FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 6, Number 5 September-October, 1999 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e- mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from the editor or by downloading from the website http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue, courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed at the following URL: http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm 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 "Lines on Sand," haiku Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith "The Shark," a short story Yitzhak Herrera "Good-bye, Felipe," an excerpt (chapter 16) from the novel "Ay, Chucho!" William Ramsay "No Way Out," part 7 (conclusion) of the play, "Julie" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in Washington. He is currently at work on a mystery novel set in high circles in Washington. NIGEL AND WENDY HAMMERSMITH, originally from the Isle of Wight, now live on Martha's Vineyard. In addition to writing poetry, Wendy teaches high-school French and Nigel is a cabinetmaker. YITZHAK HERRERA, formerly a lieutenant in the Israeli Army, now is a writer and export-import consultant in New York. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and playwright and his play, "Through the Wormhole," will be read this fall as part of the Woolly Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series. LINES ON SAND by Nigel and Wendy Hammersmith 1. House among the pines Gray waves plunge across the bay Clinking of halyards. 2. Shallow boat harbor Sea grass doubled in water Dock pilings intrude. 3. Red-striped umbrella Black-speckled sand oasis Green surf threatening. 4. Clearing after storm White clouds drift -- the sea is still Bright stripes bloom on sand. 5. Lobster and champagne As we toast the fleeting years Sunset tints the sky. Sundown: Martha's Vineyard, July, 1999 Haze blends sea and sky A tiny plane points straight down Gay Head Light -- so far! ====================================================================== THE SHARK by Yitzhak Herrera It had been a good day. Snorkeling in the lustrous waters of the Indian Ocean. And some fun people to talk to. Like Julia, the singer, and her husband Palmer. As long as you could avoid the duds -- like the retired high-school biology teacher from Kearney, Nebraska, who had talked of himself and Jim as "colleagues." Poor old guy. A good day. In fact, Jim had only thought about the co-enzyme project once. Looking out at the sea that afternoon during whale- watching had made him realize the project -- or ex-project -- didn't matter. The cruise had been a great birthday present for him -- it had definitely taken the sting out of getting to be fifty. He was just pouring out the Chardonnay into the tulip-shaped glasses on their table. Suddenly, Claire said, "What was that?" Her china-blue eyes looked alarmed. Voices were coming from aft. The maitre d' and another passenger walked by them headed for the outside lounge deck. A woman on the other side of the dining saloon said loudly, "Shark." People began to get up from their tables. A crush formed at the door leading outside. "A shark," Claire said. "Let's see," said Jim, thinking that nighttime fish viewing sounded crazy. A gentle wind blew over the lounge deck. Jim heard the flap, flap before he saw the compact broad little fish, about four feet long, doing its acrobatic dance in front of a line of deck chairs. The fish's head jerked and Jim saw the line tighten on the rod a young seaman was holding. The rod bent again. The small shark showed his pointed teeth in his blunt jaw, he twisted like a gazelle tormented by a hyena, jumping in circles, in ellipses. Jim felt his back tense as he watched the struggle for life he felt the shark's longing to attack, to rip, to tear. "Oh God, someone said. It was Julia Galbraith, her dark curls awry, her slender body in a half crouch. She turned to Jim. "This is just like a Bunuel movie." "I can't stand it," Claire said. She turned her head away and moved back and opened the door of the dining saloon and went back inside. Jim didn't know whether he ought to go back in too. The flipflopping of the tortured animal mesmerized him. "Not a very big one," said Palmer, putting his ham-fisted hand on Julia's shoulder. "I've caught bigger." "I suppose," said Jim. Jim fished for trout in Colorado in the summers. Standing in the dappled shade of the willows hemming in a mountain stream, struggling with the lines hooked inot the lips of the cutthroats and rainbows. Fouling his line in the same damned willows. Dumping his creel on the riverbank, cutting the bellies open, starting close to the anus and forward to the gills. The smell of the camp cook frying them over the lonesome campfire. The shark weakened, then gave a desperate gigantic leap and flopped, quivering. Come on, Julia," Palmer said. "Our dinner's