FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 7, Number 1 January-February, 2000 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. 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William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "River Run, " a poem Tan-Jen "If It Cries," a short story Jenna Land "Negotiations," an excerpt (chapter 18) from the novel "Ay, Chucho!" William Ramsay "Oh?," part 2 of the play, "Shell Game" 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. JENNA LAND has an academic background in creative writing and is presently active in a literary agency in Washington. 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," was read this fall as part of the Woolly Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series. TAN-JEN is an avid Georgetown (Washington, D.C.) gardener and student of Chinese literature. Her verses seek to capture in English the spirit and prosody of the classical Chinese lyric poems -- the ancestors of the Japanese haiku ====================================================== RIVER RUN (Winter, 1999) by Tan-Jen Blue haze deepens over the gorge Bare branches reach up toward the sky Along the trails etched in ancient rock Footfalls echo through millennia come and gone. Blue haze lifting -- river rushes on Naked branches gleam in morning light Last night's frost still lingers on the grass As this millennium slowly fades away. ============================================================= IF IT CRIES by Jenna Land Two breasts swollen with milk. Hips rounded with the partnership of bone, fat, and flesh. A waist with a gentle curve, interrupted by thin lines of red which chronicle the change - the growth and then the shrinking of the pale ash white skin. A spine that holds it together, one straight line of vertebrae and strength. She turns sharply away from the mirror. All Marisa knows is that she's exhausted when they bring the baby in. A pink cotton bundle, and inside is her daughter. The baby's skin is spotted red, her fists are closed, her eyes are closed. The bundle sits on her chest, the nurse shows her how to crook her arm. And Steve is there, shamelessly sobbing with joy. He keeps whispering something about finally being a family. A family, he repeats. Again and again. "You're tired," he says finally, noticing Marisa's stillness. "We should let you sleep." She smiles, nods her head in assent, lets her eyelids close half way. The bundle is removed, the eyelids shut completely. And for a while there is nothing, until a gentle hand shakes her arm. "Oh, baby, baby!" says the voice that belongs to the woman in the red cocktail dress. "How are you feeling? How was it? Oh, she's just beautiful, Marisa. She looks just like you when you were first born, I tell you. An angel. An absolute vision. Come here, pet, let me hold you." Marisa's red curls are buried in the cocktail dress. Long fingers, manicured nails run through the mass of hair, petting, smoothing, soothing. "It's just so unreal. My baby has her own baby now." They all saw what happened the day the happy couple took their child home from the hospital. A huge affair, it was, with guests coming out of every corner of the stately split level house. Pink champagne, pink tablecloths, pink balloons and pink candles. A toast to the baby girl. Will the happy couple reveal the child's name? The husband beams, his eyes moisten with every glance at his daughter. The new mother sits in an upright chair with pink cushions supporting her, holding the child in her arms. She is staring at the bundle, and her face is unreadable. She does not seem to be regarding the child; she's just looking. She must be tired, they say. Poor thing. Just home from the hospital and she has to entertain. Post-partem depression, some say. She's a configuration of hormones, and probably doesn't know high from low right now. Give her some time, they say. Marisa lies awake in bed, waiting. Her eyes fixate on the ceiling fan. She watches one panel go around until she's dizzy, but still she cannot remove her eyes. She listens intently to the soft sounds of the manufactured wind-machine. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. She lies elongated, flat, her toes pointed, her hands folded neatly on her stomach. From the next room, the sound of crying breaks the monotony of the fan's song. The baby's awake, wants to be fed. Steve is snoring beside her, caught up in a dream of poppy fields, evil witches and fairy godmothers. Gradually, Marisa's hands begin to gently rub her own belly. Soothing, circular motions, the light touch of her fingertips on flesh. The cries from the next room become louder, more persistent. Marisa rubs faster, the circles become smaller, more urgent. The fan seems to grow louder with its unceasing taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. Still the cries continue, and the fear must be encountered, faced, confronted. Marisa raises herself out of bed slowly, hesitating at each break in the crying. But it never stops for long. She slips her feet into her slippers and fastens her robe. The baby's room is full of shadows, the Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight serving as an axis for the surrounding illuminations. The crib is the only piece of substantial furniture in the large room, and it looms unnaturally tall and white. Marisa tiptoes slowly until she is faced with the lofty white bars. Her dark eyes peer through to the crying from inside. Its face is red, discolored from the strain of crying and distorted in its unhappiness. The thin cotton pajamas which cover the small body are damp with perspiration. Tentatively, Marisa reaches in and picks it up. It cries louder. Marisa carries it into the living room, over to the rocking chair, and places it to her breast. With a little help, it finds what it's looking for. The small pink lips suck greedily as the milk joins it, a union of child and mother, need and supply, at the sore nipple. Marisa goes through the motions she knows so well from her friends' advice, her mother's experience, the many books she's read. Rock back and forth. Pat its back gently. Sing a lullaby. Let your instincts take over. Do what comes naturally. Do what comes naturally. Follow your instincts. Her instincts are telling her to go back to sleep, to go back to her own mother. To crawl into the fetal position and pull her blanket around her. But she wants to be a good mother. So she looks down into the face that is no longer crying, but that is sucking contentedly. Maybe if she talks to it. "Hello. Please don't cry. There's no reason to cry. Everything is going to be fine. Please don't cry." She stops rocking. Stops rubbing the small back. Stops looking down at the small face. Her eyes fix on the grandfather clock across the room. She watches the second hand tick, listens as it moves around the wide circle. Ticktickticktickticktick. She forces her eyes away from the clock. She returns her gaze to the bundle, her rocking and patting resume. She remembers a song her mother used to sing to her. "Hush little baby, don't say a word...mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird." The tones of the song sound obtrusive in the silent room. "And if that mocking bird don't sing...mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring..." The baby has stopped sucking, and is nestled closely against Marisa's breast, sleeping. She can feel the faint breath against her skin. This is it, they say. They all said there was something not quite right about Marisa Collins. No one could say for sure what it was, it was just something. A delayed reply to the simple question, "How are you?" The odd feeling they got when she touched them on the arm or the hand, like she couldn't feel them at all. The vacant and faraway look that often came into her dark eyes so that they assumed she was in another place. But just as they concluded she wasn't paying attention, she would say something intelligent and appropriate, showing she'd been listening all the while. It was odd, was ultimately all they could figure. And since the birth of the baby, it had become more so. On the surface, she seemed normal enough. Her figure had miraculously returned to its original, slim state, and she was put together immaculately, the picture of elegance. She remained active, doing all the things she'd done before, only with a baby attached to her hip. Charity board meetings, socialite lunches, weekly restorations at the health spa, the same routine as before. Maybe that was what was so weird. If it weren't for the tiny bundle infinitely attached by the baby-backpack, no one would guess Marisa had recently become a mother at all. The pink and white tent is a lone peak on a flat horizon. The surrounding fields are brown and full of weeds and parked cars. Clumps of two, three, and four people filter towards the tent's single opening, and among them is the happy family. The husband has his arm protectively around his wife, who in turn has a small child attached to her chest. They leave the dim twilight of the dry field for the light and activity that welcomes them past the opening of the tent. The noise is the first thing Marisa notices. Outside, the voices and car engines were unobtrusive, diluted by the open space and air. Inside is a mess of sound. Babies crying, people shouting, elephants roaring, music playing somewhere. Nothing is intelligible. Steven says something to her, she sees his mouth moving, but she can't understand him. The elephant roars again; she wants