in a leather file embossed with the presidential seal. "Shall I order your tray now, sir?" "All right." Dudley took the file and flipped through it while Petersen spoke into the tiny radio on his wrist, announcing to the White House kitchen that the President would condescend to sample breakfast immediately in his suite. "What's this?" Dudley stopped at a news item about the upheaval in Ivory Coast. He shot a quick glance at Petersen. "Ivory Coast? What's going on there?" "That's this week's Third World basket-case. The government fell on Tuesday, and the capital's in chaos. Everybody killing everyone else." "Really? I thought that was Burundi." "No, sir. That was last week." "Wasn't Myanmar last week?" "You're thinking of Laos, and that was last month." "No, I remember Laos, because the riots there followed the cholera epidemic in Venezuela." "Guyana." "Whatever." Dudley flipped the pages. "There's nothing here about Deerborn. Why aren't the papers on top of this? The man has broken the laws of this country. Where's the outcry?" "Well, the special prosecutor hasn't gone public yet. Until it's clear what she's going to do -- " "_I_ know they've got the goods on him. You telling me the "Washington Post" doesn't know that?" "You have to remember, it was our people who supplied the goods. Sir." A maid appeared bearing an immense silver tray with a domed cover. The men trailed her back into the room and over to a small mahogany table by a window overlooking a presidential expanse of lawn. She took the cover off, revealing a dry toasted English muffin, a small dish of preserves and a glass of prune juice, surrounded by heavy silver service and a linen napkin. Dudley made a face. "Julia thinks I need to lose weight for the campaign." "The First Lady has an unerring sense of these things." Petersen wore a look that was probably intended to be sympathetic, but his slender frame lent it no credence. The President scowled. "Wait until you're a grown-up. Fifty changes everything." But as he scraped the jam out onto the bottom half of the muffin and covered it up with the top half, sandwich- style, he found his good humor returning. "Never mind. I'm eating venison for lunch!" "Sir?" "Venison. Deerborn -- get it? Venison!" Dudley exploded with laughter, as much at Petersen's incomprehension as at his own pun, although it was a very good one. But the laughter, coming just when he had taken a bite of his breakfast, caused him to inhale a crumb and choke on it. Petersen pounded him on the back; his eyes watered and he felt his face grow flush. By the time he could breathe again, he had forgotten his joke. He cleared his throat and wiped the white napkin over his mouth. "Well, what's on for today?" Petersen opened the file to the typed schedule inside the back cover. "Briefing with the Chief of Staff, 8:30 a.m. He wants you to fire some people to prove to the media that this isn't the big-spending, do-nothing Administration they say it is." "Those slimy reporters! They couldn't report the truth if it came to them on stone tablets from God." Petersen chuckled. "You always say so, sir." He continued reading from the schedule. "Nine o'clock, croquet with the Secretary of State. Nine thirty-five, the White House Counsel; McNaughton wants to hire a new assistant so he doesn't have to spend so much time on legal matters, especially with the pro-am golf tournament coming up. Then at 9:45 you're presenting a plaque to the Girl Scout who sold the most cookies this year." Dudley glanced up hopefully. "Are they bringing some cookies?" @@@ "They've been asked not to. At 9:55, the signing ceremony for the Bathtub and Shower Safety Act, followed immediately by a photo op with the U.S. Olympic Crack Team." "The what?" "Crack team. Oh, I expect that's not right. Must be a typo." Petersen studied the paper intently, squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. "Then what?" "Ten-twenty, you meet with a delegation of agribusiness executives to assure them that your Family Farmer Initiative isn't intended as a slight on non-family farms. At 10:35 there's a cabinet meeting to sort out this question of who's entitled to transportation by government helicopter. They may also try to bring up the subject of which of them gets to go to Camp David this Fourth of July, but if that comes up, the meeting's going to go over time. If necessary, you could postpone the 11:08 congratulatory phone call to Mrs. Thelma Jefferson -- you know, the old lady who's turning a hundred and eighteen today. By the way, she's senile, so she won't know who you are. Anyway, try not to let the schedule slip too much. We've already put off your consultation with the upholsterer twice; if you miss the 11:15 appointment today we won't get the new chair coverings in time for the state dinner." "I'll make it. I can control my cabinet." The President dusted the crumbs from his dressing gown and eyed the prune juice, which he despised. "Eleven-thirty, the third sitting for your official portrait. That will take half an hour, during which the chef wishes to nail down the menu for the dinner. Be careful, by the way. Rumor has it he's getting creative hankerings again." Dudley grunted. "Just no fiddleheads and mushrooms in Chinese black bean sauce. That dish destroyed our relations with an important ally." He shook his head, recalling the last state dinner. "Yes, it was unfortunate about the wild mushrooms," murmured Petersen. "But Egypt seems to have come out of the succession crisis all right." Dudley held his breath and drained his prune juice, then set the glass down on the tray as he pushed away from the table. Petersen followed him towards the bathroom, still reading from the schedule. "Twelve o'clock, lunch with the First Lady, who wants to go over choices for your son's summer camp. Twelve forty-five, a meeting with the Vice President." Dudley stopped at the door of the bathroom. "The Vice President? What can he want?" "I don't know. He just asked for ten minutes to discuss 'matters of national significance.'" "Curse that fellow! Doesn't he realize I'm busy? A couple times a month he does this to me!" "Maybe it's time to send him on another fact-finding mission." "But then he always comes back with facts!" Dudley started into the bathroom, then turned, smiling. "And don't tell me. Two o'clock, the special prosecutor makes her announcement on national television, after which I pull a long face for the press and bemoan the downfall of my lifelong friend and friendly rival, Jim Deerborn. Ah, me!" He heaved a mock sigh, smiling heavenward, and shut the bathroom door. Thanks to Petersen, it was exactly twelve o'clock when President Dudley sat down to plain broiled cod and steamed carrots with the First Lady, and twelve forty-five when he returned to his office for the meeting with the Vice President. Petersen's penchant for keeping to schedules would have been called legendary if he had been old enough to be a legend; as it was, he was the brunt of a joke to the effect that the recent economic boom would have occurred sooner, except that it couldn't be worked into the schedule. The President especially loved this joke, as it implied that something he'd done had caused the boom. Vice President John Ramirez appeared at the office door looking like the ghost of a Spanish aristocrat from centuries ago. Certainly his skin could not have been paler had he spent the last couple hundred years underground. His lean face with its patrician lines lent him an air of dignity and wisdom, and a lifetime in politics had taught him to use this advantage to effect. Even the President felt a shrinking in Ramirez's presence, and had to remind himself that looks were deceiving. Still, he could never keep from standing when the older man entered the room. "John!" he cried, waving him in and covering the standing-up difficulty by striding across the room to close the door. "Just back from Rangoon, is it? How was the trip?" "Jakarta. I've been back for two weeks, but I've been unable to get in to see you." "Why, nothing wrong in that part of the world, is there? You saw what's-his-name properly buried?" "No, I saw what's-his-name properly married." "Ah -- same thing, eh? Ha ha." Not the slightest hint of amusement touched the Vice President's features. "The bride and groom were touched by your gift of two American bison. Unfortunately, the animals died within three days of their arrival, and seem to have spread a lethal virus around the entire zoo, in spite of the quarantine." "That's embarrassing. I'm sure you turned it to good