================================================= FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 3, Number 1 January-February 1996 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 ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "New Year Verses," poems Diana Munson "Aloysia," an excerpt (chapter 10) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Paris," an excerpt (chapter 11) 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. 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. He and Otho Eskin recently had "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of short comic plays, presented at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland. ================================================= NEW YEAR VERSES by Diana Munson ANOTHER SPRING Yet another Spring mocks me my enemy, my foe, Spiteful forsythia flaunts, Creeks overflow, Wetness consumes, Blossoms blind, wanton lovers walk sharpening loneliness. Would that it were winter still and frost abhorring life send all into a dream of sleep. DUCKS Plump lumps of plumage, pillows with handles, feetless in grass, by the riverside; necks vogue, eyes bead, heads preen as if to seek their best profile, to see and be seen. BEACH SCENE INDIVIDUATION: REHOBOTH, MD. You told me it was "magic," how the sand castle fell away beneath the beach tide. You held my hand, my dandelion, my dandy lion, my son, eager strained toward the edge of the ebb. I closed my eyes , and said: "See how the sea tugs at our feet threatening to level us in leaving!" Time pulled, sucked, seduced you fast away from me, young wonder; From water to water a tide. More like death than growing, a tide, more like tearing than "magic," pulled you out of my heart, minute by minute, leaving a hole and rubble and sand. ================================================= ALOYSIA by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 10 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] What's the matter with Wolferl? -- he's surely seen this opera before, thought Hans Wendling. The Weber girl's got a good crowd tonight, she'll be pleased. He made a rough count of the house in the Schloss Theater. There must have been over two hundred people in the audience in the small but elegant theater, with its baroque curlicued moldings and gilded candelabra set into ornate white and gilt wall sconces. From the back boxes where he and Wolferl sat, the crowded orchestra seats looked like a sea of white-powdered hair, broken up by the elaborate high wigs and coiffures of some of the ladies. Hans had to crane his neck to see, because the lady in front of him was wearing one of the new monstrously large coiffures in the latest Parisian mode. He glanced again at Wolfgang, sitting beside him. His friend looked to be a million miles away. *** Wolfgang felt like Robinson Crusoe on his island in the South Seas. The rest of the world didn't exist. Outside, the Rhine and Neckar rivers flowed silently, blackish green, joining just beyond the palace gates for the journey to the North Sea. Their dark roiling waters might as well have been the swirling currents of the Ganges: Wolfgang's sight was dazzled by the vision on the candlelit stage. What a darling! Center stage, the beautiful teenaged soprano sang the part of a Grecian princess. Doll-like in her pale pink costume, her smooth cheeks rouged, her petite body moved with apparently effortless grace. Like a tiny, fluttery bird! She gestured toward the blue-painted ceiling and then knelt in homage to the ancient gods. She was singing of love, and hate, and horror -- but mostly of love. And, he thought, could she sing! -- a truly impressive voice. Not well trained. But there was plenty of time for that. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She was magnificent! How gracefully she moved. That pure, true voice. And the expression she gave to the meanings of the words. How was it possible that a girl her age would know enough about life to be able to sing like that? He came out of the theater, impatient to meet _her_ -- Aloysia Weber. He badgered his friend Christian into introducing him to her father. Friedolin Weber was a singer of sorts, and he also did prompting and copied music. All the Webers were musical: Aloysia's older sister Josefa had a fine voice, and her sister Konstanze played the keyboard creditably, though her talent was not great. The mother, Caecilia, was the dominant member of the family -- aggressive, ambitious, not markedly intelligent, Cannabich said, but clever enough when her interests were at stake. "She'll be nice enough to you, Wolferl, she has four dowerless daughters, after all. Just don't get trapped!" "All right, all right," he said, annoyed. "Watch your step, Wolferl," said Cannabich. "Aloysia's a beautiful girl -- but she's ambitious. Watch out for the rest of the family too, they're all lean and hungry." The next week, Friedolin invited him and Cannabich to tea at his lodgings to meet his family. Wolfgang wore his new rose-colored nankeen suit, with a pale pink shirt. His hair was carefully powdered, and his silver shoe buckles glistened. There she was at last! The doll-like figure was set off plainly but elegantly in brown muslin, with an intricately pointed lace collar. "Dear," said Friedolin, "let me present Herr Mozart. The one we've heard so much of." "A great pleasure," said Wolfgang, "I'm an admirer of your singing. I had the privilege of hearing you in the Handel last week." "Enchantee, M. Mozart, quel compliment!" Oh, wonderful, she even spoke French. He said, "Je voudrais bien que l'on put vous persuader a nous chanter quelque chose -- tout en famille." Aloysia looked startled, then cast her eyes demurely downward. Cannabich said, "Yes, it would be nice to hear you