to cover her ears but remembers she's holding the baby. She tries to isolate the sounds and place them with the faces she sees. The usher in the striped uniform, the little boy tugging on his mother's sleeve, the crowding and pushing of hurried spectators. "Next please, next please. This way please, up these stairs please." "Mommy is there going to be a tightrope?" "Ouch!" "Oh, pardon me, didn't see you there, ma'am." "Daddy said we could have cotton candy." "Next please, next please. Put your ticket stub right here, please." "Where are our seats?" "Did you get the cotton candy?" "Seats 135 A and B. That's up pretty high." "Please stop whining and I'll get it for you." "Do you see the size of that elephant?" "Okay, you need to stop whining now." "Ouch! Watch where you're going, please." "Stop whining! Now!" Marisa sweats, feels the heat of over-occupancy, the heat of suffocation. She doesn't take Steven's hand, but follows him up out of the thick of the voices. Their seats are high, because that's what Steven prefers. "You can look down and see everything this way," he says. "Your view isn't obstructed by one large elephant, or one overanxious clown." He's been watching her, has seen her discomfort. "Do you want me to take the baby?" "No." It's time for the show to begin, announces the egregious master of ceremonies. He is an enormous man with a full black beard and a top hat. How did he get so big, Marisa wonders. She imagines the thick, flabby flesh under the obnoxious pink and red costume. It must feel like dough, like the sticky, pasty dough she makes. She's sure it looks that way too. Yellowish, clumpy, uneven. She can't pity him, though. People like him got that way somehow. But she does hope he has a wife. Someone as large as he is who doesn't care what he looks and feels like. She places her free hand on her own stomach. The skin is still loose from the pregnancy and feels cold as it fills in the gaps between her fingers. She pinches it, embeds her fingernails until she breaks the surface and feels a small wet drop. Suddenly, there is darkness. Complete and total blackness, so that Marisa cannot even see her hands, cannot see the child resting on her breast. An excited murmur fills the crowd of people, and grows louder with every second of continuing darkness. And then the spotlight flips on, quickly, shocking the black with its insistent brightness. It is focused high on a wooden platform that holds a small girl. She is wearing pink tights, a pink dress, pink slippers. Her thick red hair is pulled back, fastened with ribbons. Orange freckles cover her cheeks. Maybe she's six, maybe she's twelve, it's hard for Marisa to say. Because they are so high, they are almost even with the girl, and Marisa stares intently at the vision in pink, perched alone on the solitary platform. The girl curtseys, and a small wooden bar swings her way, attached by wire string to the roof of the tent. Her small, freckled hands grip the wood, and her small pink body leaves the lonely platform. She swings through the air, her tiny body is weightless and free. Marisa's eyes close, but she can still see the little girl. Spinning, twirling, flying. Then Marisa sees her own hair tied back in ribbons, her own feet covered by the delicate slippers. Maybe she's six, maybe she's twelve. She sits on the wooden bar and holds the string in her hands, her own giant swing set, her own body flying back and forth. A few days later Marisa is driving to the health spa. She hardly slept. The child cried all night and the ceiling fan was so loud. She needs to have Steven fix it. Take it down, maybe. Or maybe she'll do it herself. Her eyes feel the burn of her sleep deprivation. They're probably red, she knows. She looks at her reflection in the rear view mirror and is caught there. Her hair is all over the place, frizzy and uncontrolled. Her eyes are swollen, the pupils large, the veins spastic against the surrounding white. They reach everywhere, these veins in her eyes. They have their own road map, their own chaotic order. She glances away in time to notice she's run through a red light. She turns on the radio. A classical music station plays. The song is nice, makes her feel calm. It's mainly flutes, but then some horns join in. And then some more horns. And then some more. She can't hear the melody anymore, it's just noise and it's so loud. She hits the power button, but still the lights are on, and music blares. "Stop it!" The instruments grow louder and louder and her ears ring. The sound from the speakers overtakes the car, she shakes from the noise. "Stop it!" She drives faster. She needs to get to the health spa and turn off the car. Two more blocks. Her hands clutch the steering wheel, her eyes focus on the blacktop ahead of