account, though. What did you tell them, that the virus is like democracy, which will spread in spite of all efforts to quash its nascent -- " "No." "No. I can see how the 'lethal' business would make that sound bad." Dudley nodded vigorously. "Anyway, if the country's already a democracy -- what country are we talking about, anyway, Madagascar?" "Indonesia." "Oh, of course. I'd just lost my train of thought for a moment there. Same area, anyway." Dudley briefly wondered whether Indonesia could safely be called a democracy. Or unsafely, for that matter; he hadn't a clue. In the end, he decided to steer clear of the question. Instead he said, "Well, well, what can I do for you, John? A matter of national significance, you told Clay Petersen? Only I warn you, I've got only a few minutes for it. I'm meeting with the American Photo Keepsakes Manufacturer's Association at one. I think they may throw us their endorsement. We've got to start thinking about reelection, John." "Oh, I am." The Vice President managed a grim smile, which usually meant he was thinking of something unpleasant. Dudley clammed up and waited. Ramirez coughed into his hand. "I met with the FBI Director yesterday -- you were busy with the representatives of the Parade Float Workers Union." "It turned out to be really worthwhile. The guy who does Santa Claus in the Macy's Parade showed up. Did you know he was a lifelong Democrat? How's this for a line: 'Even Santa Claus votes for Dudley! And Ramirez.'" "About the FBI..." "Yes, go on." "The Director gave me a piece of information that is at the very least scandalous, and potentially seriously damaging to the Administration and the government as a whole. Its implications for national security and military morale have me gravely concerned." Dudley swallowed. "Well?" "It seems the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is having an extramarital affair." The President relaxed, infinitely relieved. "Is that all? John, I know you're a bit of a Puritan -- " "His affair is with another man." "Oh, Christ." Dudley stood up abruptly and paced around the room, his hand on his forehead. "That is awkward. I don't suppose there's an exception to our gays-in-the-military policy for generals, is there? The press will have a field day. I never liked the man, you know. Not that I'm in any way anti-gay, it must be understood, but I have a special obligation to protect our nation's traditional moral values -- " "It gets worse." Dudley missed a step. "No, don't tell me. The other man...?" "Is the Senate Majority Leader." "Oh, Jesus! There goes the budget deal." Dudley brought his other hand up to his head, too. His pace increased, so that he crossed from one end of the office and back in only a few seconds, whirled around, and sped back the other way. "We've got a crisis. Yep, it's what you could reasonably call a crisis. There's no other word for it." "Calamity. Disaster. Debacle. Catastrophe." Dudley ignored him. "But we're going to weather this. The timing's bad, but it doesn't actually involve any of our people. I mean, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is more a Pentagon guy, and the general consensus is that he's got Republican leanings anyway. I don't see this as hurting our reelection campaign -- much." "Deerborn's been critical of the Chairman." "Don't worry about Deerborn!" Dudley started to chuckle until he recalled that the Vice President was not privy to the information that would shortly be bringing down the rival candidate. "We'll see what happens on this front. Now, unless there was anything else you needed to talk to me about -- " "As a matter of fact, there is." Ramirez looked, if possible, even a shade more grave. "It concerns the report on Mexico that the CIA sent over an hour ago. -- Oh, but I see it on your desk. You've read it, I assume?" "Yes, yes, and I'm prepared to take appropriate measures." Dudley cast a sidelong glance at his desk. There, sure enough, front and center, lay a file plastered with "Urgent" and "Top Secret" and "For Your Eyes Only" stickers. The sight of those stickers always gave him a thrill, although otherwise he hated CIA reports. They all concerned boring foreign policy matters. Petersen stuck his head in the door. "The Photo Keepsakes people are waiting. We're one minute behind schedule, but I think we may be able to make it up on the meeting with the Federal Reserve Board Chairman." "You're not going ahead with your schedule under these circumstances, are you?" cried the Vice President, rising. Dudley patted him on the shoulder as he eased the old fellow towards the door. "Now, now, I don't try to tell you how to do your job, do I? Of course, you haven't actually got a job; that's the bad news about being V.P. Ha, ha. See you around, John, thanks for stopping by and sharing your concerns with me." As soon as the Vice President had left, Dudley whispered, "You know anything about some problem with Mexico?" "I haven't heard anything." Petersen glanced down the hall where Ramirez had gone. "Maybe it's a Hispanic thing." Then he looked at his watch. "We're a minute and a half off schedule, sir." "All right. Bring in our guests." The President returned to his office and settled himself in his chair, turning slightly to one side because he'd found it gave the best effect when people walked into the room. He opened the file on his desk in order to appear to be doing something of national importance, but before he could pretend to read it his secretary spoke through the intercom. "Mr. President, Ted McNaughton is on the line. He says it's urgent." Dudley picked up the phone. "Ted, we went over this this morning. We made a big deal out of these new hiring guidelines; if you really want another lawyer in the White House Counsel's office, it's got to be a black female with a disability." He saw the door open and Petersen usher the Photo Keepsakes contingent into the office. Ignoring McNaughton's insistence that this call concerned an entirely different matter, Dudley changed his tone to one of cordial respect and said into the phone, "Well, thank you, Mr. Boutros-Ghali. I certainly couldn't have negotiated that peace settlement without U.N. support." Then he hung up and turned, smiling, to greet his visitors. President Dudley was still having his picture taken with the delegation from the American Photo Keepsakes Manufacturer's Association when Petersen marched in again, holding his wrist in front of his face and exclaiming that his watch had to be running fast, because one could not accuse the President of running slow. The visitors accepted the hint and left to tour the grounds, but not before Petersen had begun dancing with anxiety. "We've lost two more minutes -- make it three! No." He stopped jumping around long enough to stare at the hands of the watch, calculating. "Two minutes and fifty-five seconds! Fifty- seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine -- now it's three minutes! You're just going to have to tell the Chairman of the Fed to come talk about interest rates another day." "You're shaking, Petersen. You'd better take your medication." Petersen nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, but his fingers trembled so much that he spilled the little yellow pills all over the office floor. Instead of stooping to collect them, however, he stood still and began uttering a high-pitched whooping sound which, from the intermittent convulsing of his shoulders, suggested that he was sobbing. "Oh, come on, now! I promise we'll make up the time," cried Dudley, getting down on his hands and knees to search for the pills. "What's next on the schedule?" Petersen's body had begun to curl up like a drying leaf. He staggered towards one of the window seats and collapsed on a blue chintz cushion. "The Fed Chairman," he whimpered. "And then you're supposed to decide on a new Supreme Court nominee. I allotted ten minutes for you to discuss the candidates with the search committee!" "Then that should just do it! If I can't choose a Supreme in under seven minutes, I don't deserve to be President." Dudley held out one of the pills, but Petersen seemed to have passed a point of no return. He slowly drew himself into a tight ball and began rocking back and forth on the window seat, whooping softly to himself. The President dropped the pill into the bottle and returned to the task of gathering up the others. He was just crawling under the desk to retrieve the last one when he heard a voice say, "Good God, what's the matter with Petersen?" Dudley reversed course. When