sing something tonight, Miss Weber, just informally." Coolly, she raised her big, lustrous green eyes to Wolfgang and said, "Of course. I couldn't refuse the request of such an eminent musician." She made a slight curtsey. God! That cute little sharp nose. And those eyes. She was even lovelier in person than she was on the stage. If that loveliness could only be his! *** "Lord," Konstanze whispered to Josefa, over by the harpsichord. "He's really gone on her. Look at him." "I hope he's not expecting someone who will darn his socks," answered her sister. "I don't think she's so pretty," said little Sophie. "She's pretty enough, sister dear," said Josefa. "And he's famous. Just watch her attach herself to him!" "You mean to marry?" said Sophie. Konstanze sputtered: "No, dummy. To make her a famous prima donna, that's what." "And for that Aloysia needs all the important friends she can get," said Josefa, and the two older girls nodded savagely at each other. *** Aloysia continued to fix Wolfgang with her large round eyes. "How do you like Mannheim, Herr Mozart?" she said, moving up close to him and staring up at him intently. "Fine, quite fine, very fine," he said, his throat shaking so that he could hardly get out the polite words. The rest of the brief visit passed in a blur, a lovely, radiant fog of warm giddiness. After the cuckoo popped out of the door in the timepiece for its nine o'clock appearance, Christian got up to leave and Wolfgang had to gulp out a whispered "good-bye." He swirled home, breathless, face burning, to his lodging in the Pferdgasse. Christ, it was a miracle! *** Aloysia lay awake for almost a quarter of an hour that night. In the morning, Josefa asked her what she thought of Mozart. "I think he's a real gentleman, he has such fine manners." She frowned thoughtfully and pulled off a dead blossom on the potted hibiscus. "Yes, he's a cut above what we're used to in Mannheim." "Not much to look at, though," broke in Sophie. "Shut up," said Frau Caecilia. "Herr Mozart is a fine-looking man. And a very talented and famous one." Sophie shrugged, and went back to her dolls. Aloysia picked up her hairbrush, put it to her dark curls, and then stopped and examined herself in the oval mirror. *** Wolfgang had seen beautiful women before -- Lady Hamilton, the Countess Pallavicini. But to find a beautiful -- and intelligent -- young girl with such a magnificent musical talent! She was like a gift from heaven. Was she the unknown goddess he had always worshiped secretly in the depths of his heart? Rosa, just think, _Rosa_ _Cannabich_! He had been infatuated with that little girl. Unbelievable. How silly it now seemed: "The soul of Rosa Cannabich." It made him blush. Aloysia. He imagined composing songs, arias, melodies -- all written to be given life by the lovely voice of the lovely Aloysia. Ah, there could be such sweet hours at the piano, accompanying his angel. Aloysia should be his angel forever, he was sure of that. They were meant for each other! At their second meeting at dinner at the Cannabiches, she sang for him the lyrical "De Amicis" arias from his opera "Lucio Silla." She had extraordinarily good taste in music. Lying awake that night in his narrow, lumpy bed, he shivered with the cold. What beauty, what talent. Yes, real talent! Like his own. But where -- his thought shifting -- had his own talent gotten him? And, waking with a start from a bad dream, everything seemed to be lost promise, humiliation. The world looked black, black as the moonless sky outside. But then the dawn began to appear, he got up to go out to the privy, still in his nightshirt, and the cold morning air picked him up. Aloysia was potentially his first big success as a man. She could make his whole life worthwhile. Christian had labeled her "the adolescent seductress." Well -- suppose she was? Why not? Seductive? Sure! Adolescent, of course she was young. She liked his conversation, she loved his work. Now if she would also love _him_ for himself! In the weeks following, he saw her as much as he could manage. He wrote a concert aria for her, 'Alcandro lo confesso,' and some little songs in French, about lonely forests and birds that were faithful to their mates, no matter what the weather. He would have written more, but he found it difficult to concentrate. Hans Wendling turned to him one day in the tavern, and pounded on the table with his stein. "Wolferl, It looks like love may be good for inspiration but doesn't do much for getting the music down on paper." "Oh, go to hell!" he said. "Poor Wolferl!" Ha! -- isn't he funny! thought Wolferl. Here I am, going crazy, madly in love with this wonderful girl. And Hans makes stupid jokes. And I don't know if she loves me or not. And even if she did love me back, how could we get married? There's no money -- plenty of talent, but not a kreutzer between us. My God, I almost wish she weren't respectable -- but then how could she be such an angel? She really was divine! His goddess. Life was suddenly exciting, passionate, thrilling -- but impossibly complicated. He couldn't get enough of her. Their time together was so brief, a rehearsal, a dinner, a cup of tea while her family watched and whispered around them. Then, just after New Year's, he received an invitation to the country place of the Princess of Orange at Kirchheim-Bolanden. He had met the Princess when he toured the Netherlands as a boy, and he remembered how she always sat and listened with quiet attention when he played the harpsichord. This could be his opportunity -- if the Princess would agree! *** "So Wolferl's going off to the country," said Hans Wendling. "Well, it will be good for him to get away alone." "What do you mean, 'alone'?" said his wife. "Oh, who else is going?" "Guess who?" "No!" "Yes, Aloysia! He told the Princess he was bringing along a singer. With her father as a chaperone, of course. "Good for him!" said Hans. "He's got nerve." "The question is, whether he has enough nerve to handle _Aloysia_." *** "Your shirts will be ready for your trip to the country, Herr Mozart," said Frau Weber. "Thank you," he said, not looking up as he practiced his scales on the old harpsichord in the Webers' parlor. It was almost embarrassing, he thought, the Weber ladies had been mending his breeches and seeing that his shirts got washed. It was nice being taken care of. But the Weber sisters did get to be too much! Josefa was all right, but Konstanze and Sophie were so childish and silly. 