her. One more block. She turns the car roughly into the lot, throws it in park and falls out of the drivers' seat. She tries to run across the parking lot, but her legs won't carry her that quickly and her ears still ring from the noise. Slow down, she tells herself. It's okay. It's going to be fine. By the time she enters the lobby, she is calmer. She smiles at the receptionist. "It's nice to see you, Mrs. Collins," says the woman behind the desk. "Sandy's almost ready for you, just have a seat and relax." Marisa does as she's told. She allows her weight to drop in the soft couch, closes her eyes and appreciates the silence. "Mrs. Collins? There's a phone call for you. It's your husband." Marisa raises her head sleepily from the table, the masseuse ceases kneading. Her muscles are loose and languid as she approaches the phone. "Hello? Steven?" "Oh, thank God! When you didn't show up at your mother's, we were so worried. I told her it was fine. I said you probably just took the baby in with you. You should have called your mother, though. She's been panicking like only she can. Marisa?" There is no reply. The phone is hanging where she dropped it, swinging back and forth, Steve's voice lost on the empty room. The baby would have died if it hadn't been for the hot dog vendor, they all said. He was the one who saw it in the car and called the police. It was ninety degrees outside, around one hundred and ten degrees in the car with the window shut. No window was cracked, no air was circulating. They all understood. There's a lot to think about, a lot of details and sometimes it's easy to forget. Sometimes you leave for a specific destination, and drive for an hour because you've forgotten where you're going. Such things happened to the best of them. And if the baby was asleep in the back, quiet as a mouse and hidden by the seat, it was even more feasible. Tragic, but feasible. No, not a single person doubted, at least openly, that it was an accident. She is stone throughout the questioning. She sits erect, spine straight and seemingly unbendable, head held high. For a brief moment, her eyes meet Steven's as he sits across from her at the police station. He is searching her. The man from social services chews his pen. Marisa wonders what will happen when he chews through the plastic, and all the ink gushes into his mouth. The thick goop will cover his lips. It'll drip down onto his chin and cover that row of swollen red pimples. Marisa runs her hand over her face, feels her eyebrows, eyelashes, lips. She opens her eyes and looks at Steven. He's still searching. She folds her hands together on her lap. She is stone again. They won't give the child back right away, and she can tell Steven is upset with her. He looks at her funny the whole way home. Every stoplight he looks away from the road and stares at her. But he doesn't say anything. He just looks and looks. He cooks dinner while she lies on the couch. She smiles as she inhales the spicy aroma. She's starved. "Smells delicious, Steven," she says. "You know, the masseuse did a great job today. I still feel relaxed. Like jelly. You should really get one sometime. They do wonders." He doesn't respond to her. She hates it when he's upset with her. "How was work today, darling? Did anything happen with that case you're working on?" He still doesn't say anything, but comes around to sit in the chair across from her. He looks at her in such a funny way. Later that night, she can't sleep. The fan is quiet, it's not that. She just can't sleep. She walks to the living room and sits in the rocking chair. She's pleased with the way her white cotton nightgown looks against the dark wood. Like a princess. She rocks back and forth, and feels her feet leave the ground, touch the ground, leave the ground. The chair is old, but she loves the noises it makes. Creaking each time she rocks back and groaning each time she rocks front. She smiles and closes her eyes. Soon, the chair's gentle rocking soothes her to sleep. ======================================================================== NEGOTIATIONS by William Ramsay (Note: this is chapter 18 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!") The Torres bohio was a modern variant on a Cuban peasant hut -- adobe walls, glass in the windows, a television antenna, but with the roof thatched with palm fronds in a style that was already old when Columbus passed through the nearby Bay of Nipe in 1492. The old woman lived apart from her neighbors, up a dirt road off the highway. Pierre, two of the others -- Sisi and Ernesto - - and I arrived in our 1958 Ford pickup truck with its GM hood and Chrysler engine just as the sun was going down. As we got down, I asked Pierre, "Now we aren't going to hurt the old lady, are we?" He