he could get his head out he found his Chief of Staff standing just inside the door. "Oh, it's just one of his attacks, Harris. Only worse than usual, maybe." "I didn't mean that. I meant the haircut." Harris crossed the room to stand in front of Petersen. "Did he decide to go short, do you know, or did this just happen?" Dudley got to his feet and stood beside Harris, looking down at the stricken man. "It is bad. I guess I hadn't noticed." "Have you given him a pill?" "No. When he gets like this it's too late for the yellow ones. We need to find the pink ones." Harris stepped forward to frisk Petersen, who now seemed oblivious to their presence. "Here we go!" He put his hand into a pocket and pulled out a pill bottle and a slip of paper. "Damn," he said, shaking the bottle, "it's empty. Here's the prescription for the refill." "Well, that's annoying." They both looked at Petersen's rocking, whooping body. "What did you want to see me about, anyway? That Supreme Court Justice thing?" "No, actually, the CIA's been on my case. They want to know what to do about Mexico. Do you know something about this?" "Mexico again!" Dudley jerked his thumb towards the desk. "There's something about it there. You might want to look at the report." Harris turned to the desk, and Dudley looked around for a pillow to place behind Petersen's head, in case the rocking got so violent that he hit the window. He was about to suggest that they call in the White House physician, when he heard Harris gasp. "What? What is it?" he asked him. "The Mexicans! They -- they want Texas back!" Dudley forgot Petersen and came to stand by Harris. "They've got balls. What the hell do they mean by it?" "They claim it's in NAFTA. What'll we do?" The President thought it over. "Can't we just let them have it? Texas generally votes Republican." Harris was starting to answer when a young woman burst through the door, waving a copy of Playboy. "Mr. President, have you seen this!?" "Not this month's issue," answered Dudley. "And by the way, doesn't anyone knock first any more? Are you on the schedule, Janet?" "No, sir, but the Fed Chairman had a heart attack in the lobby, and security's taken him off. So you've got a minute of play in the schedule." "That's a relief." Dudley smiled over at Petersen, who, however, seemed unable to hear. "Not entirely. He's left instructions to raise interest rates by two points. The stock market just crashed." Janet waved the magazine again. "But this is what I wanted to show you -- these pictures!" She opened the magazine to a marked page. Dudley took the magazine, saying, "Really, Janet, I didn't know women liked this sort of thing -- well! These are hot, hey, Harris?" "Mr. President, that's your wife!" "It is? Oh, I wasn't looking at the face." Dudley paled. "It is her, although she looks pretty young. It's amazing what they do with make-up. Where'd they get these, Janet?" "They're old movie stills someone sold to the magazine." "Movie stills!" He staggered, and his face grew whiter. Janet took the magazine out of his hands and helped him into his chair. "You mean you didn't know the First Lady was a porn star in Australia before she married you?" "You'd better get Ted McNaughton in here," gasped Dudley. "I think we need a lawyer." "He's here now." Indeed, the White House Counsel was striding in the door as the aide spoke, a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Excuse my intrusion," he said. "I know how busy you are, Mr. President, but it's critical that we discuss this. Mr. President, you had better brace yourself. In fact, perhaps we ought to discuss this in private; it concerns a matter involving a member of your family." The President tried to smile, but it was all he could do to speak calmly. "It's all right. We know about it. I'll admit it's shaken me up a bit. What should we do, Ted?" "We'll issue a statement denying it ever happened," the lawyer answered promptly. "Denying it?" Dudley blinked. "How could I do that?" It was Ted McNaughton's turn to grow pale. "You mean it's true?" Dudley laughed nervously. "Well, they've got the pictures to prove it." "Pictures!" McNaughton groped behind him for a seat. At a nod from the President, Janet opened the Playboy again and held it in front of the lawyer's face. Slowly McNaughton's look changed from horror to curiosity. At last he said, "But -- but - - this is the First Lady! Where's your daughter?" "My daughter! Have they got pictures of her, too? Are you telling me they were both porn stars?" The two men stared at each other in an alarm that only increased as they shot questions at each other. "The First Lady was a porn star?" "Did my daughter pose nude for Playboy?" "Is your wife suing you also?" "How is she blaming me for this?" "Are you telling me you know nothing about her allegations of sexual abuse?" As they spoke, a woman wearing a worn suit and a "Re-elect Dudley!" button stomped in the door and threw a battered briefcase into an empty chair. "You'll never believe it," she announced, scowling at them all. "The goddamned special prosecutor just announced she isn't going to indict Deerborn after all." "What?" Dudley staggered to his feet. "Rita, you're joking!" "Turn on the television and see for yourself. Petersen's gone off again, I see," she added, noticing the now-catatonic aide on the window seat. Janet scurried over to a remote control on the President's desk and turned on the television in the corner. She flicked through the soap operas until she found a station covering the special prosecutor's announcement that she had found the evidence against Deerborn unpersuasive. "What's the matter with the woman?" cried Dudley. "She's a goddamn airhead bimbo puppet of the opposition," answered Rita, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply on it. When she spoke again, smoke seeped out of her mouth and nose as if she were a dragon preparing to shoot flames. "I fed her a dozen separate pieces of evidence, each of them documented and with witnesses. I couldn't have spelled it out better if I'd written the indictment myself. She's a goddamn spineless Republican lapdog. Well, Bruce, that's it for me. I resign as your campaign manager." She stubbed out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe, flicked the butt into a wastebasket, and stood to leave. Dudley began protesting her decision, but his words were nearly drowned out by the ringing of a telephone. "Who turned up the volume on that thing?" he fumed. "Mr. President!" cried Janet, turning to look at the phone. "It's the hot line!" "Great." The President swore. "As if I didn't have enough problems, the Russians have to come crying to me." He picked up the receiver. "No more loans, Boris!" After these initial words, he fell silent and listened to the voice on the other end. Slowly what little color remained in his face drained away. A nervous tic that he had overcome many years before suddenly resurfaced in his right eye, causing it to wink compulsively. His staff gathered more closely around him, awaiting the outcome of the call in silence. At last he set the phone down and grabbed at a cup of cold coffee on the desk. "You don't want that," observed Rita as it reached his lips. "I was using it for an ashtray." He sprayed out the mouthful and gasped weakly, "The Russians say..." They all leaned forward. "Yes?" Dudley motioned at Janet, who hurried to a side table to pour him a glass of water. When she returned with it, he snatched it up, drained it, and set it down again before meeting the eyes of his staff. "They were only kidding about democracy." "What!" The room erupted into a nervous murmur of incomprehension. "And also..." The murmur ceased. "There's a missile headed for New York." "Oh, my God!" "And also..." "Yes?" The strained faces stared, huge-eyed. "Richard Nixon was KGB." Panic seized the staff, but nobody seemed to know what to do. Harris started to cry. Janet helped herself to a bottle of Scotch that Dudley thought he had hidden from everyone behind a row of books. McNaughton paced back and forth, muttering, "There must be some basis for suing them." "I'd suggest you call your Defense Secretary," sobbed Harris, "but he's just been arrested." Rita lit another cigarette, took two long drags, then stubbed it out again. "I don't see how we're going to put a positive spin on this," she said at last. "If it's any consolation, sir," offered Janet between gulps from the bottle, "things can hardly get any worse." As she spoke, a uniformed butler appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me, Mr. President, but