getting cold." "You go on, I want to see this." Palmer's face flushed. He stood looking at her for a moment, then turned and went back inside. Flop, flop, losing energy. Jim looked at the faces of the people who were still watching raised eyebrows, faint smiles. Clenched teeth. "He's brave," Julia said. "He has no choice," Jim said. "Maybe we should go back inside." "Are our chef's efforts as much fun as this?" The shark was lying still. Then he flipped once more and lay still again. "I'm going back inside," Jim, said. Julia nodded. As he opened the saloon door, he looked back. She was staring fixedly at the shark. It twitched twice. She bit her lip. Claire grabbed her glass of wine and drank a third of it. "Disgusting." "Oh, I don't know. It's like all fishing, I suppose." Jim sipper from his own glass. He hoped the salmon would be good. He dug into his salad. "I don't understand watching something suffer and die. Men love killing, I think." "Death is part of life." "Oh do spare me!" She shook her head. "And where the hell's our entree?" Later, at the bar, Jim and Claire found two seats next to Palmer and Claire. Palmer flicked his fingernail against his glass of gin and tonic. "Not much of a specimen, I'd say." "Still, you wouldn't want to meet him out there when you're snorkeling, would you?" Jim said. "You won't see that poor thing again," Claire said. Julia laughed. Her laughter sounded like a glass breaking. "No, Dimitrios told me that the officers are having it cut into steaks right now." "All's well that ends well," Jim said. "Death for a purpose." Palmer shoiok his head. "And a little side show for the tourists." Later, Jim sat undressing in the cramped cabin with its one porthole looking our on the blankness of the black sky and sea. Claire pulled on her black nightgown. "I won't be able to sleep." Jim felt the anger crawl up his throat like hot bile. "Jesus, you had halibut for dinner. Where do you think that came from? It gets caught in nets, we raise steers for the hamburger you had at lunch. What the hell are you making such a fuss about?" He looked at Claire's face her bright eyes stared into his fixedly, as if she had caught him out in some criminal act. "You know that's not the point, don't you? You know." "I don't know any such thing." "Scientists." Jim got up and looked out the porthole. Women were from somewhere else. They lived in a fantasy, where you didn't have to make the logical connections between all your actions. Claire brushed out her long glossy hair. Her profile reminded him of a hawk, a dignified bird of prey. "I think scientists display the quintessential nature of man. all the worst aspects of machismo." "I suppose female yoga teachers display all the glory of womankind." "Women are more consistent." "Julia didn't seem to mind the shark." "Oh, so you've got your eye on her, do you?" Jim felt caught in a secret trap that he had hidden from himself. "Oh, for God's sake." "She's obviously used to being on stage --drama, drama everywhere. I know you like that kind of thing." "Oh, Claire. You know that's a pile of shit." She pouted. "Do I now." Jim put his arms around her and said that she did know that and that he loved her. After a moment: "Oh, you do know how much I love you, Jim, don't you?" "Yes. Yes," he said. "Yes, yes." Her body softened in his embrace. His stomach felt hollow. He squeezed his arms around hers. She put her lips to his bare, hairy arm and kissed it. He was drifting off to sleep. "Jim,." "Yes?" "It doesn't matte about the project. You've still go lots going for you." "Thanks," he said. He lay awake for a long time. At two o'clock he was waked by the sounds of rain on the porthole. He visualized Julia's face, taut with excitement and the shark flipping his way to eternity. After lunch the next day, Claire went for a nap and he found Julia sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck. "A beautiful scene," he said, looking out at the mountainous island and the greens and blues of the sea. "Yes, the sea. 'Et la mer efface sur le sable, Les pas des amants desunis,'" she sang, in a low vibrant alto. Jim asked how she had become a singer. It was her grandmother who had encouraged her, given her picture books on opera before she could read, later gotten her a teacher and paid for the lessons. "It helps that I'm just a natural ham," she said. "I envy you." "You, the scientist?" "I'm not all microbiologist." "I see that," she said, her brown eyes peering out at him. He looked away. "It does make you think about things." "Yes, doesn't it. Like the shark." "Wasn't it thrilling? I thought I was going to come." He looked at her again. She smiled. "Not quite." She touched the back of his hand with her fingertip. Jim shivered. God, can it really be true? My God. He felt his throat tighten. He lifted his hand and stroked her forearm. Her arm lay perfectly still under his caress. She took