laughed. "Anarchism does not war on the innocent -- and neither does a gentleman, Comrade." Neither disclaimer made me feel much better about this whole affair. As we walked up the muddy path overgrown with long grass, the gray door patched with mismatched planks opened and a dark face appeared. She had almost coal-black cheeks riddled with scar-like lines, but dark eyes as brilliant as Aldebaran on a cloudless night. Pierre eased his full waistline through the narrow door, seizing the woman's knobby, curled-up fingers to shake her hand, bobbing his head up and down as he talked about the documentary film that, he said, he and I were going to do on Fidel Castro. As he pointed at me, she stared. "Ah," she said, "do you know the Comandante?" I admitted that I did. She smiled, closing her eyes for a moment. "Cuba is not what it used to be." She glanced at the color print of the Virgin on the wall. There was a framed, yellowed elementary school diploma beside it. "Like when you worked for the Castro family over near Biran?" said Pierre. She frowned. "Yes," she said, "back in the thirties and forties." Pierre walked over to the wall behind Senora Torres and stood looking at a picture of St. Barbara at her martyrdom. As I continued talking with the woman, he removed first a handkerchief and then a bottle of chloroform from the sack-like pockets of the khaki shirt that ballooned like a half-collapsed tent over his torso. "Does he visit here often?" "Yes, every year." Pierre, mouth pursed, concentrating, approached her stealthily from the rear. "Does he still come down?" "He comes down to hunt sometimes. Doves." I'd never heard of Fidel hunting. Pierre was juggling the chloroform bottle. She smiled. "He stays at the old cabin near the junction to Biran. Then he sometimes drops by here to say hello." "Oh?" I said. Pierre's hands were just below her neck now. It was like watching a bear looming over a fox terrier. She nodded. "Sometimes he brings his wife too." "His wife!" shouted Pierre. "Fidel married?" I said. The dark eyes stared at me as if they were trying to understand an obscure joke. "Not Fidel, how silly -- Raul, of course." "Raul!" said Pierre, dropping his hands and coming around and facing her, pouting like Sydney Greenstreet in the "Maltese Falcon." "Doesn't Fidel ever visit you here?" He was standing with the chloroform bottle in plain sight. She stared at the bottle. "Fidel hasn't been down since Delia died." Pierre's hands dropped and he began to pace back and forth. He was speechless for a change, and I asked the questions. It turned out that we were not talking to Delia Torres, but to her sister Sofia. Delia had been the nanny for Ramon and the older children, including Fidel -- but then she had retired and Sofia had taken over for Raul and for the younger sisters. Poor Delia, she had died just last month, kidney failure. I looked at Pierre, he looked at me. "And this film that you're making, are the Comandante and his family going to be in it?" "No, well yes, I suppose," I said. I was having trouble concentrating. "That may be difficult," said Pierre in a chilly voice. "They're all so busy." Her eyes lit up. "Raul is so close, it seems a shame." "Raul Castro is here now?" said Pierre. "Oh no." "No?" "Not here. At the old hunting cabin, with just a few of his staff. He was over yesterday -- brought me a Polish ham. Poor baby, he works so hard." So that's how our scheme came to center on, not Fidel Castro, but his brother Raul, Defense Minister, Army General, avid aviator, and Chief of Staff of the Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria. At the hunting cabin, we found one bodyguard in the kitchen, cooking. Pierre nodded at me and handed me the chloroform. I looked at it as if it would bite me. Then he and Sisi grabbed the bodyguard, Pierre said "Now! Chucho," and, hands shaking, I wrestled the chloroformed pad onto the man's face as his head twitched and bobbed in Sisi's armlock. We tied up in two bathrobe belts and locked him in a closet. Pierre caught the other bodyguard napping in a rocking chair, Sisi cold-cocked him and left him tied up and stashed in an old sugarcane storage shed. Ernesto chloroformed Raul from behind as he was writing a letter at an old pine table. I held his head as we carried him back with us to the trailhead for our camp in the Cristal. He was even slighter than he appeared on speaker's platforms next to his large brother -- his anesthetized face looked calm and serious, his wispy mustache looked like a woman's eyebrow. From the trailhead, Sisi and Ernesto and I carried Raul the rest of the way in a stretcher while Pierre went to Mayari to call Jerry in Alamar to relay our ransom demands. We settled down to wait. Settled down with a hopping-mad Raul