your cat is throwing up all over the Lincoln bedroom." Dudley barely managed to squeak out, "Mittens is?" "Yes, sir. Or I should say, he was. The housekeeper became so enraged that she shot him, then turned the gun on herself. She's left a suicide note admitting that she's been operating a heroin ring out of the White House ever since she got here. Your son is beside himself; apparently this has cut off his supply." Dudley tried to rise from his chair, but found his legs would not support him. Janet appeared at his side, somewhat unsteady herself from the Scotch but managing nonetheless to help him up. Leaning heavily on her shoulder, he stumbled to the window seat and crawled up onto the cushion next to Petersen. "Mr. President!" A young aide appeared in the doorway, flushed and out of breath from running. "Mr. President! I've just come from the Conference of Southern Governors! They've voted to secede again!" Rita lit her third cigarette and spoke to the aide through a cloud of smoke. "I think you're too late, kid. Look at him." They all looked. President Dudley had drawn his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. His eyes stared blankly as he rocked forward and back, slowly and gently, to the rhythm of a soft whooping sound. ================================================================= BAESLE [an excerpt from "In Search of Mozart, A Novel": chapter eight] by William Ramsay The stars belonged to everyone -- even to the unjustly imprisoned, like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, immured in Salzburg. The stars were constant, pinpricks of heavenly light breaking through both the clear dark skies of Guyana and the pale gray half-gloom of Salzburg. Venus appeared blue-white and alone in the western sky. Star light, star bright First star I see tonight I wish I may I wish I might. The gray pearl dusk glimmered on the rooftops on the west side of the Makartplatz, across from their parlor window. The sun had gone down behind the Moenchsberg some time ago, but below the evening star, the sky was still glowing. The silhouette of the medieval Hohensalzburg Fortress could be seen sharp atop Castle Hill. He could barely make out the houses below it, but he could still see clearly the gabled roofs of the buildings on the other side of the river as far as the Residenz of the Archbishop. A chilly breeze had sprung up and the afternoon haze had lifted. It was a beautiful summer evening in Salzburg. He was in the twenty-second year of his life. He gazed at the evening star, which would live forever. The stars would look the same from anywhere. Paris, London, the valley of the Orinoco. But not so the moon. Guido had explained to him years ago in Bologna that with a good telescope the moon -- which was almost overhead and half full tonight -- should look slightly different from the jungles of Guyana. Guyana! He hadn't even been as far as Milan for the last four years. He missed Italy. He missed the outside world -- all of it. "Is Papa home yet?" The soft voice of his sister called upstairs. "Not yet," he called down. She came up the steep and narrow stairs, her hair, as blonde as his, shining in the faint light. Her face, big nose and all, brightened the room. "Where is he?" "He's seeing the Archbishop." "About the trip?" she said, fixing his collar. "Yes," he said. "Well, don't look that way. It won't kill you, whatever happens." He threw his head back. "It's just that that fat turd is so jealous of his prerogatives! If he won't give me a decent job here, why can't he let me look in other countries?" "Well, maybe he will," she said. "Maybe the Archbishop -- he _isn't_ really fat -- will be nice. I'll bet he'll give you permission and even hold your jobs open for you." "Oh, sure. On salary!" "You always were a dreamer, Wolferl. You can tell from your noble brow, and those far-seeing eyes." She grinned impishly. "You mean those far-bulging eyes." He came away from the window, walked over to the stairs, then back to the window. He turned to her. "I'm going for a walk." "Good luck, darling bubboo," she said, blowing him a kiss. He went down the stairs, three at a time, and came out into the Makartplatz. The vendors had gone home for the day, and he began to walk very rapidly around the open square, the heels of his shoes clicking on the cobblestones, wondering what had happened in the interview with the Archbishop. He and Papa had both been on the staff of the Priceless Archbooby for what seemed like forever. Papa was fifty-eight now and probably too old for advancement -- God, practically all he could talk about was his aging bowels! He himself was grown up now and ready to move up. But even if the Archbishop had felt more friendly to them, a promotion to Chief Kapellmeister was impossible. Good old Lolli was stooped and bent with arthritis and always complained about his digestion, but he was still very much alive -- God be praised, of course. They just had to get out of Salzburg. His father finally appeared in the distance, coming from the direction of the Residenz across the river. He was tall, and he usually held himself ramrod-straight. But he walked now with his head lowered and a pout on his lips. His father took him by the arm, and they crossed the square and opened the nailed- studded, rust-colored front door of the house and climbed the stairs to their rooms. "His Highness would give you leave, unpaid of course. But if I were to go, I'd lose my position. And we can't get along without my salary." He looked Wolfgang straight in the eye. His father's eyes were of a beautiful china blue color, but they looked dark and ugly tonight. "I'm sorry, Wolferl, I know you're disappointed." "But Papa!" "There's nothing I can do about it." "Why can't I go alone?" He waited for an answer. His father seemed reluctant to speak. "I'm twenty-one years old now!" he said. "Why not?" Wolfgang got up and paced around the room, knocking a leather-bound book off the table. "I know my way around well enough by now. Mon Dieu, Papa! I've been traveling all over Europe since I was six." His father leaned over and picked up the book. "No, I don't think so." He spoke as if his teeth hurt, his chin held rigidly. "You're still treating me like a six-year-old!" he said, feeling his mouth quiver. "I don't want to talk about it now." His father still looked grim and abstracted. His father was acting as if he were still a baby! But did he have the nerve to go against the old man? And if he were to go alone, could he handle the trip all by himself? Papa had always _been_ there. His father turned away from him and stared out the window at the street below. Wolfgang suddenly felt helpless at the sight of the shiny pleats on the back of the familiar long black coat and the black ribbon on the second-best periwig. Then his father turned back to him and said, somewhat more gently, "Let's talk about it later, I need time to think." "Time to think" -- that's all Wolfgang had. Time to think about music, about getting a position -- and about still being the oldest virgin male in Salzburg! *** Several days later, Leopold sat down beside his wife. Dinner was over, and she was brushing Bimperl's coat. "Oh, my lovely little doggie-pie. How are you this evening? Yes, Yesss, so bright-eyed. Mama's little bitsy puppy." While Leopold had been told that he was still a handsome, slim and imposing man, he thought his wife was beginning to look definitely middle-aged. But somehow she looked comfortable with it. Her nose was large, and her chin receded, and she had become more than a little stout. But still, she had a certain presence -- she was visibly proud of herself, Marianne Pertl Mozart, wife of a Deputy Music Director. "Marianne, I've come to a difficult decision. " "Yes, Mozart? About what?" "You know how essential it is that we find a place for Wolfgang. I'm afraid there's only one possibility left. You -- you'll have to go with him. I'll stay and take care of things here, Nannerl will help me. You'll be able to give him the guidance he needs. It won't be hard," he added hurriedly, "We have friends everywhere." "Oh, Leopold!" And tears came to her eyes. "To be separated from you -- and Nannerl. And" -- she whispered almost inaudibly -- "Bimperl." "I know. But there's no help for it. It's your duty to our son." "Oh, Leopold!" the tears flowing fast. "My duty?" She wept harder. "Well if it's my _duty_." She took a clean white linen handkerchief from her large bosom and wiped her eyes. "All right, Leopold." "It _will_ be all right, I promise you. He