FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 1, Number 1 Spring, 1994 EDITOR'S NOTES: FICTION-ONLINE is a new quarterly literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the internet. The magazine will include short stories, play scripts or excerpts of plays, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and publishes material from other sources and solicits works from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e- mail a brief request to "ngwazi@clark.net" (no quotes). To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address. 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, will be in violation of the authors' copyrights. William Ramsay, Editor ngwazi@clark.net ================================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Three Portraits": verses Joseph Forsthoffer "Ginger Doll," a short-short story George Howell "Detente," a short story Judith Greenwood "Boy," an excerpt (chapter 1) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "A New Prometheus," a ten-minute play Otho Eskin ================================================================= CONTRIBUTORS OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, including "Murder is a Fine Art," "Duet," and "Season in Hell." "The New Prometheus" was produced at the Source Theater Festival in 1993. JOSEPH FORSTHOFFER is a writer living in Salisbury, Maryland. "Small Town Lives" consists of three poems taken from his verse drama, "The Fosters Chronicle." JUDITH GREENWOOD, international interior and garden designer and West Virginia farmer, also writes fiction. She was the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC. GEORGE HOWELL is a fiction writer living in Takoma Park, Maryland. He has written art reviews for "Eyewash" and the "Washington Review." WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He recently published a short story, "Heritage," in "Nebo." He is on the Board of Directors of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland. ================================================================= THREE PORTRAITS by Joseph Forsthoffer The Jilted Bridegroom Last night, carrying groceries from the car, I was struck by the silence. Yesterday's frost had killed the last crickets. The sense of loss still haunts me, a sudden and recurring revelation of absence. I stayed home this morning listening to the furnace cycle off and on, expecting to see you cross the room, the wake from your body disturbing the dust floating in a slanted column of sunlight. The Sunday School Teacher It was all so simple once: God was the yellow crayon beams of sunlight drawn on blue-lined notebook paper. The children glue together construction paper cut-outs of Joseph and Mary and never question the glances that pass between a man and a woman. No one noticed when I stayed late to type his sermons. I was surprised to find his hands so cold, the taste of bourbon on his lips so sweet. The Mathematician As a child, I stood in darkened fields on moonless nights, under the cold, black dome of a winter sky, to learn the patterns of stars. I traced their movements and took comfort in the mathematical precision of the heavens. The universe, I decided, was a perpetual motion machine whose blueprint could be found in numbers and geometry. But now, at night, I hear the machinery creak and groan: a lone cricket, somehow surviving into November, rubs his legs and gains no response in the chill night. And I sit until 3 a.m. ordering coffee and donuts from a woman with a slender waist and red hair who will never ask my name. ================================================================= GINGER DOLL by George Howell Along dusty sidewalks uprooted by big trees, in front of tiny storefronts garlanded with blossoms, crowds wander, crowds of lovers, business men, high school girls and priests. And down little alleyways, dark even in the middle of the day, intrigue calls, adventure calls. I have returned to the scene of the crime. Sober now, I wander the narrow streets of the Vieux Carre, wander the streets of New Orleans. But the noise makes me nostalgic, reminds me of drunken walks, together, in the noisy crowd. She died. I sobered up, she died. Simple as that. Little plazas lead to shops, bookstores, bars. The stale odor of spilled beer mixes with sickly sweet blossoms crushed on broken sidewalks, a swirl of aromas. I walk through bookstores, browse through thick volumes of picture books -- the river, mansions -- browse portfolios of decaying menus. I am nostalgic. I sobered up, she died. I follow a walkway past pink wisteria, through a dark courtyard, to the doll shop. With her hair pulled back in a tangle of dark braids, her skin brown as the bark of blossoming trees guarding her shop, the sales girl smiles as she talks. "These are traditional dolls," she explains. "And this is Ginger Doll." She holds up a small brown cloth figure -- no face, no eyes, no mouth, four thin stumps for arms and legs, a blue and white checkered apron hanging from the limp brown doll. "She's the kind of doll a child would need to forget her harsh and cruel surroundings." The sales girl smiles as she tells her tale. How can I refuse? I buy Ginger Doll, carry her under my arm, back to my hotel. Pages drift in a gentle breeze, drift from the bed to the unpolished floor. Ginger Doll can't see the pages drift, can't hear the pages rustle on the floor. No eyes, no ears, no mouth. I can't read this letter from a dead girl to a doll with no ears. I can't see my memories in a doll with no eyes. A doll that takes in nothing, gives nothing in return. I could take her into bars, prop her up against half-drunk bottles. I'd drink cokes and tell her about adventures, tell her about love and intrigue down narrow alleyways, in shady courtyards. I could stuff her in my suitcase, dump her at the airport. Some small child, lonely and frightened in the corridors of glass and busy feet, could find her, find some happiness in Ginger Doll. I could burn her. Smoke drifts up old grey walls, curls above the window. Ginger Doll, in flames, in the waste basket. An empty face devoured by flames. A moment of peace and forgetting. I will leave soon, leave this old hotel, but what can I do with Ginger Doll? Outside these dusty windows, crowds shuffle along old broken sidewalks, loud, robust, alive. But inside, the room is silent and, for once, I am at peace. I'll leave her here in this silent room, leave Ginger Doll here. I make a shrine for Ginger Doll. Prop up the doll on the wooden dresser, half open the dusty louvered blinds. Vanilla bars of street light fall across a bowl of candy on a doily. Something to please a child, make a child's toy rejoice. But how can Ginger Doll rejoice -- no eyes, no ears, no mouth, a sad bag of cotton with a blue and white apron? No more adventures call, no more restless walks through dusty courtyards and sad plazas. I will give this doll a face. A black stitch for a mouth, two buttons from my shirt for eyes. Fold her arms around a letter, put my memories in the arms of a doll. Take a piece of candy and watch the sun rise. I can leave soon. I sobered up, she died. ================================================================= DETENTE by Judith Greenwood A dingy gray sky fills the bedroom window and the local weatherman uses his minute of breakaway time during the Today show to say nothing will happen today. No sun. No rain. No wind. No thunderstorm. Nothing to vary the mild, gray nothingness of seventy-five degrees and low clouds. And everything else will stay the same. Nothing will come over the phone or in the mail or down the street to alter a gray life. Hope seems over. In less than two weeks a few people will gather in a courtroom to formalize the dissolution of hope. A few weeks after that she will receive a certified letter announcing that man has put asunder... How bright the sun had been the day the promises were made. She had photographs to prove it. Over the months she looked at them and cried for the girl in embroidered white organdy and the man in the gray cutaway and all the beautiful youngsters in morning coats and pastel dresses who'd believed in forever then. He'd called at seven. She'd come home early with live lobsters and Montrachet, and the call surprised her. "I forgot to tell you I'm going to a seminar directly from here," he said. "Oh, David," she protested, "I came home early to make dinner." "Go ahead without me. I'll grab something on the way." "But it's your birthday!" she cried. "I don't want to eat your birthday dinner. I'll wait for you. Come as early as you can." There was a long and oddly silent pause. The suspicion that he wasn't at his office flickered through her mind. His office was never that quiet. He chuckled. "Leave it to you to remember. I've written the date all day and didn't think a