'Hello, Herr _Aloysius_,' or 'I know who's got a secret!' Shit! "It will be wonderful for Aloysia and Friedolin to have this experience," said Frau Weber. "I'm sure you'll all have a good time." What a raucous voice! My future mother-in-law? God, it would be good to get away, just the two of them. Almost alone. A chance to tell her what she meant to him. A chance to try to make her understand the sincerity and depths of his feelings. And a God-given respite from the rest of the Weber menage! He went over to the house on the Singergasse to say good-bye to Hans and Dorothea. It was raining, and his feet were wet. He put them close to the Wendling's fire. "So, you're off to the country," said Hans. "Yes, the Webers and I are to leave tomorrow." "With clean shirts, I hear. It's something I never thought of in my bachelor days." "Oh, Hans," said Wolfgang, covering his forehead with his hand. "Oh, the pleasures of feeling your way through a pile of clean shirts! It must be heaven! Stockings, stockings, twist them around your neck, sniff them, hug them to your bosom!" "Hans!" said Dorothea. "Dolly, what have I been missing? All these years. Wolferl really knows how to enjoy himself. Linens galore, towels, sheets, oh, heaven!" "Hans, you're drunk -- again," said Dorothea. "Sancho Panza got Don Quixote to take along a clean shirt on his travels. But Don Wolfgang here finds laundresses everywhere. Oh my gracious, what fun!" "Up your ass, Wendling!" said Wolfgang. "Leave him alone, Hans," said Dorothea. "Have a good time at the Princess's, Wolferl, you and Aloysia both." "Yes, yes, Wolferl!" said Hans with a leer. "Have a _good_ time!" God, Wolfgang thought, it would be good to get away from Mannheim, even for a short time! Everything here was frivolity, farce, mean-spiritedness. Nobody here understood a person like him! *** He gazed idly at the ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece in the Princess' music room at Kirchheim-Bolanden. Aloysia was just changing out of her traveling clothes. Four tall Chinese vases flanked the clock. Fraeulein Weber. Frau Weber. Mother-in-law. What a dream! Marriage seemed so impossible, and here he was thinking about mothers-in-law! He carefully picked up the white porcelain Kwan Yin figurine on the Louis XV table. Woman! What a mystery! Would he ever really understand Aloysia? Was she at least beginning to love him? The next morning, there was a patina of glassy white frost on the ground when he awoke, but after breakfast it had melted. The two of them went for a walk. They passed out through the formal gardens and along the edges of the fields speckled with the burned stubble of last year's rye crop. At the end of the fields, they made their way, crunching on a carpet of leaves and needles, into a thick forest of second-growth beech, birch, and fir. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Aloysia. He thought: how sensitive she is! "Yes, it's wonderful," he said. "And that's not all that's wonderful." "Oh, yes, just being away is a godsend." "No, I didn't mean just that, I meant being here with you." He picked up a forked stick with a solitary beech leaf on it and a thin, orange, conical bud on the end. "Yes, we are having fun, aren't we? I was so happy to be invited. I wonder whether the Princess will tell all her friends about me." 'Her friends!' "Yes," he said, feeling a pout coming on, "anything I can do to further your career." She said hurriedly: "I mean it's especially nice to be here with you, Herr Mozart." And she pressed his hand. "You're such a great musician." He gritted his teeth and felt that his heart was cracking, getting ready to shiver into bits. "And so amusing," she added quickly, looking at his face. As he turned away, he saw her shake her head. She was evidently impatient with him. "So amusing"! How could he make her see he was more than that? *** That evening by the fire, he luxuriated in gazing at Aloysia as the firelight glittered on her high cheekbones, at times grasping her hand. How nice it was that she was allowing him that liberty! He felt himself floating in a warm dream of contentment. He had given up trying to kiss her, or to even attempt greater intimacies. He burned for her, but he knew he could not have her -- at least not yet. Musical success, that's what he needed. It would be the key not only to the realization of his genius, but to his possession of Aloysia, having her in the only way he could -- or would -- have her. The name of the BOY Mozart was known throughout Europe. Now what was needed was for the name of the MAN to be known as well. To be an established musician holding a secure post, somewhere, anywhere, but especially some place where opera was appreciated, where he could bring music and drama together! Aloysia would be not only his wife, but also his star, the leading soprano who would realize roles of an emotional profundity greater than any that the world had ever seen! Operas which he could not even as yet imagine -- but operas he was sure he could write, operas that would revolutionize