a deep breath. "The sea is really magnificent." Yes, it was, he thought. Magnificent. The sun slithered into a wisp of cloud, and as he watched, reemerged. The sea darkened and then became light again. The next day, Palmer had gone off on an excursion to another island. Jim, Claire, and Julia had lunch together. Afterward, Claire said she really needed her nap today. Jim said he was going to go to the lounge and work on his paper. "You see what it's like, being married to a microbiologist," said Claire. "Oh, well, men," said Julia. "I think I'll lie down for a while too." Jim searched Julia's face. She avoided his eyes as she got up from the table. But she stopped behind Claire as she left and made a puckish face at him. Jim felt his knee shaking. He went back to the cabin with Claire, picked up his notes and his laptop, and went to the lounge. He sat there for six minutes, feeling when he was five years old and it was Christmas morning. He looked at the notes for the experiment that would now never be funded. He imagined the lab and tried to imagine his life without it. Then he shuffled all the papers together, put them and laptop neatly on a table, and stood up. The key to the door of the Galbraith's cabin was in the door. The shining rod of stainless steel stood out perpendicularly, breaking the line of the flat corridor walls and recessed doors. Jim stood looking at it a moment, feeling that his feet were made of lead. Then he turned the key and pushed the door open. She lay on her back under the covers in the far bunk under a single sheet. She smiled at nothing and turned her head toward the wall. He sat down on the empty bunk and began taking off his shoes. As he eased his now naked body in behind her, she whispered. "My little shark." Jim gasped. "Oh," she said, finally. "Yes, that's the way. Oh. No, harder, harder." Jim, sweating, felt himself coming. "No, not yet, don't leave ne hanging. Oh, shit!" When he woke up, she was in the bathroom. Jim felt the word "Sorry" coming to his lips, and he stepped on the impulse. "Julia?" After a moment, she came out, a towel draped to cover one breast and her torso. "Did you want some more?" "Well I..." "No, not at our age, I would think." "Julia..." "Everything's all right You can use the shower, but hurry." Jim felt as if he were talking to his kindergarten teacher, Miss Knobe. "I don't know what to say." "Did you get what you wanted?" Jim wondered to himself what exactly he had wanted. She smiled tightly. "Maybe you don't know what you wanted. As for me, I got what I wanted -- or almost. It was nice. Now get a move on. We'll see you at dinner." Dinner seemed to last forever. Palmer talked about his trip in the rubber zodiac to the bird sanctuary. "We had a dull day, didn't we darling?" Claire said. Jim mentioned the pelicans they had seen at teatime. Julia raised one eyebrow. "Well, that's what I like about cruises. Something new every day." "Like the shark last night," Palmer said. "Yes," Julia said. "That won't happen again. One little shark is enough, I think." "You said it was like a Bunuel movie," Jim said. "Oh, I still believe that -- after all, Bunuel deals in absurdities." "It wasn't absurd, it was sadistic," said Claire. "Well, it could have been both, couldn't it?" Palmer said. Jim felt the darkness of the sea outside gathering about him. His stomach glowed with wine. His mind ached with desire for something unattainable. ======================================================================== GOOD-BYE, FELIPE by William Ramsay (Note: the is chapter 16 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!") I should have known that trying to make Amelia do this or not do that was an impossibility. But I was dumb, I was too busy congratulating myself on finding a relatively safe place to keep my father. I was only hoping that I could keep him pacified for a while, so that he didn't gum up my plans -- plans which I didn't have yet. He had had a rest and his bath and a shave, and he had put on a shirt and a pair of trousers borrowed from Mr. Gupta, Valeska's neighbor. He looked at himself in the mirror, cursed Fidel again, and said he was ready to go out and demonstrate in the streets. I pointed out to him that that had been tried -- by Mama, who Amelia told me was in a padded cell in the psychiatric hospital at Palma Grande. "They can't keep her under restraint," said my father. "It's unheard of!" I said that I thought she was safe enough in the hands of Fidel's psychiatrists -- it was better than being in one of MININT's prisons. "What have you heard about Pillo?" he said. "He's supposed to be with friends, we'll be in contact." "I want to see Paco's sister, Miss Santos." I sure didn't look forward to Amelia's showing up at Luz Street, and I finally convinced my father it was impossible. Maybe in retrospect I shouldn't have been so sure that I had scotched that idea. But what could