thing of it. I thought we'd celebrate this weekend, so I mentally moved the birthday to then -- like George Washington." "Well, it's today." "I'm sorry, Laura, but don't wait for me. You know how these things are. I need the contacts I make at these things. Don't wait up; we'll do something this weekend." After she hung up the phone, she stared at it as if David were inside. In a sudden leap of intuition that was unlike her, she knew David was lying. He hadn't forgot his birthday, and he knew she'd remember, too. She was so sure of it that for a minute she thought of getting in her car and finding him, feeling that her certainty would lead her to him, wherever he was. She didn't do it, of course. She cooked the lobsters, carefully picked the meat out and put it away in the refrigerator. The unusual domesticity calmed her a little, although she still felt shaky as she searched for clues from recent life to what or who was so important to David that he'd lie and convince himself that she'd buy the lie. She drank the Montrachet and paced the kitchen, trying to think of what to do next. David had a secret. She was aware of it all the time. There were no more gross slips like the birthday, but Laura felt it lying between them in bed. She heard it like an intruding voice from another table when they met for dinner. She sometimes smelled it on him when he came home, the sensation as ugly as the clinging odor of burnt hair. Oh, most of the time he really did go where he said he did. She might see him at the tennis courts when she drove by on her way to the hairdresser on Saturday. And yet he would come in reeking of his secret. She tried to be more attentive to him; she brought work home or sent someone else on a trip in her place. She couldn't think of what else to do, so she hoped it would just go away. Oddly enough, it was at their own annual Christmas party that she found out David's secret. No one told her. No one was caught hiding in the bedroom piled with coats. There weren't any intercepted guilty looks. The clue was something that was missing. David was avoiding someone. A silly, flirtatious, normal repartee between David and Sharon had become cool distance. Her face jerked away from them as if she'd been slapped; she caught Marion's . Hot shame flooded her. Marion knew! Did everyone know? Everyone but Laura? The next morning she dug out the white leather wedding album. There they were: David -- Laura -- and Sharon, dressed in bridesmaid pink. She hadn't caught the bouquet. Sharon and David? Not possible! There had to be another explanation. Sharon was her best and oldest friend! She blundered along in a daze until February. No one meant to hurt her; it was the last thing they'd meant to do. That's what he said. It was just that once when she was away, they'd run into each other in a bar, and sometime during the scotch and water their eyes met... They'd tried, but it was no use. Now they had experience and memory to which Laura was not a party. "She wants you to know how sorry she is, Laura. You don't know how unhappy she is about it. We're both miserable. We didn't want you to know, because we hoped we'd get over it." Laura looked at him with swollen eyes and a tear-streaked face, unable to comprehend how David could say something so thick-headed and think it made a difference to her. Did he expect her to be sorry for Sharon's guilty conscience? Sharon from French Club in high school, in the next shower stall in gym. Sharon, the one she told when she finally "did it". Sharon, who confessed to Laura that "it" hurt and was a big disappointment. Sharon gave the bridal shower. Sharon knew how hard it was for Laura to wait, as they'd agreed to, to start a baby. Sharon was one of their tennis crowd. Sharon was at their friends' parties when Laura was traveling. Sharon, Sharon, always there, always everywhere -- and Laura's friends knew. Laura lost the privilege of looking into a friend's eyes and taking loyalty for granted. Betrayed. When David left her, she didn't know whom to call. If she confided, would her words later be used against her? They were choosing sides. Who was choosing Laura? Might they later change sides and expose her to the others? Whom could she trust? Where was truth and where was danger? Utterly alone, she spent weeks picking through the wreckage. Half the memories from half her life included David or Sharon. She'd have to take herself apart to find all the useless shreds of her love for them. Laura decided to jettison Sharon and try to save her marriage. "Help me, David! Help salvage us! This is a nightmare. We have to try, babe. Please." She pled history, love, and (in degrading moments she hated to recall) economics. Nothing moved him. The salt of swallowed tears turned to a bitter gripe in her throat. She rushed home from work with fresh flowers and spent hours polishing silver and cooking food she couldn't eat. David wouldn't talk. He didn't even see the new Laura. She sat on the floor one night, looking through a glass of Cabernet at the fire she'd lit and she thought about it. Housekeeping hadn't won him, and it wouldn't win him back. I don't run my business like this, she thought, giving the customer what he doesn't want. What does he want? Why did he love me? He liked my organization and my drive. He was proud of me. And sex. Once he'd wanted sex with Laura more than anything. David was no adventurer. He didn't just leave; he made sure there was somewhere to go first. She realized that she might be braver than he, and she knew she was a little more successful than David. She resolved to plan and execute a campaign to get him back. It was what she was best-suited to do, and would use all the qualities that set her apart from other women. A few days later, she sent him by courier a list of all their marital assets, divided and disposed with unerring sense and accuracy. She changed the locks on the doors. He called. "Why do we have to sell the growth stocks?" David asked. "And the cars, how did you decide I get the Honda?" "If I take the house, I get the mortgage, and I just don't want the car loan on the Honda," she replied. "With the stocks it's a valuation problem. They're down. Would you take them valued at what we paid for them?" "That's hardly fair, is it?" "Well, if you take them at their present value and sell them when they go up, then I've taken the entire loss. So I figure the only fair way to settle it is to sell and split the proceeds and the loss. That seems fair." "You've got it all laid out, haven't you? Pretty cold-blooded, isn't it?" Laura said nothing for a while. "I don't feel the least bit cold-blooded about it, David. Not about any of it." There was silence again, and then, "What's the matter? Are you there? Laura? Are you okay?" "I'm okay, David. Listen, this isn't working over the phone. Write up your own version and I'll consider it." Weeks went by with no response. She heard that Sharon was in London. She called David and asked when she could expect his settlement offer. He hadn't accomplished a thing. He'd taken it all apart. He'd looked at the pieces and tried to glue them back together, but it was the kind of thing David had never been good at. His intuitive, expressive strengths didn't transfer to the analysis of their assets and the decisive slashing apart required. And reading lists of things they'd bought together and lived with depressed him. It was exactly what Laura had expected. She offered to meet with him to work it out. They planned to meet at the house. She dressed in a severe suit with a silk teddy underneath, and she made hazelnut coffee, which David didn't really like. She told herself that one way or the other, it was over. He stayed. The agreeable Laura radiated strength and warmth. She was the image of decisive flexibility, the negotiator, listening to his view and then transforming it into a fair proposal. "We bought the growth stocks to pay for the children's education," she gently reminded him, "now there won't be any children." "Take what you want, David, furniture, books, music," she offered, "but I have to have the house." She didn't give a reason, but she insisted. She was logical, kind, female. He was fascinated again, and couldn't seem to remember why leaving had been so important. But when Sharon came back, their careful, slightly jerky detente failed. He didn't walk out. He lay in bed with his back to her. Sometimes she woke up when the bed shook with his silent sobs. She pressed her pelvis into the mattress, looking for heat she couldn't find. Even the quantities of scotch he drank at night didn't help. It made her sick. He made her sick with his weakness and lies and drinking and silence when she tried to talk about what was happening to them. She told him, "You're selfish and childish and tiresome! You've got to have what you want, the