the art. If they would only give him the chance. He could bring new levels of emotional beauty into the world of music and the theater. With hard work on his part -- and inspiration from his goddess! How should he approach Aloysia about all this? She must be made to comprehend and sympathize with his plans for their future together! *** The trees lining the allee were covered with ice from the freezing rain of the night before. Through the whiteness of the twigs and limbs, Karl Theodor could see smooth brown meadows, flecked with streaks of frost. On the left side, another, uneven row of trees marked the line where the Neckar flowed toward the center of Mannheim. The horses' breaths were visible in the cold, as he slowed his down to a walk. The Bishop slowed down too, his fat belly jiggling slower and slower. "It's good to get out in the air, isn't it, Your Grace?" "Yes, Your Highness." The bishop gasped a little for breath. "It's also more private." "Precisely, my dear friend. Now. Let's talk about Munich. The Electoral Prince is dead. Rather unexpectedly, but there you are. There's to be no trouble about the succession. I will announce that, according to my long-standing agreement with Prince Maximilian, I will assume the throne of Bavaria immediately. Until I can arrange things here, I want you to be my representative in Munich." "I am honored, your Highness." Karl Theodor drew back the hood of his traveling cloak. "Now about the negotiations with the Emperor." "Yes, Your Highness, do you want them broken off?" "No, we'll go ahead with the agreement Joseph was trying to force on poor Max and let him take over the Bavarian districts he's been hungering after so long." The Bishop of Chiemsee looked perplexed. "But, Your Highness, is it necessary now?" "As long as Joseph has a large, well-equipped army and I have only the miserable rabble Max bequeathed me, it's necessary. Believe me, Your Grace," he said, turning to him full face, "it's a price I'm going to have to pay. Besides, in return, he's going to give me quite a nice subsidy on the side." "It's still a steep price." "It might be. Except for one thing." "What's that?" "The Emperor is such a damned fool. He thinks he can take over those districts without the French or Prussians objecting." "And they will object?" "I don't know about the French, but did you ever hear of Frederick passing up an opportunity like this to bull his way into a territorial dispute? No, I think my Bavaria will survive this deal with Joseph. He gets some territory, which he may or may not have to give back. I get a good deal of money -- which I will most definitely _not_ give back." "I hope you're not mistaken, Your Highness." "I doubt that I am." He waved his arm. "My confidential agent in Vienna tells me that Kaunitz is opposed to this land grab, but my man doesn't think Joseph is listening to him. That doesn't surprise me -- after all, did you ever hear of Joseph's doing anything right?" "Watch out, Your Highness, there's always a first time," said the Bishop, spurring his horse into a trot. The new Electoral Prince of both Bavaria and the Palatinate followed the Bishop of Chiemsee down the allee and into the forest beyond. *** The Princess of Orange, her face fat now but still pretty, smiled brightly at Wolfgang, gave him four ducats, and allowed him to kiss her bejeweled hand as he and Aloysia took their departure. The sky was leaden as they passed by the twin stone lions guarding the gate of Kirchheim-Bolanden. The creaking of the coach returning to Mannheim was ugly to his ears. When he got to his lodgings, there was a message from Hans. Another commission? No, it was Herr De Jean, who wanted to know what had happened about the flute concerto he had commissioned. Nothing, that's what had happened -- there were more important things in life than commissions from fat, self-satisfied businessmen! More important things -- like love. And like a position at court that would make marriage possible. He met Cannabich on the street the next day. He was sorry, Cannabich told him, but there would be no position at Court open for the foreseeable future. That night Wolfgang woke up at about three o'clock. He was sweating, and he threw off the feather bed and pulled up a blanket. No job for him in Mannheim -- and he was running out of money. He would have to write Papa. In the snowy brightness of the morning, he had a new idea. Mannheim was a failure. But why did he necessarily have to go to Paris? Why not instead combine his own job-seeking plans with some way of promoting Aloysia and rescuing the rest of the Webers from their financial problems? He thought about it as he splashed the cold water on his face and then cleaned his teeth with a willow stick. He and some of the Weber menage could go to Italy, where Aloysia could try to become a prima donna. He would write operas for her and try to organize himself a position in one of the many petty courts scattered all over the peninsula. That old fart Friedolin and older sister Josefa could go along too, as chaperones. Wolfgang could take them to other countries too, Holland, Switzerland, making money everywhere -- composing, giving concerts, putting on operas. But he had to get his father's permission. Not only was his father his father, but the bankers in Italy wouldn't give him credit without Papa's say-so. Too bad that his father didn't know Aloysia -- her beauty, her voice, her strength of character -- so that he could realize how remarkable she was! He wrote a long letter outlining his scheme and posted it to Salzburg. The answer came back a week later. he read it as he drank coffee and finished his breakfast: Salzburg, Feb. 12, 1778 Mein Lieber Sohn! I've read your letter of the 4th with amazement and horror... Suddenly