Castro. His small, dimpled chin waggling, he cursed us in Spanish, English, and the French that they say he had learned from Che Guevara. Struggling with his tied wrists to get to his feet, he worked his head around, bucking like a buzzsaw, and spit at Pierre. Pierre wiped the tiny speck of spittle from his shirt, picked up a piece of old tire, and brandished it in Raul's face. Raul growled. Pierre gave him a light bop. Raul looked at him, said "Shit," and plunked himself down again, collapsing on the ground. The evening was misty and the line of the Bay of Nipe was invisible. Raul spit out something in French. "Not 'worms,' Comrade. We fight for true liberty," said Pierre also in French -- as he told me later, I don't know the language. Then, changing back to Spanish: "The freedom not to be dominated by capitalism or communism -- or anything else in between." "The paredon for you," said Raul, straining against the bonds on his wrist and making a pained face. Despite his slight physique, his energy made him appear less wimpy in person than on TV. "The sole real contribution of the famous Cuban Revolution to our vocabulary," said Pierre. "The wall where the Revolution's children go to be devoured." Raul smiled as if he were enjoying sucking on a lemon. "You won't get out of this one alive, fatty." "If we don't, neither do you," said Pierre. And I for one had no doubt that Pierre meant what he said. At that point we heard the sounds of a helicopter and took cover under the trees, one of the men dragging a protesting Raul after him. The helicopter passed us, more than a mile away. But later that night, when everybody else was asleep, I asked Pierre about what we would do if worse came to worse. "Fidel knows me," he said. "When I fought against him in the Sierra Escambray, I was just a kid, fourteen. If I'd been older, they would have shot me along with Morgan." "You went to jail?" "Yes, on the Isle of Pines. Re-educated." He snorted. "Fidel talked once to us prisoners. I warned him not to let me go, that I'd destroy him if I got the chance." Pierre frowned. "I wonder if he remembers." "He couldn't have taken you seriously." "He was too busy worrying about the Playa Giron prisoners to pay much attention to wild kids like me." He looked down at himself. "I was awfully skinny in those days -- a tall stick, that's what I was, a regular stick." We had a very small fire, its blaze shielded by a screen of pine fronds to prevent giving away our position. "If Fidel remembers, that's good." "Why?" "He won't want to leave his brother and successor in my hands." Pierre's eyes shone with a peaceful but menacing glow, the spirit of Nechaev contemplating an act of revolutionary terror. I knew that I would do anything to avoid being the prisoner of someone with those eyes. There were more trips, first down to a phone in Moa. Pierre came back from that one looking kind of sour, but later, sitting around the glowing stubs of pine logs left from the dinner fire, knocking off his second tot of rum, he smiled and told me that they were coming around. The next day he went down early in the morning to use another phone at Sagua de Tamano and came back at midday with a look like Kropotkin's after his daily tin plate full of condensed milk. Fidel had decided that the Revueltoses and fifty k weren't worth taking a chance on his little brother's life. He was willing to exchange -- my father and mother and Pillo for his brother. I couldn't believe that the whole nightmare might be beginning to dissipate. Suddenly it was like the thinning of a mist -- like one of the pea- soup fogs that sock in the Fort Lauderdale Airport some winter mornings, just when it's my turn to take the Cessna up. At first you hardly see any change, you think you're imagining that the grayness is becoming brighter, then abruptly you can clearly see the base of a hangar that was only a fuzzy shadow before. And so on, until the mist is like a shredded spider web being pulled apart by some gigantic bug. My parents out of Cuba. With Pillo part of the package. And with access to the safety deposit box in New York -- the end of my troubles with Mr. Gomez, with the wholesalers, with the Internal Revenue Service. And me out of Cuba too. That was one of the conditions Pierre had attached, a safe-conduct for himself and me. Jerry had gotten word to us that Eddy hadn't been arrested, and I considered including him in the deal, but I thought better of even mentioning his name -- after all, he did have a family in Cuba. Now we had to worry about arranging the details. First of all, we needed someone, not in Cuba, to negotiate for us. Pierre had friends in San Salvador, others in the States. But our best bet was to let Amelia find a reliable agent to handle the on-site negotiations