way you want it, or make me pay!" It was during that time that Laura began to talk to a voice in her head. The voice asked cruel questions that hurt to answer. _Who is Laura_? it asked one lonely night. "I am a moderately successful, modestly attractive woman of thirty-two," she answered herself, "who will have this man and this marriage even if I never have another carefree day, another intimacy or another minute of fun. I am a scorned woman who uses anger and trickery to tie his unwilling body to an eight year memory." She let him go. For one blind week she hated them both so much she wanted to kill them. And then for a while, when the lawyers had taken over, she dreamed that he came back. He appeared in landscapes of flowering trees and early grass, and they fell together in sensual embraces. She woke up sweating and empty. The dreams dwindled away in the petty meanness of legal moves. When she cleared his closets, she got boxes from the Safeway. She threw his Brooks Brothers suits, the Polo weekend wear, the Turnbull and Asser shirts into the boxes. Cufflinks and tie clasps fell among the shambled clothes. Shoes and tennis balls went in at random. Without a conscious thought, she started to throw some of her own clothes on top. In went anything pale and gauzy. Silk nightgowns and ruffled sundresses lay like cake frosting over layers of wool and gabardine. She ripped bright little cashmere nothings off padded hangers and flung them across the room where they caught on the cartons and punctuated his grays and navies. She stood, panting a little, in front of her closet when it was over, and saw nothing there but what might be armor. She'd bought wide strapping tape with nylon threads in it. She punched the garments down, closed the flaps and sealed them with the indestructible tape. The next day a mover collected the cartons and David was gone. She settled down to learn how to live alone and the gray came over her windows. It would be six months from separation to severance. She had the time for anything, if she knew what it ought to be. _Laura, Laura, who are you now_? "I," she answered, "am a woman coming to terms with disillusion. I am free to discover what sex feels like. I can climb a mountain, go to Africa or make a pile of money. I'll learn to make small talk, meet strangers and learn to take the best of what I find and not pine for what I don't have." _Laura, what will become of you_? "I don't know! Don't torture me with unanswerable questions! Who ever knows just who she is? I'm Laura. That's enough!" _It wasn't for David_. "Maybe it was too much for David -- did you ever think of that?" This morning she gets out of bed and goes to the window. In her bed she could see only the gray sky, but from here she sees the trees and the houses that hem it. This is Laura's neighborhood. This is Laura's house. This is Laura. If there is a house, a neighborhood, a body; if Bryant Gumbel speaks to her from Radio City, if she hears, there must be a Laura. There'll be a desk at nine o'clock in a room with a window that is Laura's office, a woman who is Laura's secretary: there must be a Laura. _What will you do_? She shivers and turns toward the bathroom where Mr. Coffee has brewed while she slept. "I don't need you, go away. I'm going to live!" she says to nobody. ======================================================= BOY by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 1 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] The lights! It was fantastically, wonderfully bright. He had never seen so many candles in his life. He was alone in the luminous glare -- alone at the keyboard, waiting, eyeing the fat lady with the slit- mouthed smile who stared at him from the dark painting beside the window. "Think about the music, Wolferl, the music comes from God and the Blessed Virgin, imagine that you're in church, that you're facing the altar." "And don't forget to count!" his father had added. He was always telling him that. He recalled his father's words in the coach from Salzburg to Munich: "You will be doing something sacred - - just like the priest at the altar. He can't worry about the people in the church. He's turned away from them, facing the holy place." Well, that part was the same, thought Wolfgang. He couldn't see the people behind him -- but that didn't mean that he didn't worry about them. He looked down at the keyboard and then up, over the top of the music stand to the wall beyond and a cluster of golden-edged pictures of people with shifty eyes and long, dark wigs. His stomach felt empty and cold. The little finger on his left hand quivered. This gigantic palace and all the important people-- counts and dukes, and one fat old man in a bright yellow suit who Papa had told him was a real prince. What if he should freeze up now, miss the notes, and the dukes and the Prince should frown? A million chandeliers were sparkling in the mirrors lining the mustard-yellow walls of the immense room. It was not that he wasn't used to playing before an audience. Father was always bringing home people who wanted to hear him play. But other people didn't criticize him as his family did, so usually it was easier to play before strangers than it was to play just for his parents and his sister Nannerl. But tonight! So many people, so many beautiful things, furniture, paintings -- such gigantic rooms! He glanced around. His father, sitting chin in hand, was fidgeting. Something bitter rose in Wolfgang's throat. He was suddenly afraid he was going to throw up. He began the counting to lead into the first measure of the Handel. Eins, zwo, drei, vier, eins, zwo, drei, vier... "Don't cheat on the counting," and "Count out loud half the time," and -- oh, he got awfully tired of hearing about counting! Beautiful ladies wore jewels covering their white throats -- the glistening specks of light from the diamonds and rubies were sharp and clear as raindrops. He began. The first notes echoed, twinkling, clinking with the slight, piercing sound of the bright- toned harpsichord. "The people sitting behind you," his father had said, "Even if they're great princes and ladies, are all there to hear you. But God will be the most important person, your gift is from Him, your talent is one of His works. He will be there to see if you're making good use of that gift. Do your duty to Him." Suddenly his mind went blank -- what was the next measure? He shut his mind off and let his fingers go. His fingers knew the way -- on, on, into the ritornello! Glimpses through the tall windows. The world was sparkling outside, the light from the full moon shone on the icy lawns of the palace gardens. Eins, zwo, drei, vier, eins, zwo... It was really frightening to think of God and the Virgin listening to him play. But when he imagined how he felt when he was hearing mass, then he thought he understood his father. Music was like the mass. It was always easy to concentrate on it because there was always a new way of hearing it. "Brhhhmmmhhh!" Someone behind him coughed. Never mind. It was his duty to perform well. Concentrate on making each note sound just as beautiful as he could. His father was right. His father was always right. He finished his first piece. The clapping broke like a deafening torrent behind him. He turned and saw a mist of brightness and smiles. His father motioned to him. He wanted to wipe his forehead, but he didn't dare. He bowed deeply. Blood rushed to his head, he became slightly giddy. The big fat Prince in the bright yellow suit with all the ribbons and medals and jewels called him over: "Wonderful, extraordinary, I've never heard such playing in my life! And from such a tiny little maestro. Five years old. Imagine!" Pat, pat on his head, the impacts muffled by his periwig. The Handel had gone well. His father hugged him and gave him a wet kiss on his cheek. A terrible desire arose, to lay his head down on the harpsichord and close his eyes. But it was almost time to play again. Scarlatti this time. He remembered how a few weeks ago he had given Scarlatti the "tin soldier" treatment -- he would hit all the right notes and keep the rhythm -- but still play badly. He called this playing like a tin soldier, because he would pretend in his mind that his arms and legs were stiff and hard, and that he couldn't think at all beneath his imaginary tin helmet. Papa would get upset and bewildered, and yet he wouldn't be able to put his finger on what was wrong. It served Papa right! Him and his constant "Don't forget to count!" Tonight he felt unable to pretend anything. His chest seemed to tremble, his face felt hot. More applause for Scarlatti. And now his own sonata. The ladies "ooh"-ed and "aah"-ed at his having composed a sonata. My goodness, he had written that back last summer. He could do much better now. Didn't anybody realize