you strike up this new acquaintance with Herr Weber. Now this family is the most sincere, the most Christian family, and the daughter is to have the leading role in the tragedy that is to be enacted between your own family and hers!... You are thinking of taking her to Italy as a prima donna. Tell me, do you know of any prima donna who, without having first appeared many times in Germany, has gone on the stage in Italy as prima donna?... As for your proposal -- I can hardly write when I think about it -- to travel about with Herr Weber and his two daughters, it has nearly made me lose my mind!... Berne, Zurich, and the Hague are places for lesser lights, for half-composers, for scribblers! Name me one composer who would deign to take so abject a step! Off with you to Paris! And soon! Find your place among great men. Aut Caesar aut nihil. The mere thought of seeing Paris ought to have preserved you from these flighty ideas. From Paris the name and fame of a man of great talent resounds throughout the whole world... Win fame and make money in Paris; then, when you have some money, go off to Italy and get commissions for operas... Then you could promote Mlle. Weber, which you can do better in person... MZT P.S. Your sister has cried and cried these past two days... There was another letter for his mother. She walked in, wrapping her peignoir about herself, and picked it up. He watched her open it and read it. Her face grew self-righteous. "What is it?" he said. "It's about Paris, he says he's explained everything in his letter to you." "I'm not ready to leave yet, Mama." "He also says he's written to Herr Hintendorf, telling him we have no further need of credit here, except for our expenses for the Paris trip." "He just doesn't understand." "Papa understands, all right. Just remember, Wolferl." "What?" "Strong as a lion -- that's the motto." She kissed him on the brow. He turned his head away. It must have been simpler just to be a lion -- or to be just anybody else, anybody who didn't have to be separated from his love. *** On March 13 he made a last visit to the Webers. He would leave for Paris the next day. Aloysia was all smiles. "Well, I envy you going to Paris, Herr Mozart," she said cheerily. "I would rather stay here if I could," he said softly, feeling his high collar eating into his throat. "Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't. Paris must be wonderful." "I've grown very attached to Mannheim, " he said, his eyes starting to fill with tears. "We'll miss you too, don't be too sad, though, think of the opportunity." She touched his arm gently. He shivered. He mustered a wan smile, not knowing what to say. He tried to press her hand, but she glanced at Konstanze watching them with an ironic smile and pulled it away from him. God, she was lovely! In the morning, he leaned on the railing of the ferry crossing the dark waters of the Rhine, looking back through sheets of rain at the city. Paris it was, but he felt that his heart remained behind in Mannheim. His heart was her prisoner. Forever. ================================================= PARIS by Willliam Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 11 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] Paris. City of marvels and romance. Hah! City of mud and rain! As their coach entered Paris by the Porte de Vincennes, Wolfgang felt the growling of his stomach, as hungry and upset as his soul. His love was three hundred miles away -- and it was raining. It had been raining almost all the way from Mannheim. Dark clouds, fog, and then gales of wind and torrents of water from the skies. Water-logged roadways, mud splattered everywhere, the light-colored sides of the coach were now dark with streaks of black grime and smears of dark-brown mud. As they approached their inn near the Quai d'Orsay, the cobblestoned streets promised a welcome letup from the morass of mud. A temporary haven. The following day, as they crossed the Pont Neuf to the right bank and into the Marais quarter where Baron Grimm had arranged for permanent rooms for them, they saw they had not escaped the mud. The cobblestones ended, the streets became a sump, and Wolfgang and the coachman had to help carry his mother the twenty feet from the carriage to the doorway of the house on Rue du Gros Chenet. Then they had four flights of stairs to climb to reach their rooms. He was shocked by the small dingy apartment -- the price they had arranged to pay would have procured them a palatial suite in Mannheim or Salzburg. The splendors of Paris! -- they would have been better off in a well-built pigsty in Munich. There was not even room enough for a piano! How could he hope to live there? He thought of the garret room in Augsburg, light and warm. And Baesle. Poor Baesle, from now on there was only his Aloysia, there was no place for other women. At the top of the stairs, his mother wiped her brow. "Wolferl, I won't be able to climb these stairs, I'm all out of breath." He sighed. She hadn't seemed well since they arrived. "We'll talk to Baron Grimm." His father's friend Baron Grimm lived in the Faubourg Saint Honore, in a different sphere from the Rue du Gros Chenet. "It's delightful to see you again, dear Frau Mozart and Wolferl -- I mean 'Herr Mozart'." The Baron's German had a hint of French accent in it -- he had lived in Paris for twenty years. "Sorry about the rooms, but it's dreadfully difficult to find anything at a reasonable price. But I hope you'll feel free to make yourself at home here in my small place." "It's very elegant, Baron," said Wolfgang. "And I love the garden, with the pansies and geraniums." "We're especially proud of the oranges and lemons. Louise takes a special interest in them." 