for our side. And a place. Obviously not in Cuba. I mean, logistically it would be easiest to get it done right there -- but we needed to be sure we would be able to get away afterward. I went into Mayari to the post office and talked to Amelia about it on the phone. "We need an idea," I said. "I can't talk long." I had spotted an old woman with a CDR armband and the beginnings of a fine mustache leaning against a wall, talking with two other women. "I'm only doing this for Elena. Understand that, Mr. Revueltos." "You don't understand, Amelia, how it was with Valeska." "I'll talk to this Pineda." "I'm really sorry. It wasn't what you think." "Maybe the U.N. in New York -- or Mexico City or Caracas would be more neutral." I couldn't stand the chilliness in her voice. "Come on, Amelia." "You'll be informed." A pause, the line crackled. "And you're still a shit, Chucho." The click in my ear felt like the blade of a guillotine clunking into the block. The next afternoon, during siesta, I was waked up suddenly by somebody shaking me. Pierre said, "Come on, we have company." The camp had been moved again, a few kilometers along to the next ridge, and only pieces of the sky could be seen through the jungle of pine trees. A man was standing by the Coleman stove. He turned, and it was Mr. Marcus, dressed in a stained long-sleeved yellow shirt and blue trousers and wearing an Australian-style hat with one brim turned back. Half of his shirt tail, streaked with grime, hung down in back. Some things didn't change. "Mr. Marcus," I said. He looked around at the two or three men nearby and made a face like a sad chimpanzee. He wiggled his head, shifted his eyes and walked with a faintly prancing gait, like an arrogant orangutan, over to the two boards that marked our makeshift privy. Pierre followed him and I followed Pierre. Marcus peered into the hole between the boards as if looking for communist agents. "It has to be El Salvador," he said. "El Salvador!" I said. "In FMLN-controlled territory." "Ridiculous, isn't it?" said Pierre to me. Marcus smiled, showing lots of teeth -- I had decided they were dentures. "Don't worry, they won't get around us. We'll have them covered. Government forces nearby. Helicopters at the ready, everything, we'll give it to them right up the ass if they try to pull anything." Pierre nodded. "This deal isn't our idea, the Cubans wouldn't listen to us -- and they insist on negotiating directly with your agent." "Our agent? Who?" "Amelia Santos," said Mr. Marcus. Pierre nodded forcefully. "They trust her -- as much as they trust any gusano." Amelia. The sunlight scattering through a wisp on clouds to the southwest over the Sierra Maestra reminded me of Florida and the beach at Boca Raton. And Amelia in her cherry-colored bathing suit. Marcus made a face. "She's got balls, that one. We demanded neutral territory, the Cubans insisted on somewhere in-country, and she came up with the compromise." Pierre pulled on a twig of pine needles. I could smell the resinous odor of the needles mixed in with the stink of the privy. As Marcus went on to explain the details, Pierre made a face at me. He might well grimace. It all sounded dangerously complicated. My father and mother -- and Pillo -- would be delivered to the rendezvous in one plane, and Raul Castro in another. The exchange would be effected under a temporary truce between the government and FMLN forces in the area near Sosuntepeque, in the northeast part of the El Salvador. Amelia would represent us, the Cubans would supply an FMLN cadre as their agent. "And with this location," said Marcus, our side doesn't have to worry about Raul's getting away without delivering the goods." I tried to think of my parents as "goods." "We," said Marcus, "can bomb the hell out of the area and put five thousand men in to find Raul if he tries to escape." He tapped his fingers together, as if he were sitting in a conference room in Washington. "Of course we all would rather get this done without bloodshed." Pierre looked slightly disappointed on hearing the phrase "without bloodshed." Raul would be taken out of Cuba on a small plane -- supplied by Marcus - - with Pierre along with an automatic weapon to discourage recapture attempts by the government. Airspace clearance would be arranged with Havana and with Honduras and El Salvador. "As for you," said Marcus pointing at me, "the Cubans will look the other way as 'Felipe Elizalde' flies to El Salvador to arrange things with the FMLN contact there. Your agent should be there in San Salvador soon, maybe she's there already. She'll make contact with the FMLN agent." It felt good to think of Amelia in there, doing her thing, organizing this tricky exchange plan. She was a good woman to have on your side -- even