I do? I couldn't stay there forever and I couldn't keep total control of the situation from a distance. I had to be careful with my visits, so as not to make G-2 suspicious about Valeska's place: I didn't think that Pineda had clued in the grunts on his staff on my actual name -- but I couldn't be sure. My G-2 shadows were used to my visiting Luz Street fairly often, but I didn't dare change the pattern too much. So I had to depend on Paco to keep contact with my father, while I tried to arrange some safe way to get him out of the country. As a start, I left a message for Dominguez that night in the soda bottle in the park. The next afternoon, coming out of the hotel and crossing between the two massive stone Indian caciques riding dolphins that led into the park, an ice cream vendor awkwardly pedaling a rickety bicycle came up behind me. I waved him away. He made a hissing noise. I stopped and saw that it was Mr. Marcus, in a black curly wig. On a bench on the other side of the lily pool, I saw my G-2 shadow. The hiss grew louder and became words. "Don't stop here." The bicycle cart moved away quickly, I followed it off through the grove of fig trees. Marcus had stopped in the middle of the grove. A young girl, running up to buy an ice cream, was the only person in sight. "You've got him?" he said. I nodded. "Don't you feel ridiculous in that getup, Mr. Marcus?" "Shh!" he said. Then he looked up. My shadow, in a gray tee-shirt and sunglasses, appeared behind us. "Move on, see you by the pool," said Marcus, and I continued walking out from the shadow of the figs. Marcus started to entreat the girl to buy an ice cream, waving his arms rather wildly. She smiled fearfully, edging away from him. She almost bumped into my G-2 fellow. Marcus switched targets, riding up to "Senor G-2" and loudly yelling "Ice Cream." I plunged through the lantana bushes beside the path and jogged along a muddy stretch of ground. As I came out on the other side, next to the pool, I looked down at the splashes of mud on my trousers and remembered that the gardens in Havana were said to be in bad shape because the gardeners were all released political prisoners. A moment later, Marcus came around the turning of the path cycling like mad. He passed by me, hissing "Pillo?" I threw up my arms, indicating I didn't know where Pillo was. Gray tee-shirt came around the corner, Marcus turned and headed for him rapidly, shouting "Ice Cream!" The man ducked and Marcus squealed into a tight circle and came back past me: "Should be hearing..." Presumably he was going to say "from him," but at that moment the cycle struck an ornamental plant in a large pot and veered off toward the pool. The G-2 man fell over getting out of the way, Marcus lurched and skidded full tilt into the pool. A giant splash. When the water cleared, there was Marcus, sitting in three feet of water -- which was turning strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate in spiraling swirls. The G-2 man was lying flat on his back. His beeper was beeping. Marcus was trying to get his legs out from under the overturned cycle. It was a good time for me to leave. I caught a dollar cab to the intersection closest to Valeska's, thinking along the way that I could have used some real help from the C.I.A. now, and if Marcus was all there was to the Agency, I was in lots of trouble. Marcus' little charade had also just made me speculate that Pillo might not be just any old rightist -- he was quite likely Company, somebody Marcus really felt obligated to spring from Fidel's embrace. Inside the Luz Street apartment, Valeska gestured to me to be quiet. My father was asleep on the couch, the Moscow version of a Spanish-language "Reader's Digest" lying open on his chest. Valeska was in her robe, a thin blue taffeta gown with gold Chinese dragons. Her golden-brown skin glowed like a rosewood carving. She moved close to me. "No," I said, "not now, not here." My father turned in his sleep and snorted. Valeska smiled and shook her head. "I'm stressed," she said. She began to undo my trousers. "What did you see that you liked in the store window today?" I said as she pulled my trousers down. When I awoke, the light from the Chinese restaurant across the road was shining on my face. I heard knocking at the door again. Valeska lay beside me, snoring. I heard the knocking again and my father grumbling, "Just a minute!" "No, no," I yelled. The light went on. My father, in his shorts, was opening the door. I jumped up, pulling a sheet up to cover myself. Thank God, it was only Paco. I dropped the sheet. "Hey, Chucho!" Valeska raised herself in the bed, one round breast peeking out from the sheet. "Why is it always 'Chucho', Flip? What's going on?" "Amelia insisted, I'm sorry." he said. I started to pull up my shorts. "Amelia what? Jesus, it's past one." "She said she has to talk to Don Federico." "But she can't," I