'Louise' was the famous Madame d'Epinay. Rousseau's friend. All the greatest men in France came to her soirees -- Diderot, d'Holbach, the Abbe Galiani. Grimm turned to his mother. "And I'll begin seeing what I can do about talking to people about Wolferl. You understand I can't guarantee success here. Paris is not Mannheim or Munich." He took his monocle out of his eye and polished it with his handkerchief. His jaw jutted out below his long, tapering nose, but the appearance of strength was weakened by his wobbly double chin. "People will like my playing," said Wolfgang. "Hah!" The Baron raised one finger. "It's good to be confident, but in Paris, just being confident _or_ good is not enough. You have to work at things in Paris. And you have to be able to stand criticism and neglect." "I understand." "I hope you do. The Parisian public is spoiled." "Thank you again, Baron," said his mother. "Gar nichts, gnaedige Frau," said the Baron, kissing her hand. The rain freshened outside. The sky grew darker near the horizon over the tops of the tiny orange trees. Wolfgang wondered if the sun would ever shine in Paris. The thought came to him whether the Baron knew any good-looking young ladies. Then he remembered Aloysia. His heart, in Mannheim forever. Still... The following weeks were filled with finding students, giving private recitals, trying to set up public concerts. And getting used to the French language again, and to the jostling and filth of a big city. But not a girl in sight -- at least no respectable girls. A pretty whore near the Place Vendome told him, "Cheri, je vous ferai tres content." Aloysia was far away -- and who knew when he would see her again. So in a dank-smelling room over an inn, he did let a thin, hawk-nosed young girl make him happy -- one half hour of joy. A month later he went back to visit the Baron. The servant bowed to him, motioned him inside, and showed him into the library. "Well, how is it going, Wolferl?" The Baron gazed at him with his piercing brown eyes. "Oh, fine, Baron, I guess," he said. He sat down near the window looking out on the garden. The May sun sparkled off the chandelier over the Louis XV table. "How are the lessons with the Duc de Guisnes going?" "All right. But these people," he said, "think that I have nothing but time, these aristocratic idlers don't know what it is to have work to do. Do you know what happened to me with the Duc de Chabot?" "I told him you would be coming over last Tuesday." "Well, Tuesday it was. A big mansion, very impressive, very vulgar display, I thought. I left my name with a servant. He looked at me as if I had crawled in under the door, than he showed me into an empty room. There was no fireplace and it was freezing. They kept me waiting there alone for an hour and a half." "Incredible," said Grimm, making a Gallic moue with his lips. "Yes, indeed. Then finally the Duchess, a cute little thing, dressed in a kind of smock and turban, showed up. She was polite, she apologized for the piano, she asked me to play. I said that my hands were numb with cold, and could she first take me to a room with a fire. So she said, 'Yes, you're right.'" "So you got warmed up?' "No, not at all. Instead of taking me to a fire, she sat down and started to work on her sketch pad. I waited for the promised fire. And waited. Then some gentlemen came in, sat down at the table around her, and also began sketching. I waited some more. The windows were open, there was a terrible draft, and my head began to ache. Finally I gave up and decided to play. What a piano!" "Bad, eh?' "Yes, awful. So I played. And do you know what?" "No," said the Baron, taking a sip of his wine. "Neither she nor any of her friends looked up for one moment while I was playing. They just kept on happily sketching away. So I had the privilege of playing, cold, headache, tinny piano and all, giving a recital for the benefit of the tables and chairs." "Well, tell me, at least did they get you that introduction to the Duchesse de Bourbon? That could be a good entree at court." "Not a mention of it." "Terrible! Have another glass of wine." The Baron stood up and began to pace across the room, looking at the large Leipzig clock, decorated in mother- of-pearl, which stood in the center of the mantel. "It's important that we get you into Versailles -- but at the right level. I think that if we do, they'll offer you a position. God knows they have plenty of musical jobs at the court." "As a matter of fact, they already have offered me something." Grimm raised his head abruptly. "What? A job?" "Yes. A job at Versailles. Rodolphe, in the Royal Chapel, only mentioned it to me the other day. Court Organist, it would pay two thousand livres." "Wonderful, I'm so happy for you, Wolferl. It sounds ideal." "I'd have to spend six months in Versailles every year. And it's only two thousand livres." "But that wouldn't be so bad." The Baron started pacing even faster. "You could spend the other six in Paris, London, Vienna. And the salary isn't exactly munificent, but it's respectable. Besides, you can earn money on the side, composing and giving lessons." "I suppose." "You'll take it, of course." "I'd like to think about it first." He began tapping the ends of his fingers together. Grimm made a face. "You know, getting established at Court in a job like that could be marvelous. Especially now." "Why now?' "Because last year your beloved Emperor Joseph the Not-So-Great finally persuaded the King to get his penis operated on so that he can perform his husbandly duties with the Emperor's sister. You know, of course, that the Queen is pregnant." "Yes, of course." "Well, royal children mean, as far as you are concerned, more music, music for births and christenings -- and later, music lessons. Why shouldn't the music tutor