kissed her gently on her furrowed forehead. Leopold planned out the trip with enthusiasm. First southern Germany, then perhaps Holland, but finally, and most important -- Paris! Everything would depend on where Wolfgang found promising opportunities, God knows how long they'd be away. Possibly as long as the money -- or rather the credit -- held out. All kinds of details needed taking care of: clothes, hair brushes, music paper. Letters of credit had to be drawn up on bankers or merchants in Munich, Mannheim, Frankfurt, Paris. And he still had to persuade his good friend Hagenauer the dry goods merchant and the other local businessmen in Salzburg to authorize the necessary back-up credits. But I'm sure that they will go along, thought Leopold. They're proud of Wolferl. After all, he's one of them. Of us. He's a Salzburger. *** It was a bright autumn morning, with the sun climbing over the gray-green heights of the Kapuzinerberg. "Remember who you are," said his father, hugging him. "I will," he said. But as he and his mother climbed into the magnificent new beige coach, he wondered how he could remember something he wasn't so sure about as the reality of his identity. In a very brief sense, he was someone labeled "W.A.M." -- the initials almost seemed to have a life of their own. The totality of his name remained, the 21 letters -- just his age -- like blanks to be filled in by Life itself. The springs of the coach squeaked with the weight of the baggage on top and behind the cab. His mother seemed to be content, and after dropping a few onto the beautifully groomed coat of Bimperl, appeared to be looking forward to the trip. Wolfgang felt euphoric. The air was crisp, there had been a frost the night before. They said their final farewells and the coachmen whipped up the horses. The coach took off with a lurch, clattering over the Makartplatz, headed for the road to Bavaria. The swaying of the coach, as they crossed the low Staats Bridge onto the Mullner Hauptstrasse, provided a rhythmic background to Wolfgang's thoughts. He was leaving Salzburg. This was his chance. With music. And maybe this time in Munich, his luck with women would be better too. The skies were cloudless on their arrival in Munich. It was good to see the familiar towers of the Frauenkirche, dominating the old Gothic city and the newer rococo palaces -- he could identify for his mother a palace and a theater where he had given concerts in the past. At this time of year the court was still resident in the sumptuous new summer palace at Nymphenburg, and the next day, as he drove through the massive gates into the enormous park and up to the baroque splendors of the palace itself, his face felt flushed with excitement. He remembered Munich two years before, and the success of 'La finta giardiniera.' He was announced to Count Seeau. "How are you, my dear Mozart! So pleased to see you again. Taking a vacation from Salzburg?" Even shorter than Wolfgang, the tiny Count was at his most dapper, dressed in a beautifully tailored suit of gray silk with gold piping. "No, I've left for good." "Oh? Not had a falling-out with our good friend the Archbishop, have you?" The Count looked at him slyly. "No, no, it's just that there's no scope for me at that court. I need a more stimulating place." God, this was embarrassing! "But where will you go?" "Well, I'm looking around. I'd love to find something in Munich, if there's anything available." Come on, what did he have to say? These Bavarian idiots should be overjoyed at the prospect of having him there! The next week, sitting at the rickety writing table in their cramped quarters just down from the Frauenkirche, he wrote to his father: ...Seeau offered to try to get me an audience with the Electoral Prince, and told me if there was any snag that I should just put my request in writing. I told him they needed a first-rate composer there and he agreed. I talked to Prince Zeill, the Bishop of Chiemsee, who told me how he admired my work and promised to try to talk to the Electoral Princess. Prince Zeill was sure that something could be done, and that personally he was very anxious to have me there. Your Obedient son Wolfgang Amade Mozart The next day, he made a point of showing Count Seeau his creased and re- creased diplomas from music academies in Verona, Rome, and Milan. Two days after that, he asked his banking connection, Henkel, to mention his name to the Prince-Bishop of Chiemsee again. The Prince-Bishop spoke to him the following day at a reception, saying in a kindly voice that he was almost sure that he should be able to get the Electoral Prince to offer Wolfgang a job. "Patience, Herr Mozart, a bit of patience, please." Patience! Anything but that! He tried to contain himself. He filled the waiting period -- making music -- playing billiards and drinking -- attending the theater and concerts. Then one night he saw "Orfeo and Eurydice" -- and what a Eurydice! Red-haired, cheekbones that never ended. Mimi Kaiser. He sent her a bunch of chrysanthemums after the performance. Backstage, she bowed politely at him, with a little mocking smile. Her pink, soft cheeks with their tiny black beauty spots were enchanting -- she looked in radiant health, close up, more like a lusty peasant girl than an opera singer. "Honored, Herr Mozart," she said, curtseying. "I admire your work. I really want badly to sing one of your roles." He felt his groin swelling -- he could think of other things she could do for him besides sing. "Charmed, Mademoiselle. Your singing is magnificent." She bowed again. He asked her if he could call. Three evenings later he did call, but she was not in. His thoughts drifted back to her pink-tinged white shoulders as he toured Nymphenburg the next day. The painted ceilings with their depictions of Hercules throwing a rock at some water nymphs and of Diana bathing in a quiet blue pool in the forest were like some kind of earthly heaven. He could imagine himself as Hercules, Mademoiselle Kaiser as the more robust of the nymphs. But then the Electoral Prince's giant blue-and-white-tiled bath that was the envy of the other rulers of Europe reminded him of who he was -- a struggling musician. What must it be like to actually live in one of these incredible palaces, to loll in a bath like that? Would he get bored with that kind of life? Shit, how would he ever find out? He remembered the naive little boy who had told his father he wanted to be a prince. One thing was obvious. Princes would have an easier time approaching the Mademoiselle Kaisers of the world. *** The letter arrived in Salzburg in the middle of October. One section in particular angered Leopold: [Marianne:] Bimperl, I hope, is doing her duties and making up to you, because she's a good, faithful fox terrier. Please say hello to Tresel for me and tell her it doesn't matter whether.. [Wolfgang (continuing her last phrase):] ...I shit the crap or she eats it... Leopold, in Salzburg, threw the letter down, bruising his hand on the ink-sander. He could feel his cheeks burning. "Shit the crap"! Gutter nonsense and no action! Three weeks in Munich! How would they be able to make the money hold out? And all his son could do was make bad jokes. They were obviously giving him the runaround. And Wolfgang was probably happily out drinking, chasing tarts, and Lord knows what! And Marianne obviously couldn't stand up to him. Wolferl must get moving. On to Paris! *** It had been a lovely, glowing hour, alone with her in her dark apartments high above the narrow Hinsichtsgasse, with the noise of a rain shower on the roof as a faint obbligato. She demurely poured out another glass of sherry for him. Did he dare to reach for her hand across the Chinese table with the flame-bellowing dragons? He reached out to touch her arm with one finger, but she pulled back and his finger grazed her thigh. He almost jumped out of his chair. She laughed. "Do you need something else, Herr Mozart?" "Yes," he said, "I need more tenderness in my life." She laughed again, in soft, sweet tones. "You musicians always need that. You need a wife, Herr Mozart." "I need the love of a woman." "But first, perhaps, you need a position in life. Right?" She was right, but he could feel himself blushing. "You're very young, Herr Mozart." "Not so young." She took _his_ hand. And patted it. He tried not to recognize that she patted it like a sister. "Think about music, Herr Mozart, not women. You have so much talent. Take this from an older woman." She _was_ older, maybe twenty-five. But as he walked out into the sharp