that? Six eighths. Eins, zwo, drei, vier, fuenf, sechs, eins, zwo,... He remembered just a few weeks before, Abbe Bullinger sitting sprawled in the great oak chair in the Mozart parlor in Salzburg, listening to him play this sonata while his father read sermons. "Oh, Wolferl, that's a lovely cadenza," said the Abbe. "Whose is it? Vivaldi's?" "No, I made it up." "It sounds so familiar." "It's mine." "You're sure you aren't teasing me, Wolferl?" said the Abbe. "I know I recognize it." "It's mine, it's mine! You don't know anything!" The Abbe opened his mouth wide, then he shut it again and shifted his gigantic body, rocking the folds of black cloth that spilled out over the edges of the chair. Wolfgang saw his father's face turn red. "Wolferl, go to your room -- immediately!" The tears were dry on his cheeks by the time his father knocked on his bedroom door. His father sat down on the bed and motioned to him to lean over. Then Papa took him by the shoulder, bent him down, and spanked him hard, twice. Then he picked him up and shook him so that, when he set him down again, his eyes blurred. "When you grow up, Wolferl, then you can talk as much as you want about how much you know. But in the meantime, don't talk back to adults!" He remembered the feel of the stinging in his behind. Adults! They thought they were like kings, they could do anything! Clunk! Someone dropped something right behind him, near where the Prince in his shining yellow suit was sitting. It clinked merrily, like silver, a knife or fork. Keep counting, keep counting. Eins, zwo, drei, vier, fuenf, sechs. He finished playing his own sonata. Everybody clapped loudly. His father hugged him. The Prince shook his hand with a gentle, moist grasp. Ladies tried to kiss him. One of them had a big black spot on her cheek. Then his father told him that he could go ahead and eat whatever he wanted from the big silver trays. There were all sorts of lovely cakes, cookies, and candies. He thought his father would tell him to stop after a while, but he just kept on eating, and nobody told him not to. All he wanted! And the beautiful ladies gave him little kisses and stroked his face, and told him to take even more cakes. He wanted to take some home to Salzburg to Mama. He said so, and the ladies and gentlemen laughed. He still would have, but his sister Nannerl told him very sternly, no. Finally he nestled into the arms of a nice lady in a marvelous, snow-like white dress and his eyes grew heavier and heavier. He woke up with Nannerl shaking him. "Wolferl, time to go home!" He heard one of the ladies say, "The little angel," as he trotted along, stumbling, holding onto his sister's hand. Angels lived in Paradise, and that's certainly what the palace felt like -- a bright heaven, full of lights. He had played well. He had done his duty. He started to wonder about this "duty" and why exactly God was making him do it -- every day, and for so many hours. But he was too tired to think -- all he wanted was to go to sleep. And then after that -- to go home, home to Salzburg! # Morning came, bright, chilly, and clear. He looked out the window, leaning on the cold, frosty sill. Munich! It had taken him a moment to realize that he still wasn't home in Salzburg, he was in this marvelous inn, where there were so many chickens -- he could make them out in the coops behind the courtyard wall. He wondered if the big brown pig with the long, drippy snout would come around again and root some more in the garbage scattered about the court below. He wished father and Nannerl would get up. Maybe he could go down to the kitchen and see Gertrude, with her fat arms and her big smile with the two teeth missing in the middle. She was so nice to him and might give him cake to eat again. He loved Gertrude. The only thing was, poor Mama. Finally breakfast was over -- he had been too full of cake to eat much. "I'm sorry Mama didn't come, Papa. I miss her." He was playing with the little black dog that belonged to the innkeeper, cuffing at it and then pretending to feed it so that it would jump up at his hand. He missed his dog, Bimperl. "I'm sorry too, Wolferl." His father was busy reading and just glanced up at him and then back at his book. His father may have been sorry. But he was really sorry. "Why couldn't she come?" The dog slobbered on him slightly. His hand turned warm and sticky. "Next time, Wolferl, maybe she can come next time." "Papa." Hot tears gathered on his left cheekbone and then rolled down, some running onto his upper lip. He licked at them. "Oh, Wolferl!" said his sister. "Stop that!" Nannerl took a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress and helped him blow his nose. Everything would be O.K. But he did miss Mama, he did. He missed home. He remembered Willy waving good-bye as the horses started up and the coach lurched and began to jangle down the Getreidegasse on the way out of Salzburg. He had given Willy his best marble, the one with the yellow and orange streaks in it. As a special going-away present. Willy had made a little gasp, then his face had hardened, and then he said that he couldn't take it. But finally, his smile creasing his freckles, Willy opened his hand and clasped the marble. Willy would remember him while he was away. # The next day, after breakfast, his father took him on his lap: "Son, I must talk to you." Uh-oh. He thought he knew what was coming. "Are we going to make a visit tonight?" He chewed on the stringy end of a piece of goat cheese. "No, no visit tonight. Wednesday -- and you'll have to practice hard. Wolferl, I have something very important to tell you. Pay attention!" his father said, as Wolfgang turned to peek out the window at a dove pecking away at a piece of grain in the courtyard. "Remember at the Count's the other night? No more of that!" He remembered squirming on the hard, narrow bench in the grand salon of the Count's mansion -- waiting, waiting. It wasn't as big as the Prince's palace, but it had a better harpsichord. When his father had signaled him and he began, "One, two, three, one, two, three." Just as he hit the first note of the Handel, someone laughed. His finger slipped on the next arpeggio, and he had to play the next measure faster, catching up to the rhythm, and then a high, piercing female voice said, "She'll never be able to show her face in Munich again." 'Show her face?' What did that mean? His fingers started to stumble again, but he caught up with the rhythm again and threw himself into the playing. That awful old Countess continued to talk. But he clenched his teeth and didn't make any more mistakes. He finished the piece, really drawing out the ritardando at the end. He heard the hands clapping but saw only a blur of faces. He leaped up from the keyboard and scurried over to his father, wiping his eyes with his knuckles as he hid his head in his father's lap. "You mustn't cry when people talk while you're playing," said his father. The dove in the courtyard flapped and soared up to perch just below the roof. "But I didn't cry! And besides, Papa, they should have been listening." "Wolferl, if the Countess" -- that ugly, silly old lady, Wolfgang thought -- "wants to talk, it's her right. It was her home." "But Papa." The dove flew off, dark against the bright sky. "If you run off and cry like that again, people will stop inviting us and there will be no more visits." His father's mouth was pursed and his blue eyes looked angry. "I don't care," he shouted. "I don't care!" His father raised his hand, and Wolfgang felt tears rise in his eyes. But the hand stopped in mid-air, trembled, and slowly sank down. "Go practice your violin." "No!" "Yes, right now!" His father took hold of his shirt collar and led him to the door and pushed him toward the bed and the battered black violin case that lay beside it. As he took out the violin and tuned it, he thought: suppose there were no more visits, so what! # Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's father, Leopold, told himself he had cause to feel satisfied -- very satisfied. It was Christmas, and there were wreaths up on the houses as they returned to their inn in Munich in a small gig from an afternoon visit to the Duke of Zweibruecken. It was cold in the open air, and only his son's bright blue eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible under the folds of a thick brown wool scarf. The New Year, 1762, was just around the corner, as well as his son's sixth birthday. Who would have thought that he, the Deputy Music Director at the court of the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, would this Christmas be the guest of honor -- well, the father of the guests of honor -- at the court of Maximilian III, the Electoral Prince of Bavaria? At the age of forty-two, something was finally going right for him in his life. For