of the next Dauphin be the young Court Organist, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?' "I still want to think about it." "Think. But when you're through thinking, accept it! Meanwhile, stay to dinner." "My mother's expecting me." "I'll send word that you'll be late. Louise is anxious to talk to you about your travels, about the Empress, especially. Your mother will be all right." He thought of his mother in the garret room. He should do something nice for her. Next week, maybe. Maybe he could take home some cake to his mother. *** "Did you hear about Mozart's coup last week, Baron?" "No, Herr Ramm, is it something I want to know about?" Grimm had run into the German musician at a reception for the players and patrons of the Concert Spirituel in the drafty old Sabran Palace. Ramm's beefy, square face was unusually red. Grimm wondered whether it was from playing the oboe, or drinking wine, or both. "It's certainly worth hearing about. You see, there we were at Le Gros' place, a few of the boys, Wolferl and I and Punto and Ritter and so on. And of course the latest star of the Concert, Maestro Giuseppe Cambini himself. Old fuss and feathers." "I don't know him," said Grimm, putting down his wineglass. "Well, Signore Cambini has a great deal of respect for Maestro Cambini, if you know what I mean. Anyway, it turned out that Wolferl had heard some of Cambini's quartets in Mannheim, and he sat down and played part of one from memory -- you know how he is -- and he said how much he liked it." "Yes, I know him." "Well, of course Punto and I egged Wolferl on. 'Oh play some more, Wolferl.' And he'd say, 'But I don't know any more,' and we'd say, 'It doesn't matter, improvise.'" "And knowing him, I'm sure he couldn't resist." "Right. So he played more and more, improvising around Cambini's material, and of course Wolferl's version was far more interesting than the original. And all the time Cambini's brow was getting darker and darker. So finally, after Mozart stopped, Cambini said, 'Questa e una gran testa!' or what I render as 'What a brain.'" "Well, that was gracious of him." Ramm chuckled. His eyes glinted. "But he didn't look gracious!" "Oh well, no harm done." "Oh? Tell me why then in the meantime has all work mysteriously stopped on getting Wolferl's 'concertone' into rehearsal? Could it be that Cambini's friend Francois Gossec, who schedules the concerts, heard something about our little evening of fun at the keyboard?" Grimm shrugged and took a pinch of snuff. Ramm had bad breath, but the two of them were wedged into a corner and it was difficult for Grimm to move away. "How long are you going to be in Paris, Herr Ramm?" "Right now, I'm waiting impatiently, hoping to be appointed to the new orchestra in Munich. Now that the Electorates of the Palatinate and Bavaria have been combined, we're all waiting to see which of us from Mannheim are going to be invited to Munich." "I wish you luck." "I've been hoping that maybe a place for Wolferl could be found in Munich. I'm sure he'd like that." "I think he'll probably stay in Paris," said Grimm. "He's been offered the job of organist at Versailles." "Oh, no, he's turned that down." "He's _what_?" "Yes, turned it down." Grimm hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I don't understand." Ramm laughed. "That's because you don't know the fair Aloysia." "You mean that soprano in Mannheim he's always talking about?' "Yes, he's madly in love with her." "You mean he'd turn down a job like that for some little German singer?" "She _is_ good-looking." Ramm placed his cheek on his folded hands and smiled like a modest young girl. "Why didn't he stay in Mannheim if he won't take a job in Paris?" "Father insisted, I think. Unfortunately he's head over heels in love with her. But..." He stopped. "'But' what?" "I don't think she loses much sleep over him." Grimm shook his head from side to side. "What a waste." "Don't take it so hard, Baron, he's only a man, just like all of us." "Not quite, Herr Ramm, not quite." He pursed his lips. "No, not _quite_ like _all_ of us." "Yes," said Ramm. "But at least people like you and me _know_ who we are -- don't we, Baron? Not like poor Wolferl, who appears not to know whether he's a man or a force of nature!" *** Marianne Mozart sat at the one rickety table in her room on the Rue du Gros Chenet. She was finishing a letter home: ...Here's an item for Nannerl. The style here is not to wear any earrings or necklaces, no jeweled pins in the hair, in fact no sparkling jewels at all, either real or false. The wigs are very tall, entirely even all the way around, with a cap on top that's even taller than the wig. The roofs of the carriages had to be raised because no lady could sit upright in them. I kiss you both 1000000 times. My greetings to all our friends. She signed the letter and then added a postscript: "I send a kiss to Bimperl. Is the warbler still alive?" Maybe when the season started in the fall, they could rent a larger apartment, buy their own furniture, and cook for themselves. They could save some money and it would be more homelike. Maybe even buy a pet -- even if only a canary. She was tired. She would get into bed and rest, maybe she could do a little needlepoint, propped up on the pillows. It was getting so warm. She woke in the middle of the night. She was covered with sweat. She reached for the water, but the pitcher was empty. She called out, "Wolferl. Wolferl." And then more loudly, "WOLFERL!" Silence. Maybe he hadn't come home tonight. Again. She was awfully thirsty. But she didn't want to have to climb up and down all those steps to fetch water from the well in the courtyard. If Nannerl and Leopold were only here. She lay back and waited for sleep. It was very warm. *** It