wetness of the Hinsichtsgasse, he still thought he might be able to win Mademoiselle Kaiser's heart. Persistence -- never say die. A Mozart didn't give up easily. *** Electoral Prince Maximilian III sat back in an old but very comfortable chair. He had gained a good deal of weight lately. His foot, swollen with gout, was resting on a hassock. "You Highness," said the Bishop of Chiemsee, "I wanted to speak to you about young Mozart." The Electoral Prince made a face. "Let's not, please." "I don't mean to insist, but I thought you shared my high opinion of his talents." "But I do share them, Bishop. But there's no vacancy." "But you have no court composer currently." "No, I haven't. But I don't think I'll be filling the post soon." The Prince squirmed, then said, "Ach," as he moved his leg slightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you about it." "No, Bishop, you're not bothering me, you just don't understand. There are _special_ _reasons_ in this case." "Oh, I see." "I apologize, Bishop. Oh, by the way, have we heard anything new from the court in Vienna?" "Nothing, Your Highness. It's all quiet. The Emperor hasn't issued any pronouncements this week. At least none that concern Bavaria." "Good! We have to watch that man -- he's a tricky one." "The world is full of tricky people, Your Highness." "You are so right, Your Grace, so exactly right." *** Wolfgang had to explain the whole mess to his father -- it wasn't his fault he had been stuck in Munich all this time! ...but after those honeyed words, Father -- what happened? Nothing, exactly nothing. Prince Zeill spoke to the Electoral Prince, who said that it was too soon for me to be looking for a position there. He said he was not refusing me, but it was too soon: why didn't I go to Italy for a while and make a name for myself? Well, Papa, I couldn't leave it at that, not after all our effort. Woschitka, whom you had recommended to me, got me an audience with the great potentate himself. I said I had come to offer my services. The Electoral Prince asked why I was no longer in Salzburg, and I told him. I made a point of telling him that I had _already_ been to Italy. I bragged on passing the test for admittance as a member of the Accademia Filarmonica in Bologna. But he interrupted: "Yes, my dear boy, but I have no vacancy. I'm sorry. If only there were a vacancy." "I assure your Highness that I would bring honor to Munich!" He turned away, saying over his shoulder, "I know. But it's no good, there's no vacancy here." What twaddle! So such is life here! How is everybody at home... Your obedient son Wolfgang Amade Mozart *** "Shit! Yes, shit, that's all I can say -- after that cold shoulder from someone like the Electoral Prince that I thought was a friend of mine," he said to Peter Kodalyi, a young Hungarian officer attached to the court. "At least Prince Max didn't literally give you a gold watch!" said Peter. Kodalyi was twenty-seven and had a pair of dashing black military mustaches. Wolfgang had only seen mustaches like his in pictures in books, or on Turkish traders. "Yes, do you suppose I could set myself up in the watch business?" "Got a lot of them, have you? Oh, waiter, more wine, and some bread and cheese." They were in a small eating house off the Marienplatz. "Dozens, dozens of them, all oh-so-honorable and oh-so-useless. After a thousand performances in drafty salons for the benefit of a bunch of fat chattering princely assholes." "Any interesting assholes?" Wolfgang laughed. "How about the Queen of France's?" "Marie-Antoinette?" "She's an old friend of mine. I proposed to her once." "You did?" Kodalyi loosened his stiff high collar. "Yes, I was six and she was seven!" Kodalyi laughed. "A youthful lecher." "Mind you I haven't actually seen her bare-assed, but I bet she's got a cute one. And now she's married to a lockmaker, at least that's the kind of thing they say the King of France spends his time on when he isn't playing monarch." "Maybe he fixes watches too," said Kodalyi. "I'll keep it in mind. I could go partners with Louis in a watch shop if the people ever got tired of him and he lost his job." Wolfgang leaned back, arms behind his head, dreaming of the future partnership. "Not much chance of that, I'm afraid." "No, not likely." He pulled on the chain on his waistcoat and looked at his diamond-encrusted watch. "It's late, I want to stop somewhere on the way home." "A girl" "Yes." "Who?" "Mademoiselle Kaiser." "You're kidding!" "No!" "Mozart, the lovely Mademoiselle Kaiser already has all the men she needs. Didn't you know that she's being kept by the Bishop of Ulm?" "What?" He felt as if a sword had sliced into his chest. "Poor Mozart. What an odd duck you are. Have another drink. You need it." The Bishop of Ulm! Even bishops have women, while talented musicians live lives of excruciating celibacy! To hell with Munich! Sometimes even a Mozart knew when to give up. *** It was a gray autumn morning in October when he and his mother finally left Munich en route to Augsburg. Augsburg was the Mozart family home, and they would be able to rest at his uncle's and give some concerts -- while they prepared to go on to Mannheim, the next likely hunting ground for would-be court musicians. They passed by the impressive cathedral, with its famous bronze door bearing thirty-three intricate bas-reliefs of Biblical scenes. He recalled a candy seller with a completely bald head who had stood out in front of the cathedral almost exactly eleven years before. He had eaten so much candy then that he had gotten sick, waking up in the garret in his uncle's house, his stomach cramping, vomiting into the chamber pot. He remembered that feeling in his throat as they turned the corner just the other side of the nine-story hall. And how his uncle had held his head, and his cousin "Baesle" had asked, in her high, screechy voice, "What's Wolferl making that noise for, why, Papa, why?" They pulled up to the house where his father had been born, with the high brick walls and the narrow windows from which he could pretend he was on the battlements of a tall castle, ready to throw boiling oil on the enemy below. His nineteen-year-old cousin Maria Thekla Mozart greeted them at the door with a broad smile and a warm, sweet-smelling embrace, soft lips on his cheek. It had been ten years or more since they had seen each other. "Hello, Wolferl, it's good to see you," said Thekla. "Hello, 'Baesle.' Good to see you," said Wolfgang, holding her forearms with hands. "You're the only one who has ever called me that: 'Little Cousin,'" she said. And her full-cheeked face turned a little red. Her bright blue eyes sparkled. "How you've grown, " said his mother. "Yes, maybe too much," she said, sweeping her arms into a circle to indicate her buxom figure. "No, you've grown into a fine girl," said his mother, kissing her. They went inside the old large house, which held the print shop on the first floor and the living apartments upstairs. Not too buxom, not at all, thought Wolfgang. Well, maybe a little bit too thick in the hips. But not much. She patted him on the hand as he and his mother prepared to go out. He felt an erection rising up. "Are you going out to see the town today?" she asked. "Yes," he said. "What is there to see?" "Not much," she said. It's a small town. Sometimes it feels really very small." Lucky me! he thought. I've found yet another Salzburg! "You must miss your friends at home," she said later as they ate a late dinner informally around the unfinished pine table in the kitchen. "Well, yes." "I suppose you have a girlfriend there." "Not to speak of," he said. "You must have met lots of people in Munich." "Some, yes some," he thought, thinking about Mademoiselle Kaiser. Some, but not enough! At supper that night, he felt a small foot pressing on his under the table. He pressed back with his other foot, trapping hers between his. After a few minutes, he reached down and squeezed her knee with his left hand -- the flesh below the kneecap felt soft and warm. She giggled. He found himself giggling back. Uncle Ignaz looked up, but merely smiled vaguely. His mother complained about a headache and kept worrying that their little Bimperl wasn't being taken care of well enough back home. She fell asleep in her chair after dinner and went to bed early. "Well, I'm going to bed," said Thekla finally. "All right, I'll be right along," he said. Giggles. "Oh, you will, will you? I don't think that would be so nice." "Oh, but I'd be sure to make it nice, first I'd take good care of your little