so many years he had been resigned to the fact that his place was on the edges of crowds of courtiers! But that first night at the palace: "Herr Kapellmeister, right this way, bring the children up close so that His Highness can get a good look at them." The voice of the Prince's music director had been sweet and charming as he waved his hand in an elaborate, feminine gesture toward the Electoral throne. And then later the Bishop of Chiemsee had leaned over to Leopold during the concert: "Herr Mozart, how fortunate that your children have had a father with such musical knowledge! How lucky for the world!" Just then, Wolfgang had made some awful mistakes, two right in a row. Leopold felt a sharp pain in his stomach. But he looked closely at the bishop's face, with the pig-like but friendly little brown eyes set deeply into fat cheeks -- it was impassive. The lady on his other side with the large beauty spot on her cheek was staring straight ahead, eyelids half-lowered. Leopold looked over at the slim little figure in the periwig, perched up on two pillows on the harpsichord bench. Wolferl had played through his mistakes, keeping up the tempo -- good boy! The bishop turned and smiled at him, making a silent gesture of applause. Leopold smiled back. But as he stretched his lips in a display of satisfaction, the thought of Wolferl's mistakes chilled his heart. He couldn't depend on audience ignorance forever. Perfection, that must be their goal. Nannerl was coming along fine. But Wolferl must be disciplined to practice. At home, it was easy, the child loved the harpsichord, he could hardly be kept away from it -- except when the other boys came around pestering him to come out and play. But when they were traveling, there were so many distractions. After all, when the Duke's daughter invited Wolferl to go on an outing with her that afternoon, who could have refused her? His son came back from the excursion, his periwig askew, his normally white cheeks flushed pink with excitement, bubbling over with all the wonderful things he had seen, the tame deer, the windmill, the twin calves. How could a father begrudge him that -- especially when the blonde little seven-year-old duchess held his son so tightly by the hand and whispered in his ear as if they had known each other forever? His son bouncing up and down on the seat cushions. "You had fun, today, didn't you, Wolferl?" "Oh yes, Papa, she showed me all kinds of things!" He patted his son on the head. As they reentered the courtyard of the inn, Wolfgang jumped out of the carriage before him and started to run across the court. "Wolferl, where are you going?" "Nowhere, Papi." Leopold could see where two boards were missing in the back fence to a small field beyond. Two boys in woolen breeches and heavy blouses were standing tossing a ball back and forth. "Time to practice." "Oh, Papi, not now. I'm tired." "Not too tired to play ball, I suppose." "Oh, Papi." "An hour with the violin, then you can play ball." "A half hour?" Wolfgang looked at the two other boys. "An hour." His son walked off, head hanging. Leopold went into the public room, ordered a glass of stout, and listened. The sounds of the violin scales came from the room above. Faster and faster the notes came. One mistake, then another, then his son settled down. Soon the sweet sounds of a Vivaldi sonata reached him. He reached into the purse containing their earnings from this tour and tipped the waitress a silver thaler. A good boy. But, associating with little duchesses, would he learn not to talk back to the aristocrats, not to care if the old Countess blathered on during his performances? Wolferl was only five years old. Still, if he didn't learn something about tact, and fast, he could ruin everything -- everything! # It was the most beautiful spring day Leopold had ever seen in Salzburg. Well, a touch of mist, but nothing much. A soothing chill touched the air. "Leo, I've never seen you look so happy." Abbe Bullinger's bulging cassock looked like a small black mountain, with enough wool in it to have made up clothing for two ordinary-sized priests. Leopold smiled, and rubbed the shiny knee of his third-best suit. He had bought it when he was twenty- five, but it still fit perfectly. Maybe now he could afford a new best suit. "Yes, it was an experience." "How did the children stand all the excitement?" Leopold took another sip of coffee and stretched out his long legs under the table in the coffee house. "Well, Wolferl was a little wild at times, but really he was very good." "How did he play? Our little music machine, as usual." "No, no, don't even say that in fun, Sepp! Not a machine. He's sensitive, a more sensitive musician even than I am. Well, I suppose that's what you'd expect. But he did play like a -- well, like a performer. Of course, so did Nannerl." "He has plenty of self-confidence, I can attest to that." The Abbe put on a comical face. "I punished him for talking back to you about the cadenza, Sepp, it won't happen again." "Oh, I don't mind. I like being treated like family. But it's going to be difficult for a child with his talent and his temperament not to rub people the wrong way." "I'll teach him, Sepp, don't worry." "You can't drive him too hard, though, Leo." "I won't." "You don't realize the power you have over him. I've never forgotten when he was only four, I was questioning him about God and Christ and the Virgin Mary, and he told me that God was first, but after God came Papa." They both laughed. "I know what you mean, Sepp, I understand the responsibility." "Let him be a boy, Leo." "Of course, of course. But he has to be a musician too." "You can't ever give him back his childhood, Leo." Sepp didn't seem to understand. He hadn't seen the expression on the face of Maximilian III. "Oh, Sepp! If Wolferl works hard, he could be great -- my little boy could be a great man!" # Marianne Mozart was in the parlor, crocheting a bright red scarf, using the new skeins of wool that her husband had brought her from Munich. She looked up over at him, where he sat in his favorite rocking chair, tuning his violin. His profile, with its decisive chin, looked handsome against the sunlight from the narrow window looking out onto the Getreidegasse. "Mozart, I found the money on my dressing table. Five ducats!" He smiled. "Go buy yourself something pretty, Marianne." Marianne Pertl Mozart's plump face blushed, she pulled at the prominent, fleshy nose that she called her 'Pertl dowry,' and said, "But five ducats!" "Marianne, we made 175 ducats in just three weeks in Bavaria. More than twice my annual salary." "But shouldn't we be saving something for the future?" "No, what we have to do right now is to spend, we need clothes, wigs, I'm even going to buy a portable keyboard so that the children don't miss practicing when we travel." She straightened her brown muslin skirt. "Spend more money? Leopold!" He leaned forward and pounded on the table, knocking off a hymnal. She leaned over and picked it up, placing it reverently out of the way. "Fame, Marianne. That's what we must aim for, fame! We must display the children to the whole world. First, here in Germany. This fall, we'll go to Vienna for the start of the winter season. The children must play for the Emperor." Marianne felt a hollowness in her stomach. "Oh, Mozart! Not again, not another trip." He grinned at her. "Don't worry, we'll all go this time, the whole family, we all missed you in Munich." She smiled and blushed, and he kissed her hand. "I hope We won't have to be parted, the four of us, ever!" "Oh, Marianne, we can't say that, who knows what will happen? The important thing is to make a reputation in the capital, before the Emperor and the Empress. Their Imperial Majesties, think of it!" "Oh. Yes, of course." "The children will have to practice hard. This is our big chance." "Yes, Mozart, I understand." She looked away, her lips pressed together. He patted her on the shoulder and walked away. She picked up her crochet work and began to work again on the red scarf for her son. Vienna might well be only the beginning. Her husband had also talked about a Grand Tour of Europe the following year -- if Their Imperial Majesties were pleased. Wolferl would need more than scarves -- he'd need the red-blooded strength of the Pertls to survive this new life of theirs. # Wolfgang was tired of the summer. The heat was awful. And he'd cut his left shin in two places slipping on a rock up on the back slope of Castle Hill. The scab was peeling off and it had started to bleed at the left edge. Papa said they were going away again. Vienna this time. The capital of the Empire. In pictures, Vienna had been very bright, people dressed in fur coats, lots of snow. Would it be winter there already? And how could they go there in a big boat? The Salzach looked to