was very hot in Wolfgang's room. The sunlight off the new copper roof across the way was blinding. He could hear her heavy breathing. Her diarrhea was becoming worse. The fever seemed to come and go. She said "Bimperl" over and over. The bedpans were sickening to carry down the stairs. The next day Baron Grimm found a German doctor and sent him around. The doctor gave her wine and bled her, but just a small amount, which probably didn't hurt much, Wolfgang supposed, but didn't seem to help much either. The doctor said if was a quartan fever and she would probably be all right. Paris in July seemed cooler than Salzburg, but the heat in her small room was overpowering. Wolfgang felt completely disoriented as he sat by his mother's bedside. She tossed a bit and her eyes opened. "Mama, how are you?' A weak voice answered, "I feel awful." She tried to clear her throat. Then she licked her lips. "The room is spinning around." She tried to pull herself up. "Some wine, please." "No, Mama, it's not good for you." "Please, please, my throat's so parched." So he poured her out a small glass, his hand shaking. Some days she seemed better. One day she talked to him about the Sunday Grimm had taken them all out to to the Baron von Kidder's house in Boisemont to see the cherry trees in bloom. "The flowers, the red anemones, weren't they beautiful, Wolferl?" "Yes, mother, beautiful." "Beautiful. What a lovely day." But that same night she became worse. Over the following days, her breathing became increasingly strained, she would begin to writhe and toss in bed, sometimes lapsing into delirium. After a few days, he began to feel restless. His mother was worse, she was asleep or in a delirium most of the time. One afternoon he got up, looked in on his mother, sat beside her bed for as long as he could stand it, got himself washed, dressed, and his hair powdered. Then he went off to visit the Princesse de Cleves. He was welcomed and invited to sit down at the piano. He played two sonatas, a fantasia, and improvised a cadenza. His eyes filled momentarily as he thought of his mother, then he became distracted with the latest gossip, especially about Marie-Antoinette and the Comte d'Artois, and what the "locksmith," King Louis XVI, thought about it all. He drank quite a lot of wine, a good deal more than usual. Finally he went home, climbed the long flights of stairs, puffing a bit, opened his mother's door slightly, glanced in at her sleeping figure, plunked himself down on his own bed, vomited gently onto the carpet, and that was the last he remembered. He woke up the next morning, fully dressed, filthy, and nauseated. As he raised his aching head, the nausea seemed to fill his soul, nausea at his desertion of his mother's sickbed, the awful weakness that could not deal with the fear of her dying. By the afternoon of the next day, she had been writhing for hours in her pain, her wasted body twisting and turning in the bed. She was comatose, only muttering incomprehensible phrases, or calling "Mozart!" from time to time, or "Doggie, sweet doggie." Suddenly, her breath began to labor, it came with increasing difficulty -- and then abruptly stopped. He caught his breath, then called in Wendling, who felt her throat gently and then closed her eyes. Standing beside the body, afterward, looking at the pale face, the eyes covered with copper coins, he felt only embarrassment. And embarrassment at being embarrassed. At the funeral, Wolfgang shyly received the condolences of the small community of German expatriates. He felt almost nothing -- except shame at his weakness as she lay ill. As the days passed, life came back to normal. He wrote his father, he wrote letters to his friends mentioning the death, putting in phrases about "the will of God," and "an end to all her suffering." But underneath, he felt only oppressed and bewildered by her death. Then, a week after the funeral, he had a dream. His mother was scolding him, he had been a bad boy, he had torn his sister's book and ruined it. His mother in the dream was not a pudgy middle-aged lady, she looked like a young, radiant princess. She seemed angry, but even so, he could feel keenly -- as so many times in his childhood -- that she didn't really mean it. She smiled at him and called him her own darling Wolferl. He awoke, sweating, and couldn't go back to sleep. He took two gulps from the bottle of wine at his bedside. He _had_ been her little Wolferl. She alone of all the world had loved him entirely separated from his being a musician. She had had to give him up when "the world had wanted him" -- when his father had decided that his home and his mother didn't matter, all that mattered was fame and fortune. She had reluctantly but good-naturedly let him go. He had seen her turn to her card games and her cooking and her coarse and homely jokes and her little dogs. And he had averted his eyes and let it all happen. How the gift of her mothering had been stifled, passing him by. Her love had been there, then it had disappeared, slipping away silently and imperceptibly. He had been so greedy for love. He had attracted love from women and men -- but never enough and never of the kind that only his mother had ever given him. And now it was too late -- she was gone forever. She had left him only the memory of the lion strength of the Pertls. He was alone in Paris. And Aloysia was still in Mannheim. A memory of lion strength -- but what a coward he had shown himself during her last illness. He was weak, unforgivably weak. Maybe he didn't deserve success -- or Aloysia. ================================================= 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. ==================================================================================================