you-know-what" -- they were talking softly, her father still sat in the far corner of the room -- "and then I bet you can't guess what I'd do." Wolferl was trying to smile confidently, but his heart was pounding in anticipation. "Oh, no, I don't think I'd like that at all!" she said as she got up and leisurely made her way upstairs. "Good night, Papa." A few minutes later, he stood up. Uncle Ignaz said, "Oh, Wolferl, are you off to bed so early too?" "Yes, Uncle, I'm tired. I'm exhausted." And he went off upstairs, trembling, walking loudly first to his room and then tiptoeing back to hers. As he opened the door, Thekla was standing by the bed in her shift, facing away from him. He walked slowly over to her, put his arms around her, his hands on her breasts. They were deliciously heavy and warm. He prodded his fingers into the sheer cotton covering the nipples. She sighed and turned her head toward him. Oh, God, he thought he was going to come right away! But his luck held out for a few more flurried minutes with clothing being flung off and bodies jostling for position. He got it in, but then it was out again. "Take it easy," she said, helping him. Finally, panicked, he found the right place, rushing himself to climax in a crazy fit of violent desire. She gasped as he came. And oh to feel her arms around him afterward! And to know that he was a man at last -- a real man. Waking that next morning, with the sun shining in the tiny window, his thoughts drifted to music. It was all music -- love was -- but through the skin and the eyes, not just through the ears. It couldn't be written down on paper, it was nothing without the performance. What was any one of his operas the production? Just a dream, a fancy of his mind recorded in notes on lined paper. A sleeping thing, needing people and instruments and enthusiasm and sweat to bring it to life. Sex with a real live woman was like music -- like the best, most exciting moments in a string quartet, like the high note in an aria. Over the next few days, the bedroom at the top of the stairs became "their" place. Making love, the lying on the bed for hours thinking, recovering between spasms. His body drained, almost aching. This must be what makes all that other shit worthwhile. I _am_ a real person, just like everybody else. I wish I _never_ had to leave Augsburg. Here I am, Wolferl Mozart, I really wouldn't have to do anything or be anything more ever again -- I could just lie here the rest of my life and let this girl make love to me, love me, and let me make love to her, and love her. He was over a divide now =-- the child prodigy was gone. The boy who sat on the lap of the Empress. All I had to do in that other life was play music, then I was allowed to jabber on and on afterward, with people courting me, spoiling me rotten. Now I am a man. And I've entered another world -- a world of good old Prince Maxes and their "no vacancies." I'm no longer a cute, talented little babbling boy in a pigtailed wig. I'm a short young man with protruding eyes and a funny nose. Christ, I'm a far better musician than I was when I was a child touring Europe. But things have changed. _I've_ changed. I'm a man. And I'm just not so cute anymore. Thekla came up behind him as he stood gazing out the tiny window at the top of the Rathaus, visible over the gray and red roofs of the intervening houses. "You're a special person, you know that, Wolferl?" "No. I'm not really." "Yes, you are. And I don't mean just the music." He searched her eyes. A serious gray blue. "I know you'll probably be a great man. Everybody says so." He shrugged. "But that isn't why I like you." "No, you like me because I make the best puns in Germany. I know your game." "I do like the amusing little boy who's full of pranks. And I respect the great musician. And you know what else?" "Oh, let's not talk about such things." He made a face and started to turn away from her. "I love the young man who needs and desires me. Maybe as he has never desired anyone else." Oh," he said. He felt his face brightening. "If you're going to talk about desire, that's different." And he began to press his body up against hers. "Wait a minute, Wolferl. I want to say something first." "Yes, darling Baesle, what is it?" he said, looking into her eyes. "Be careful." "What?" "I'm afraid you want too much. God gave you talent, but maybe as a kind of cross to bear. We all have crosses. And they can crush us." "Oh, let's do talk about something else!" "But, Wolferl!" "I'm tired of talking about talent, and genius, and all that nonsense." "All right, Wolferl. Just don't want too much. Maybe you want more than a person can get." "Well, I know what I want right now," he said, pressing his mouth to her breast. As his teeth lightly gnawed on the stiffened rough flesh of the nipple, he felt suddenly apprehensive. He tried to put away the thought, but he couldn't: How long before I get another one of those hysterical letters from Salzburg? ============================================================= TIME TRIALS by Otho E. Eskin "I do wish you would learn to play mahjongg," Eva says as she puts her cup of hot chocolate on the table top. Suddenly it is very important that I understand why I am in the Fuehrerbunker talking with Eva Braun when we haven't even been introduced. "I don't have the time," I say. She stirs the chocolate with a silver spoon. The spoon makes a small tinkling sound as it strikes the side of the cup. Her hands are thick and have faint red spots on them. She is putting on weight. How is it that I have never noticed that before? "I don't have the time," I say. Dr. Sullivan lights a Marlboro with a gold lighter, then waves away the smoke from between us. "I hope you don't mind my smoking." I hate smoking. I have strictly forbidden it. I know they sneak out into the garden and smoke. I can smell it on their breaths. It's on the tips of their fingers. It comes through their skin. It oozes through their pores like pus. People who corrupt their bodies with tobacco should be shot. No. Better they should be strangled. "What's to mind," I say. Dr. Sullivan picks a piece of tobacco from her lower lip. She is wearing simple navy, wool gabardine separates with a fitted double-breasted jacket. Poor stitching in the collar. It is beginning to pucker. She probably paid too much for it. The airless air, the smell of damp concrete suffocates me. Somewhere through the meters of steel and mortar I sense the throbbing of the generators. What am I doing here? Dr. Sullivan sees me looking at her hands. She seems to be self-conscious about them. She stubs out her cigarette in a large ceramic ashtray half-filled with burnt out ends and folds her hands in her lap. "What seems to be the problem?" "I have terrifying visions. I think I'm maybe going crazy." "Tell me about them." "I'm in a room. Sometimes I'm alone. Sometimes there are others." "Are these other people strangers?" "Yes. No." She shakes a fresh cigarette from a package and holds it, unlit, in her hand. "Can you describe the room?" "Just a square room. No windows. There is a desk -- or maybe a table. A couple of chairs. Outside, mortar shells rain down onto Wilhelmstrasse. Trucks and tanks burn in Potsdamer Platz. That's all." "What are you doing in that room?" "I am waiting for someone. I haven't much time left." "Does the room remind you of some place you have been? Maybe when you were young?" "I have never been in that room. No. That is not quite true. I have always been in that room." "These dreams..." "These are not dreams. Dreams I can live with. What I see is real. I'm telling you, they are more real than you, Dr. Sullivan." She glances to see if I am looking at her hands. "Do you have any health problems?" "In the last few days I have been suffering from headaches. And I've been getting stomach cramps." She lights her cigarette and takes a long drag, then coughs. "Jesus, these things are going to kill me." She puts the cigarette, still lit and smoldering, into the ashtray. "I've been trying to stop. I've been through self-hypnosis, TM, behavior modification. Nothing works. Do you follow any regular regime of exercise?" What should I know from exercise? I work twelve hours a day, six days a week in my clothing store on twenty-fourth street to keep food on the table. I should be in a fancy jogging suit and hundred dollar shoes running around Central Park with all the low-lifes? "I don't have time, Dr. Sullivan." "Yes, you do. You have all the time in the world." She's right of course. But how could she know that? "Do you