be too small to get a big boat on it. Would the boat break up going down the rapids? That would be cold. They'd freeze! It was worrying. Did they speak German in Vienna? Or Turkish? If it was Turkish, how would he be able to ask for anything? Did Papa speak Turkish? Probably. Did you say "Giddyup" and "Whoa" to Turkish horses? How did you say C major in Turkish? What do you say to Turkish horses, anyway? # They weren't freezing at all -- and it was a big river -- the Danube. It was early morning, the air crisp with the feel of autumn. He and his sister watched the waters of the Danube slowly ripple around the stern as a brisk wind filled the sails. "Watch closely, now, keep a sharp eye out." The bearded captain leaned over him. A big puff of smoke from his pipe made Wolfgang cough. "What?" he said. "Just watch, as we go around this bend." "Yes, don't talk so much, Wolferl, just watch, like I do!" said his sister. The river was straightening out again. He saw the spires! Off to the right, back some distance from the banks of the river, first one, then two or three, then finally a forest of church steeples over the intervening trees -- it was Vienna! It sat like a little toy town, shining and sparkling on the green plain leading from the river to the city. They docked, with a loud thump, and he ran down right behind Nannerl as soon as the gangplank was down. Two men in the blue uniforms picked up their luggage and began looking through it. "What are they looking for, Papa?" One of the customs officials, a short man with a red face, answered, "We're just looking to see what you've got, young fellow." "I've got my clothes and some toys and my music and my violin." "Oh, so you play the fiddle, do you?" The official screwed up his face and winked. Wolfgang looked up, "Of course, it's mine, why would I be carrying it around if I didn't play it? I've been playing for years and years! "A good trick that is!" said the red-faced official, looking down at him kindly. "Well, you can bring your fiddle into Vienna if you can prove it's yours. Play us a tune." Wolfgang frowned. Not his fiddle! He grabbed his violin, tuned it hastily, and struck up an easy minuet. A crowd had begun to gather. A couple of boys his own age, wearing flat blue caps, stared at him. He bet that they couldn't play the violin! Everyone applauded loudly and then cheered when he started yet another minuet, and then another. Finally, a very tall dark man in a blue uniform picked him up, gave him a big kiss on both cheeks. Wolfgang didn't usually mind kissing, but he was tired. His eyes began to sting. He didn't want to cry, he was embarrassed. Papa took him from the arms of the strange men, put him on his feet, and whispered to him: "Stop crying, Wolferl. Pull yourself together, smile, and make a bow to the gentlemen." "But they aren't gentlemen," he whispered loudly in his father's ear. "They aren't wearing stockings." His father looked at him oddly. "Any appreciative listener is a gentleman," he whispered. "Bow! Low!" He wiped his nose with his fingers and bowed. "And smile, Wolferl, don't forget to smile!" He gritted his teeth and smiled at those men in the dirty leggings. They looked all right, but they certainly weren't gentlemen. Why did people always tell such lies? As they walked out to find a carriage, Nannerl pulling him by one hand, all Wolfgang heard were people speaking German. So Vienna was not full of Turks after all, there were just a lot of Germans pretty much like those at home. But there were so many of them. So many people, so many horses -- but they weren't Turkish, just plain German horses -- and many carts pulled by animals and others pushed by people. Papa, sweat marks showing on the armpits of his coat, hustled them into a carriage. They jounced along some of the narrow streets until they came to their lodgings. The street was called the Ditch, and they were just down the street from the Cathedral of St. Stephen. They went up some rather steep stairs into a suite of mustard-colored rooms. Papa lifted him up onto a bed and pulled off his dusty black shoes, and he immediately fell fast asleep. When he awoke, it was dark, but candles had been lit, and he could see that Father had already found them a clavichord. He had missed the clavichord these last days, since they had left the palace of Count Schlecklischluckli [Schlick] in Linz. He got up, sat down at the keyboard, and threw himself into it. He played some of the familiar pieces that he knew well, especially some dance suites that Papa had told him people in Vienna would like. Then he set himself to practice his scales -- D, A. He imagined the power that he would have in his fingers when he had become strong enough to master the B-flat minor scale. And his trills and bass figures, he worked on those too. The trills were sounding better. Father should be pleased. Maybe if Papa heard his trills, he wouldn't be so worried about going to the palace. It was so good to play again! He was well into his new pieces, experimenting with one of the minuets he had been playing at the customs shed, making up what his father called "variations," when his mother came in, pulling her wrapper about herself. She grabbed him by the ear. "Wolferl, do you know what time it is?" "But Mama!" "To bed, now. Now!" She helped him take off his clothes and tucked him under the feather bed. He started to fall asleep. He felt wonderful. He looked up at his mother standing over his bed and saw that her brow was wrinkled up and her mouth looked sad. He didn't understand. He felt so happy! All of them together, in Vienna, with a clavichord -- and Papa would be so happy about the trills. # Giant walls loomed up ahead as their coach approached the entrance to the palace. A large crowd was gathered in front of the gates. They shouted at the coach, some of them in words that Wolfgang didn't understand. One of them stuck his face and his hand inside, almost in Nannerl's face, his toothless mouth gaping, and croaked out: "A penny, please, Miss, for the love of God." "'Love of God,' I'll teach you, you worthless, lazy scum!" said his father, swinging at the man's hand with his gilt-headed cane, but missing. Wolfgang ducked. The man moved away. Wolfgang raised his head. He felt trapped in the coach, afraid that the people outside would try to force their way in and maybe hurt them, even kill them. And Papa was so angry, muttering "miserable rabble" and "ungrateful swine." Wolfgang didn't know what they were supposed to be grateful about. Grateful because they could stand there and talk to people, even put their arms inside coaches? "Why is that man begging for a penny, Papa?" "Because he's lazy, that's why, lazy rabble." "Could I beg for a penny too?" His father grasped his arm tightly. "Never! No son of mine will ever beg. Never, never, never! No Mozart ever has and no Mozart ever will!" Just then the gates were opened for them, and they entered the grounds of Schoenbrunn Palace. They passed by buildings with rows of tall windows, servants in gold- embroidered livery, vast beds of mums and asters. Here they were! The palace! # Leopold was glad he had hired the fanciest coach available and that he had dressed out Wolfgang in his first really fine suit, white moire silk with doubly embroidered gold facings. If the suit made his son feel like a prince, that would help when he had to meet real princes. After all, it would be a daunting experience for a boy that age to be meeting such exalted personages. He felt uneasy enough himself -- if they failed today, it would be the end of his dreams of glory. # When they were ushered into the waiting rooms for the royal suite, Wolfgang thought the people standing around were all princes and nobles. Imagine! It turned out they were just servants! Finally the door opened, and they walked inside. The doors were gold and white and taller than any he had ever seen. And inside, the Emperor and the Empress were sitting there, waiting for them. She seemed so warm and motherly, and she had on the most beautiful pale blue dress, just like the Queen of the Fairies in the picture in the Archbishop's palace in Salzburg. The Empress, Maria Theresa. What a nice, singing name! # "Mozart, Mozart!" Marianne Mozart whispered urgently into her husband's ear as they stood respectfully at a distance of some twenty feet from the throne-like chairs where the Imperial party sat. "Shhhhhh!" "He's climbing onto the Empress' lap!" "Shhhh!" "But Mozart!" He placed his finger over his lips and bowed his head low. She shrugged. The world had gone crazy. # The Empress smiled at him. He told her how much he liked the trip on the river. She said she liked the river too. He told some of the stories the sailors had told him about elves and river maidens. She seemed interested, opening her mouth wide and saying, "Oh, my!" Then