said, "not here," I said. I stuck my foot in the other leg of the shorts. "It's O.K., I didn't tell her where you were, I left her down at the bodega on the corner." "Oh, good," I sat down. I told Valeska to go back to sleep. And my father too. I pulled my knees up to get into a posture I could try to think in. Paco strolled around the room, looking for a bottle, determinedly shaking a couple of empties on the window sill. He explained that Amelia had talked to the Minister of Justice and the government was considering a deal involving an exchange for the tapes on the Lenin Park incident for letting my mother go and commuting my father's term to an eighteen-month spell on a work farm. "Did they say anything about the money in New York?" "What money in New York?" said Valeska. I explained to her to shut up for Christ's sake. Paco said they hadn't, which I thought was strange. "Well," I said, "we've got to get Dad and Amelia together, but not here." "Why not here?" said Amelia's voice. Amelia herself, dressed in a neat gray suit, appeared in the doorway. My father pulled on one of Valeska's robes, the little white pompoms on the hem trembling in the draft from the open windows. "Who's this, who's Amelia?" said Valeska. "Wait," I said. "Who's she?" said Amelia, nodding her head at Valeska. "Oh, I recognize you." "Sorry," Paco said. "My sister," he said to my father, bowing as if he were making an introduction at court. "I remember you too -- the schoolteacher," said Valeska. My father bowed slightly and reached out his hand gingerly, so as not to disarrange the frilly robe. "How do you do?" he said to Amelia. Valeska jumped up in the bed, the old springs wobbling beneath her. She raised her arms. "Hell, I'm awake now, Felipe, get everybody a drink -- especially your girl friend there. "Amelia," I said, "This is Valeska, a friend of mine." "Oh," said Amelia. Her cheeks seemed to turn to porcelain. Paco grinned, embarrassed. "Amelia has to talk to don Federico about Elena. The government is offering her a deal." "Damn it, Paco, at least close the door, will you?" I said. "Don't bother, I'm going," said Amelia. She pulled at the door handle. As she opened it, a man half-fell in. It was Arnoldo. "Come in," said Amelia to him. She turned to us. "I met this nice gentleman in the cafe and when I mentioned 'Felipe Elizalde,' he showed me the way." "'Comrade," not 'gentleman,'" said Arnoldo. "I thought you were playing tonight to cover for Jaime," said Valeska. Arnoldo half-turned his face away, as if he were expecting someone to slap it. Then he moved his arms as if he were going to do the slapping. "Jaime got better. Unfortunately." His eyes began to squint and his mouth hardened. He raised his hand, but as he started to swing, my father jumped up and grabbed him. Arnoldo gave him a heavily-muscled shove and papacito fell over. "Hey," said Paco. I leaped on Arnoldo but he brushed me off and headed for Valeska, who ran naked toward the bathroom, holding her wobbling breasts in her hands. Suddenly Amelia brought up her foot sharply into his crotch and Arnoldo yelled "Ay" and fell over onto the bed. Amelia kicked him again with her high heel and he moaned and clutched his belly. "Dr. Revueltos," she said to Arnoldo, "has suffered enough from you damned comrades, and he's not going to take any more." "Yeah, twenty years in La Cabana is enough," said Paco. "Oh," said Arnoldo, sitting up. He moaned once, then he said something about 'that green-haired bitch.'" Finally he frowned and said, "La Cabana?" "Well," said Amelia, "I'll leave you lovers alone. "Dr. Revueltos, I'll see you later when it isn't so much of a madhouse. I'll call or send a message." "Amelia," I said. "'Felipe,'" she said, imitating the whine of my voice, "your ass is showing," and turned on her heel and left. Valeska had come out of the bathroom, draped in a towel, and Arnoldo flung himself out of the bed and prostrated himself at her feet. He tried to kiss her toe. "No," she said. "Yes," he said. His sobbing grew loud. "Give that foreigner up, darling." "No," she said. "Yes!" he said. She made a face. "You look like an awful mess. Felipe, check to see if he's all right." "I'm a doctor," said my father. "So is he," said Valeska." "What?" said my father, staring at me. I smiled and shrugged. I reached down to feel Arnoldo's pulse. "Don't touch me, creep." Arnoldo pulled himself upright. He took a deep breath. "Arnoldo!" she said. Another breath. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, sweetheart," Arnoldo said, lifting himself to his feet. "Go home, we'll see." "And leave you here with him?" "Go home!" He went to the door. "Querida, please!" She shook her head. Arnoldo, looking as if he were going to be sick, walked to the door. There he turned, raised his head high and said, "My pride has been injured." He opened the door and stomped out, muttering, "Betrayal, betrayal." "I'm confused," said my father. "Join the crowd," I said. "I'm not," said Paco. "I don't think I am, anyway. I'm not sure." "I'm going next door and see if Gupta is awake," said my father. "I need some advice." He grimaced. "Everything has changed." "Yes, hasn't it?" I said. Miami, Florida, U.S.A. seemed like a lot farther than ninety miles away. I felt like Ronald Colman in the last reel of "Lost Horizon," searching for the pass back to Shangri-La. The next day, I was too distracted to worry about Valeska and Arnoldo. I had other things on my mind, like trying to retrieve my position, whatever it was, with Amelia. I heard from Paco that his sister had met with my father, down at a cantina on a callejuela off Merced Street, but he hadn't liked Fidel's deal. I wanted badly to point out to him that any deal getting my mother out might well be a good one, if he was going to hang around in cantinas where he was liable to get picked up by the G-2. And if, as it seemed, the Cubans weren't hungry any more for the bearer bonds in the New York safety deposit box -- all the better. I also had heard that Marcus had finally heard from Pillo, which I suppose made him feel better and certainly made it easier for us to arrange a deal that might satisfy both the Americans and the Cubans. But no, Father kept refusing, saying that his outlook on things had changed, and that he violently objected to this deal. Too bad, I thought. I knew that while we were happily fiddling around, taking our own sweet time about things, Fidel's boys would be looking hard for my dad. And I was getting nervous about keeping my father at Valeska's. Too many people were involved, including my G-2 tails. Amelia suggested contacting Pillo, and I didn't have any better ideas. So after a couple of telephone calls, Father was sent off with a suitcase to a "meet" with Pillo at the old Hotel Inglaterra downtown. Next day I was working in my office at the Hilton, trying to troubleshoot a few bugs in the cellular system, when Paco called around noon. "Chucho!" he whispered. What was it? I asked him. "Problems. Stay away from Valeska's -- the cops have been there." As he told it, a policeman and a guy in sunglasses had banged on the door of Valeska's apartment at ten that morning. Paco and Valeska heard them from next door, where they were playing Parchesi with Gupta, and they slipped out through a back window. From the alley down the street, they could see police and presumably G-2 men standing talking with Arnoldo. It was a case of jealousy leading to betrayal -- almost like Doug Fairbanks and Raymond Massey in "Prisoner of Zenda." "Thank God we got my father out in time." "Yeah, let's hope he has better luck at the Inglaterra."" How about Valeska?" "She's O.K." "Be careful," I said. "Both of you." I tried to go back to work. Then I noticed it was noon and I tried to eat lunch. Not much appetite. I was getting sick of shrimp, rice and beans anyway, which seemed to be the main rations for the week at the Havana Libre. I had just gotten back to the lab upstairs, when the phone rang again. "Chucho!" Paco's whisper was even shriller than before. "Yes!" I said. "They've picked up your father and Pillo -- I just got a message from Marcus." "Shit!" I said. "How did that happen?" "I suppose they were tailing him, who knows?" "Shit!" I said. "Kind of blows it, doesn't it?" he said. "What do they know about you and me, do you think?" I told him I didn't know and I asked him what he was going to do. He told me he was trying to get out. To Miami? I asked. To El Salvador, he said. "Things have gotten so screwed up here, Chucho, I think I'd better let Gomez and the other Men cool off a bit before I hit Miami." "I hope we haven't gotten Valeska into bad trouble," I said. There was a long silence. "Where is she?" I said. "Well, Chucho." The smirk seemed to leak out over the wire. "I thought it was best if she came along with me to El Salvador, you know, what with this crazy jai-alai player after her and so on." "Oh," I said. "Hey, I knew you wanted her to be safe, and she's a good kid. Never been out of Cuba, she's as excited as a little girl. I picked up a Nicaraguan passport she can use for herself and another for her kid if she needs to. We'll try to get the Company to get us out, a small plane or a boat." "Yeah," I said. "And hey, don't worry about Amelia. She'll come around, I'm sure." "Amelia? What's happened to her?" "Flew back to Miami. Never mind, she just got excited, she may have said wild things like she hopes Fidel hangs you up by the gonads -- because that's your toughest part. But she doesn't mean it, you know. When she gets back, try talking to her again." It turned out that Amelia had told Paco she could do more good for my mother and father from Stateside -- and that anyway she didn't give a damn what happened or didn't happen to me. I suppose there had been other low points in my life -- really low, low, low points -- but I couldn't think of a lower-down one. There I was, my father and my mother in custody. And I didn't know, after the raid on Luz Street and my father's arrest, how soon the criminal police would be after me too. If they and Pineda were on speaking terms, it would be sooner rather than later. I had nowhere to go in Cuba and no motivation to return to the States and the fond embrace of Mr. Gomez. But you know, in some way it was having hurt Amelia that was the worst. I know, that may it sound fishy. I hadn't been exactly the ideal boy friend over the past six months. Well, she hadn't been the easiest person to get along with either. But behind the "Why don't you do this?" and "Why don't you do that?" I still felt, well, that she was always really concerned about me. Now suddenly she was shoving me out of her life. It gave me an awful feeling -- like falling on your belly and having your breath knocked out. You can imagine it was difficult to concentrate on cellular phones after all this. I sat staring out the window at the traffic down on the Rampa and then at the corner of the park showing from my window, where I could just make out from my window the beginning of the path to the Copelia cafe. I struggled with the hunger for Amelia -- and, when I thought about the G-2, another sensation that was more like heartburn. I knew I should probably do something, get out of town, go into hiding - - like Bogart in Key Largo. Or maybe it would be best to ask for an interview with Pineda -- or even with Fidel -- and try to clear myself. After all, I really hadn't been involved in the escape plan. Of course, getting them to believe me would be another matter -- and I was an accomplice after the fact. As is usual when I get caught up in such a complicated problem, I have a tendency to do none of them. I wanted to talk it over with Eddy, but I was afraid to get him involved, both for his own sake -- and maybe for my own. After all, how far would his loyalty go? Anyway, a few hours later, out of ideas, I was on my way out of reception area and into the outer lobby of the Havana Libre. Eddy was with me. I had promised him a ride downtown in my MININT vehicle. It was just getting dark, but I saw in the lights over the loading area, standing on the other side of the cab rank, my old G-2 friend with the sensitive irises. Today he was wearing a pink shirt whose tail stuck out in back in the Mr. Marcus style, and he was talking to a policeman. Another policeman stood behind him. Well, I thought, here it is, I guess maybe I'll get that talk with Pineda sooner rather than later. Then I heard someone call my name -- "Felipe." The voice was hoarse. I looked around -- down a hallway leading off the lobby, and saw Jerry standing there. Or rather, he wasn't exactly standing, he was doing a sort of cross between a shimmy and a St. Vitus dance, nodding his outsized head and motioning for me with his pudgy little hand to follow him. I took a look outside and saw my man from G-2 glance in my direction. I looked at Jerry. He leaped forward toward me, grabbed my hand with his thick, moist little paw, pulling me away from Eddy. Quick, we've got to get out." "But..." I started to say. "What's wrong?" said Eddy. "Come on," said Jerry. "We have to run for it!" But run where? I thought. They'd be sure to catch up with us, there were a lot more of them than there were of us. "Come on!" said Jerry, pulling harder. But not so many of them yet, I thought. "Eddy, run back upstairs and give them the salsa across all three channels in turn, now's your chance. "His eyebrows rose and he smiled. "Sure, ingeniero." I pushed him toward the elevator. He held me back by the arms. "Just kiss me good-bye," he said. Outside, the pink shirt was pacing, head lowered. I gave Eddy a quick abrazo. "No," he said, "A real kiss good-bye. Quick." "Oh, for God's sake!" A pouting expression on his wide, narrow lips. "You're not really my friend!" "No! Eddy!" Jerry yanked at my hand. "Kiss him!" "No!" Jerry giggled. "Close your eyes and think of Fidel!" So I reached up and put my lips to Eddy's. He gave me a large, moist kiss. For a split second I spaced out, trying to think about Amelia. I pushed Eddy away and followed Jerry. As I looked back, I saw the pink shirt heading for the front door, followed by the two policemen -- they weren't exactly running, but they weren't standing still either. Eddy had already entered the nearest elevator. Jerry began to run, loping with a swaying wobble, and I jogged along. We went through a gray door toward the middle of the hall, through a room full of air conditioning equipment, passing by another room with stacked cans of paint. Through a swinging door, and then we were out on a loading dock, and before I knew what was happening, Jerry had jumped into the back seat of an old Ford with tail fins that was sitting there, motor