have a balanced diet?" With the aggravations I have, what do I know from a balanced diet. Sometime, if I'm lucky I have a lean corn beef on rye for lunch and maybe in the afternoon a glass tea. I hear sirens, muffled by tons of concrete and steel and time. So much time. So little time. My hands shake. I can't move my left arm. Eva is complaining that she is bored. She is wearing a simple cotton dark-blue print frock with white polka dots. The seams of her stockings are crooked. I can barely suppress my rage. We are being invaded by the barbarians. Thousands of Russian soldiers pour through the streets above us. And she is bored. Big deal. Within hours she will be dead. The world is coming to an end and she wants to play games. A rocket scientist she's not. I tell her I don't have time. She pouts and drinks her chocolate. "Have you been seeing any physicians?" Dr. Sullivan asks. Dr. Sullivan thinks I am hallucinating. I'm not hallucinating the Red Army on Frankfurter Allee. I'm not hallucinating the bombs that fall on the city, the fire storms that are sweeping us away. I've never been sick a day in my life. So why am I sitting here with a crazy-doctor at $90 an hour when God knows what is happening at the store? "I occasionally see specialists to help with my arm," I tell her. She holds the cigarette back and away from her. "You didn't mention anything about your arm." "It happened many years ago." She is attractive in a coarse, Mediterranean way. She is maybe in her thirties and has a nice figure. She sees me watching her and she sits back in her high-backed chair and folds one arm across her breast, the cigarette in the other hand, just in front of her mouth. She has a full mouth with generous, inviting lips. I wonder if anyone has ever told her that. "I am seeing Dr. Kreuz," I say. She flicks her tongue along her lower lip. The sight of her pink tongue excites me. "Dr. Kreuz is a fraud," she says. Dr. Sullivan stubs out her half-finished cigarette. She stirs the butt in the ashtray among the others. Eva has gone and I am alone. She doesn't approve of Dr. Kreuz and she doesn't want to be around when she comes. How long have I been alone? Shouldn't there be people here? Have they all gone? Have they sneaked out of the bunker? Are they scurrying like frightened field mice through the burning rubble? The General Staff, the guards, dear Eva. All deserters. I won't miss her. Least of all Eva. Maybe I'm the only one left in the bunker. There is no one I can trust. I am surrounded by traitors. I am the victim of corruption and cowardice. I go to the door and listen but hear nothing. I can't even hear the generators any more. Eva has become a trial. It was all right at the Berghof. Now she thinks she can make claims on me. Now that we are married, she has become impossible. She says she gave up a promising career to be with me. Eva's getting to be a real pain. Who needs it? Is it my imagination or is the air becoming more stale? Maybe the air circulation system has stopped. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I can no longer breathe. How long does it take to die of asphyxiation? I open the door a crack and look into the office beyond. Bormann glances up at me. He is wearing a heavy, gray worsted jacket. I shut the door quickly, embarrassed. "Dr. Kreuz is a fraud." Dr. Sullivan is fiddling with her lighter. She taps it on the desk top. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I hope she will show me her tongue again. "She's not even a doctor, you know." "She didn't help you," I tell her. The tapping is making me nervous. Do I dare ask her to stop? "She talks a good line," Dr. Sullivan says. "She makes all kinds of claims. But she is incompetent. I paid a fortune to that woman to cure me of my smoking habit. She said: no problem. She'd done it hundreds of times, she said. But at the end, she tells me the cure is too dangerous. I might not survive the treatment. By the time I was through, I was a nervous wreck and smoking three packs a day." The bombardment has begun again. The enemy has located the bunker and the shells fall like hammer blows above my head. The noise is so great I cannot think. The earth trembles. Fine dust drifts from a crack in the ceiling. How can the walls support the stress? The room is full of smoke. What if something has happened to Dr. Kreuz. She has told me many times that nothing can harm her. But can she withstand steel and flame? She has survived worse, she says. She stands at the far end of the room telling me the time has come. "Are you ready?" she asks. Now that it is time, I hesitate. "Will I forget?" I ask. Dr. Sullivan is looking at me intently. Her mouth is partly open and her lips are moist. She seems to be breathing quickly. "Are you all right, Dr. Sullivan?" I stand up and cross to her. She is at least six inches taller than I am. "You seem...you should excuse the expression...excited." "I'm just upset. You'd be upset too if some bitch ripped you off for six grand." I lead her to the couch. "Sit down, Dr. Sullivan. You must rest." She sits on the couch and I take off her shoes -- gray pumps -- totally inappropriate to her outfit. I lift her feet to the couch. She puts one hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath. "You can't imagine how I hate this job." There is a knock at the door. "It's me. Eva. Can I come in?" "We must hurry," Dr. Kreuz says. Eva knocks more loudly. "We are running out of time," Eva says. "We are running out of time," Dr. Kreuz says. I hear the impatient rapping at the door and have a hard time following Dr. Kreuz's words. "I have the key to the Arcanum. I am immortal. Use your powers and you will be immortal too." "Can I speak frankly to you?" Dr. Sullivan interrupts. I'm sitting on the couch next to her. "I know this isn't professional, but I find you strangely attractive." She is looking at me intently. "I find you somehow magnetic." "Please pay attention," Dr. Kreuz yells at me. "You must concentrate. Time's web that binds you is dissolving." There are so many voices. The roaring in my ears splits my skull. The bunker groans from the impact of a bomb fifty feet above us. The sound of traffic drifts up from the street below. There is tapping at the door. "Please answer me." "I'm losing you." Dr. Kreuz's voice is a hoarse whisper. "I'm losing you." "Did you hear what I said?" Dr. Sullivan asks. "You don't seem to be paying attention." She grasps my hand fiercely. "I am losing you." "What is happening?" I hear myself asking. "Concentrate." Dr. Kreuz grasps me by the hand. "Use your powers. The matrix of time no longer has you in its power. In a moment your spirit will fall across space and time." "Who will I be?" "Even now I search for a vessel. Perhaps nearby. Perhaps on the other side of the world." "When?" "Then is now. Somewhere, sometime, someone waits. The world waits for you." "What are you doing in there?" Eva's voice has a sharp edge on it. "Let me in this minute." Such a yenta. "Use your powers." Dr. Kreuz is calling me from a great distance. "Even now you take possession of another. Do not fail me. Do not fail destiny." I can hear nothing except the incessant knocking on the door. Will no one stop her? Will no put an end to my torment? I make out the words of Dr. Kreuz. "We shall meet again," she says from a very long time ago. Torrents of icy darkness sear my soul. My flesh is stripped away, the marrow sucked from my bones. The woman lying on the couch looks at me eagerly. Her hand is at the back of my neck and pulls me toward her. I am too startled to resist. Her lips are soft and moist. I can smell her cologne, I can smell her flesh. I am so close I can see the texture of her skin under her makeup. She opens her lips and her tongue touches mine. I can taste the tobacco. I hear myself screaming; the words pour from my lips; words I didn't think I knew. I am shaking her violently. She is unable to comprehend what is happening. I taste the smoke in her mouth; I feel the corruption of her body. My rage becomes incandescent. My hands are at her throat. Her eyes widen -- in terror? -- in expectation? -- in understanding? My rage burns out as quickly as it began. Only my hands tremble. Otherwise, I am entirely normal. I rise and go the desk. I search through the Rolodex until I find the name of Dr. Kreuz. I write the address on a slip of paper. I am anxious to leave. I have a great deal to talk to Dr. Kreuz about. ================================================================= =================================================================