he tried to climb down. "No," she said. "Sit here while the Emperor plays." The Emperor played the harpsichord. A piece by Bach. He was pretty awful. Wolfgang looked up at the ceiling and saw golden cherubs looking down on him from a blue sky. Then the Archduke Joseph, the Crown Prince, began to play. He was even worse. Wolfgang kicked his foot idly, back and forth, looking around the room at all the people. A tall man in a purple suit leaned over and pushed at Wolfgang's foot to stop the kicking. He squirmed away from the hand and slipped slowly off the blue silk lap. The Empress patted his head. When the Crown Prince finally stopped playing, Wolfgang ran over to his father. Suddenly he slipped on the shiny waxed floor. The world turned upside down. He was on his back and he was dizzy. It was hard to breathe and his chest hurt. The tall little girl, the Archduchess Antonia, kneeled down beside him and pulled his head onto her lap. "There," she said. "Are you all right?" The man in the purple suit came over and tried to pull her away. "Yes thanks." He recovered his breath. She looked down at him. She was beautiful. "I'm going to marry you when I grow up!" he said. She giggled. He heard the Emperor laugh. The Crown Prince Joseph came over and looked down at him. He was almost grown up and had a big nose. His mouth was like a very thin straight line. He pushed the Archduchess away and motioned for a servant to help Wolfgang up. "Just horseplay. The little boy's all right, Father," he said. "More than all right, if he appreciates a pretty girl already," said the Emperor. After he had gotten up again, Herr Wagenseil came forward and motioned for him to sit down and play at the harpsichord. But first his father gestured for him to come over to him and handed him the score for a piece Herr Wagenseil had composed. He sat down at the keyboard. His head still felt a little dizzy. "Herr Wagenseil," he said, "I'm going to play one of your pieces. Please turn the pages for me." The Emperor and the Empress laughed. So did almost everybody else -- except Herr Wagenseil and the Crown Prince, who made a face. Wolfgang felt in a good mood, and he knew he was playing well. He made one mistake while trying a chord in the bass that was still too much of a stretch for his hands. It jarred when he hit the D instead of the C. But he played through, and nobody seemed to notice -- except the Crown Prince, who winced and shook his head. Everybody clapped at the end. But the Crown Prince didn't clap very hard, and he still looked sour. He felt like telling the Crown Prince to count when he played, for heaven's sake. "Herr Mozart," said the Emperor, "how delighted we are that you could bring these marvelous children here today." As his father had taught him, Wolfgang bowed very deeply, and the queue from his wig flapped over the top of his head. As he straightened up, he felt his head to be sure the queue was back in the right place. The Crown Prince laughed. "A curious little boy," he said. His father motioned to them and they all bowed again and left the salon. As they walked back through the giant halls of the palace, his father smiled and said, "I thought the Empress was going to keep you for good!" He caressed Wolfgang's head. "But, Wolferl. You may have offended Herr Wagenseil. And I don't think the Crown Prince liked your fidgeting while he was playing. I've warned you about saying things about adults." "But the Prince can't play at all!" "A prince always plays well, Wolferl. Always." Wolferl shook off his father's hand. "Why do we have to go now, anyway?" "We have to go home." "Home, really home, to Salzburg?" "No, here, to the inn on the Graben." "I want to stay here in the palace." "Only princes live here, dummy," said his sister. He stuck out his tongue at her. "I could be a prince too. Couldn't I, Papa?" "Wolferl," said his mother. "Stop talking such nonsense." "Why can't I be a prince, Papa?" "You can be something better," said his father. "But what, Papa?" "A dummy baby," said Nannerl. He jumped at her, but she scrambled out of the way. He began to chase her, but she ran faster than he could follow. As they waited for the carriage, Wolfgang stood, rubbing the head of a stone lion, and thought, "Prince Wolfgang." He liked the sound of it. Princes could do whatever they wanted to. Even play the harpsichord when they didn't know how to. They didn't even have to count! They could order people to bring them anything they wanted. He didn't understand his father -- "something better." What could be better than being a prince? # The children need a rest, thought Leopold, as they climbed back into their carriage. What a day! The whole sky seemed to sparkle. Schoenbrunn had been a triumph. The Emperor had been insistent that they come again. "Bring more music next time. We'll play some things together!" It had been the high point of his life. Nothing had ever been equal to that moment, watching his son on the Empress' lap. The Lord had been merciful to him, the son of a bookbinder, the grandson of a peasant. But it was going to mean even more work for the children. It was God's will -- they must labor to fulfill the genius he had vouchsafed them. # Back inside the grand salon of the palace, all the guests from the soiree had left. Archduke Joseph said, "Why did you let him sit on your lap, Maman?" As usual, he spoke in French. "Oh, he was such a cute little boy!" said Maria Theresa. "What's the matter, son," said the Emperor, his father. "Did you find that undignified?" "It certainly wasn't what I had expected." Joseph frowned. "After all, they're just musicians." "Well, when you get to be Emperor, you can see that the Court is better behaved. Are we a little lax, darling?" he said, turning to Joseph's mother. "From time to time," said the Empress giggling. "That boy said he was going to marry my sister," he said. "Don't worry about that," said his father. "I'm sure Toni won't settle for less than a grand duke for a husband." "I'm going to marry a prince or a king -- and not just any prince or king." His eight-year-old sister, Archduchess Maria Antonia -- Marie-Antoinette -- held her blonde head up proudly. "He'll have to be important." "As long as it isn't some musician off the streets," he said. "Don't worry, I won't forget I'm a Hapsburg." She stroked her long blonde hair. "Just don't forget that Hapsburgs are rulers, not gods," said his father. "Some of our royal cousins forgot that in the past and came to grief." Toni made a face. "That little boy might be nice as a friend, though -- he's clever." "'Friend'! I'd like to see a musician's snot-nosed kid sit on my lap," said Joseph. "What a friend he would be!" "Just because you don't have any friends," said Toni. No friends -- so what! thought Joseph. "A prince doesn't need any friends. He has a higher destiny." "Nobody would be your friend!" she said. "Children, children!" said his father. "Stop or I'll take my cane and lower both your destinies a bit!" # Wolfgang sat at the clavichord in their rooms on the Ditch, staring at the dark oak wall. into space. It had been so wonderful. Herr Schmidt, the organist at Schoenbrunn, had let him play the organ in the Emperor's Chapel, and had shown him how to use all the stops. Wait till he showed old Herr Dittmyer, the organist back in Salzburg, about all he had learned on this trip. But he'd have to be careful about showing people things. Like the time the old Chief Kapellmeister at the Residenz had asked him about chords. The old man had said, "Do you know what this chord is -- in the key of C?" playing on the organ a G, B, D, and F. "Yes, the dominant seventh." "And what does it resolve into?" he said, his wrinkled old lips pursed up. He thought a minute. "Well, lots of things, it depends." "No, it must resolve into the tonic." "No, it doesn't have to." The old man looked at him in disgust. "You need to study more." "No, you do, you're wrong!" he said loudly. Signor Lolli raised his arm as if he would hit him, then lowered it again. He got up hurriedly from the keyboard and went off down the nave, his black and white robes swirling behind him. Wolfgang stuck out his tongue at the Chief Kapellmeister's back, as far as he could, until it hurt at the roots. His father beat him, three lashes with the wide leather belt, when he heard about that. "Don't talk back to adults." Or at least don't get caught at it, thought Wolfgang. The dominant seventh. Of course often it didn't always resolve into the tonic, not right away, or else where would be the fun in the music? Sometimes it was hard to remember what all the names of the chords were! But not hard at all to remember the chords themselves, they were just like individual people, with their own personalities. Anyway, one chord might have one personality when you put it in with one set of chords