running, and I had gotten into the front next to the driver, and we were speeding down an alley. I was breathing hard, my eyes watering, it was dark in the car, and it was only when the alley debouched onto 25th Street that I saw there was someone else in the back seat. I heard the meow first. Then I looked. A major portion of the back seat was occupied by a bulky figure holding a white cat. "Felipe!" the high-pitched throaty voice of Pierre Diaz-Ginsburg sang out. "I was afraid we were going to lose you." As we raced down 25th Street, I said, "What the hell?" Pierre ifted Kropotkin up as he ran one hand over her tawny fur. Don't worry. We'll lose them instead." A streetlight shone off his bald spot. He looked less comical with his natural hair and no mustache. "Where are we going, Pierre?" I realized Valeska must have gotten word to him. He pursed his lips. "Back to the fight, Felipe, back to the fight." Shades of "Casablanca," I thought. We turned the corner at the Malecon and headed east along the water. Light from the first quarter moon behind us glinted white on the breakers along the beach. The sea looked like a dark blanket on a bed in a dimly lit room. We passed several cars and a truck but no sign of the cops. Eddy must have done his job. "All right, Felipe?" said Jerry. "'Felipe' be damned," I said. Call me Chucho!" ================================================== NO WAY OUT by Otho Eskin (Part 7, the conclusion of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a new version by Otho Eskin) CHARACTERS: MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of a "patrician" family in the deep south RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur. PLACE: The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep South. One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to Cora's bedroom. TIME: Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's AT RISE: MISS JULIE and RANSOM in the kitchen. He has just refused to leave with her. The sky is quite light now. SCENE JULIE What can I do? RANSOM There's always one way, if you had the courage. (JULIE picks up the gun from the sideboard.) JULIE You mean this? RANSOM Me, I wouldn' do that. That's not the way I am. That the difference between us. JULIE Sometimes.. sometimes I'd like to. I've thought about it. A lot. But I've never had the courage. That's what my father wanted. To end it like that. Clean and neat. But he failed. He couldn't do it. He tried once. He couldn't do it. RANSOM Maybe he really didn't want to. Maybe he thought at the last minute it'd be better to get revenge on yore mama than to blow his brains out for her. JULIE It looks like my mother has the last word, though the final revenge on him, through me. RANSOM I gotta go, Miss Julie. The judge be waitin'. JULIE Maybe all this is my mother's fault. Maybe my father's. I don't know. My own fault, I suppose. Should I make Jesus responsible, like Cora? I can't do that. That's all lies and fairy stories. I suppose it really doesn't matter whose fault it is. I don't know what to do. I can't run away. I can't stay. I can't live. I can't die. Help me, Ransom. Order me. You're the strong one. I'll obey you like a dog. Help me. You know what I have to do. But I don't have the courage. Order me to do it. RANSOM I can't. JULIE Do me this one last service. Order me! RANSOM I can't order you. I bin in service too long. If the judge appeared right now in this room an' told me to jump through the window I'd do it. I don't know no other way. JULIE Pretend you're a white man and I'm a field hand. Tell me what to do. Order me! Do it for me. RANSOM I can't, Miss Julie. I don't know how. JULIE You know what a hypnotist is, Ransom? The ones that come to the theater. RANSOM I know what a hypnotist is. JULIE A hypnotist says to someone "Take this broom" and he takes it. He says "sweep" and he sweeps. RANSOM But the person gotta be asleep. JULIE (As if in a trance) I am asleep. The whole room has turned to smoke. The stove there looks like a man in black with a tall hat.. Your eyes are glowing like coals when the fire is low... (The sunlight now has flooded the kitchen.) JULIE (Continued) How nice and warm it is. So light and peaceful. (RANSOM puts the revolver into JULIE's hands.) RANSOM Go on now. JULIE Tell me that even the first can receive the gift of grace. RANSOM I can't tell you that. JULIE I can't move. Tell me to go. RANSOM I can't JULIE And the first shall be the last. RANSOM Don' think. Don' think. Yore takin' my strength away. Makin' me a coward. I gotta go. The judge waitin' for me at the depot. He 'spectin' me. I can't keep the man waitin', can I? There no other way, Miss Julie. (JULIE stands up, still holding the gun, and walks out the door, not looking back.) CURTAIN ========================================================================= =========================================================================