around it, and entirely another kind of personality when you put it with other ones. It was all so obvious! You didn't have to know all those names, you could just hear it! And nobody listened to him, they thought he didn't know anything. And his father kept at him to learn all the names of the chords, and how to put them together -- then he got mad when he told old stinky-pants Lolli he was wrong. It wasn't fair! "Don't talk back to adults." Adults! He had to talk forward to adults all the time, eat with them, play for them. Sometimes they pretended he was a person. But it wasn't like being with other kids -- the grown-ups treated him like a kind of toy person. They never took him seriously. But someday he'd be as big as anybody. Then they'd listen to him. Someday. He looked out the tiny four-paned window onto the roofs of Vienna. It had started to rain, and the little pop-pops on the copper roofing were accelerating into a low drumming. He was tired of the toys Mama had found for him here in Vienna. He wanted to go home, to see Bimperl. And all the boys. He hadn't played ball since forever. By this time Willy might not even be his best friend anymore. When could they go home to Salzburg -- home to stay? [CHAPTER TWO OF "IN SEARCH OF MOZART" WILL BE EXCERPTED IN VOL.1, NO.2 OF "FICTION-ONLINE] ======================================================= THE NEW PROMETHEUS by Otho E. Eskin CHARACTERS: Dr. FRANKENSTEIN The mad doctor. IGOR Moves around in a kind of crouch, servile and groveling before Dr. Frankenstein. Dressed in a shapeless peasant outfit. MISS LULU MILLSLIP A young woman, very businesslike and earnest, dressed in sensible clothes. THE CREATURE Solid and inarticulate. Moves stiffly. He is dressed in dark- colored, ill-fitting clothes. Ms. MONSTER The Bride of Frankenstein Scene: Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. ======================================================= AT RISE: Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. Ms. MONSTER lies on an examination table. Hovering around the table are Dr. FRANKENSTEIN and his loyal assistant, IGOR. FRANKENSTEIN adjusts wires and attachments while he gives orders to IGOR. Outside there is the sound of thunder and flashes of lightning. FRANKENSTEIN Is there enough power, Igor? IGOR Almost, Master. FRANKENSTEIN Are the chains and manacles in place? IGOR They are as you said, Master. FRANKENSTEIN Set the Neurostat to maximum. (IGOR scurries about, doing FRANKENSTEIN's bidding.) FRANKENSTEIN (Continued) Adjust the Cell Modulator. Calibrate the Vector Analyzer. Reset the Brezelor Counter. IGOR Yes, Master. FRANKENSTEIN When the storm reaches its zenith we will begin. With the help of my loyal assistant, Igor, I will this night achieve immortality. Then the world will know the genius of Dr. Frankenstein. Are you ready, Igor? IGOR I am ready, Master. (Enter LULU MILLSLIP. She holds a clipboard in her hand.) LULU Hold it right there, buster! FRANKENSTEIN Who are you? LULU I'm Inspector Lulu Millslip. I represent the Bureaucratic Enforcement Administration. FRANKENSTEIN (Screaming) Get out of here! LULU Not so fast, Doctor. I must inform you that you are not in compliance with applicable Federal and State regulations. FRANKENSTEIN I don't care. I'm a genius. LULU You better care, buddy. You want to lose your NIH grant? FRANKENSTEIN Igor, get rid of her. (IGOR slouches toward LULU. LULU suddenly turns on IGOR.) LULU OK, let's see your Green Card, Senor. (IGOR recoils in fear.) FRANKENSTEIN Get out! Get out! With the help of my loyal assistant, Igor, my life's work is about... LULU You are in violation of Occupational Safety reg 2798.4. Your employee (LULU gestures toward Ms. MONSTER) is at risk of being struck by lightning. FRANKENSTEIN She's supposed to be struck by lightning, you stupid broad! (FRANKENSTEIN gestures wildly at IGOR to attack LULU.) FRANKENSTEIN Kill! Kill! LULU Have you had a peer group review for this project? FRANKENSTEIN I have no peers. LULU (Looking at her clipboard) I'm going to have to see your EEO compliance records for the last six years. (THE CREATURE shuffles in.) LULU What's that? FRANKENSTEIN One of my first efforts. I'm afraid it's seriously flawed. LULU You're kind of short for a monster. (THE CREATURE looks slowly around the laboratory, turns to IGOR, who cowers before him, and reaches out to touch IGOR's tunic.) THE CREATURE Don't you know -- nobody's wearing taupe this year. (THE CREATURE looks around the laboratory.) Who decorated this place? I adore the chains but you must do something about this laboratory. Some hanging plants and a few throw pillows would do wonders. (There is a flash of lightning. FRANKENSTEIN rushes to the table.) FRANKENSTEIN The time has come to complete my great experiment. Tonight I will create my greatest achievement -- the perfect woman. (There is a second flash of lightning and a crash of thunder.) LULU This is one of the most flagrant violations of the Employment Rights Act I have ever seen. These manacles are not in compliance with Occupational Safety and Health Administration regulations. (There is a flash of lightning and Ms. MONSTER stirs.) FRANKENSTEIN It's alive! It's alive! Alive! LULU I'm going to have to cite you for over-acting, as well. (Ms. MONSTER slowly climbs off the table.) FRANKENSTEIN I've created new life out of clay and dead carcasses. The elemental forces of nature have been unleashed to form natural woman, uncorrupted by civilization. Listen now to my slave, my love goddess. Listen to the words of the new Eve. MS. MONSTER Can it, Meathead! FRANKENSTEIN Something seems to have gone wrong! MS. MONSTER Forget your pathetic male, chauvinist fantasies, baby. If you think I'm going to be your slave, cleaning the toilets and baking Goddamned cookies for you, you've got the wrong creation. FRANKENSTEIN Igor, my loyal assistant, did you calibrate the Vector Analyzer? MS. MONSTER And you can knock off the love goddess crap, too. Your patriarchal, phallocentric attitude makes me sick. FRANKENSTEIN This is awful. Igor, my loyal assistant, did you remember to set the Neurostat correctly? IGOR Yes, master. FRANKENSTEIN Then I think I had better talk to you about body parts. LULU (To MS. MONSTER) I'm Inspector Lulu Millslip from the Bureaucratic Enforcement Administration. I would like to know whether you have experienced any untoward or inappropriate treatment or actions by management or your colleagues. MS. MONSTER I'm glad you asked me that. This place is a disgrace. Most of Frank's co-workers -- all the ghouls and vampires, werewolves and zombies -- are kept in cells and bound with chains. (LULU scribbles furiously in her notebook) MS. MONSTER (Continued) There is entirely too much vulgar language around the laboratory -- loose talk about Bunsen burners and rheostats. The worst of it there is an absolute barrier to promotion. LULU Scandalous! MS. MONSTER Unless you happen to be male, white and a human being there is no possibility of advancement. LULU I must report all this immediately. MS. MONSTER I have no chance to assume management responsibility simply because I was created out of bits and pieces of discarded corpses. LULU This is one of the most flagrant examples of anthropocentrism I've ever encountered. FRANKENSTEIN (To LULU) Lady, you can't... LULU You'll have your chance to answer these charges during the hearings. MS. MONSTER This whole operation is a blatant effort to politically marginalize the living dead. LULU I'm getting mad as hell! THE CREATURE Me too! Look at this outfit he's given me to wear. It's a scandal! I can't be seen in public in sackcloth. IGOR What about me!? I haven't had a day off in seventeen years. FRANKENSTEIN You're interfering with important scientific research. MS. MONSTER We're going to put a stop to these outrages. FRANKENSTEIN Get out of my laboratory! All of you. MS. MONSTER We will defend the rights of the werewolves and those who are hirsutedly disadvantaged. THE CREATURE Hear! Hear! MS. MONSTER We will fight for the protection of vampires and other creatures who are dietarily challenged. IGOR and THE CREATURE All power to the undead!! MS. MONSTER Igor, call 60 Minutes and tell them to get a film crew down here immediately. Creature, get some chains and attach yourself to the front gate of the castle. THE CREATURE I love it. FRANKENSTEIN You can't do this to me! I haven't got tenure yet. MS. MONSTER Lulu, bring in as many lawyers and bureaucrats as you can find. We're going to close this place down. (MS MONSTER, LULU, IGOR and THE CREATURE exit, singing "We Shall Overcome.") FRANKENSTEIN What have I done!? I've created a monster. THE END ================================================================= ================================================================= =================================================================