if she still did think that I was a shit. "But who's the FMLN agent?" I said. "Oh," said Marcus, "Fidel told your agent he knew just the person." Marcus smiled at me as if he had caught me cheating at cards. "An old friend of yours -- Dr. Josefa Sanchez-Schulz." ================================================================= OH? by Otho Eskin (This is the second part of the comedy "Shell Game") CHARACTERS: HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop. HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress as a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a woman (Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed with clothes, shopping and make-up. HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator. CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special assistant. Corliss is a closet gay. ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's. BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate. CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife. PLACE Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very expensive resort. TIME The present ACT 1 (continued) HIRSCHEL You're certainly fortunate to get this room without a reservation, Mr. McKool. The Empress Suite is usually reserved months in advance. BOOM-BOOM Make me happy, Pops. Shut up! HIRSCHEL Yes, sir. BOOM-BOOM (To HIRSCHEL) Put my luggage in the bedroom. HIRSCHEL Yes, sir. (HIRSCHEL takes the luggage into the bedroom. In the Honeymoon Suite TREADWELL picks up the phone.) TREADWELL Room service! I want a chilled bottle of Champagne sent to my room. Immediately. Make that two bottles. And a bag of your best quality tortilla chips. (TREADWELL hangs up. In the Empress Suite, HIRSCHEL returns and heads for the front door.) BOOM-BOOM (To HIRSCHEL) Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't recall saying you could leave. HIRSCHEL Yes, sir. No, sir. BOOM-BOOM First I want you should inform my colleagues who are staying in rooms 709 and 711 that I have arrived and they should stay where they are until they hear from me. HIRSCHEL Yes, sir. BOOM-BOOM Two I'm looking for a young lady. Name of Birdsong. Zenobia Birdsong. Ever heard of her? HIRSCHEL I..I'm.. not sure... BOOM-BOOM Think harder, boy. She's blond. Used to work in my club in Vegas. Left a couple of days ago. Unnerstand what I mean? She come here looking for a job. I am eager to talk with her. I want her here in this suite in fifteen minutes. HIRSCHEL What if I can't find her...? BOOM-BOOM Do you know who I am? HIRSCHEL Yes, sir. You're Boom-Boom McKool. I've read about you many times in the papers. Like when all those witnesses during the grand jury investigation disappeared... BOOM-BOOM Then you know that I have many virtues, as my friends and associates will attest. Unfortunately, patience is not one of them. Unnerstand my meaning? You got fourteen minutes left. If she's not here by then, I will personally break both your legs. HIRSCHEL Both? BOOM-BOOM You got a problem with that? (HIRSCHEL hurries out the door. BOOM-BOOM dials the phone) BOOM-BOOM Smitty! I just checked in at Shangri-La. What you got for me? (As BOOM-BOOM is speaking, YURT slips from behind the curtains and tiptoes toward the cosmetics case, which lies just outside BOOM-BOOM's line of sight. BOOM- BOOM's back is to YURT.) BOOM-BOOM (On the phone) Who? You say Henry Yurt? that piece of despicable shit. (YURT freezes.) BOOM-BOOM Sure I know him...A gonif. Used to be a jewel thief around Atlantic City way back when. The one likes to dress up like a girl? Seen him around the clubs in Vegas. Been working at the Kitty-Kat Room as a bartender last couple months. My club! Tony used to go there. Probably was mouthing off about the delivery and this prick overheard him. This person was one of my employees! One of my own people! And he took my money? Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't it company policy, any employee makes off with corporate funds, he ends up at the bottom of the river in cement Reeboks? (BOOM-BOOM is becoming increasingly agitated. YURT silently retraces his steps toward the balcony.) BOOM-BOOM (Continued) What's that?... The wise guys from Jersey already know about Yurt? ... They think I put him up to this? ...Make me happy. Have the boys locate this miscreant and get the money back.... I would like to hear that his body has been found in the desert of Southern California. And Nevada. And New Mexico. Have I made myself clear? ... And be sure you first cancel his medical benefits. (BOOM-BOOM slams down the phone and goes into the bedroom. In the Honeymoon Suite, there is a knock at the door and CORLISS and ZENOBIA enter. ZENOBIA carries the cosmetics case.) CORLISS (To TREADWELL) Sir, this is Miss Zenobia Birdsong. TREADWELL Come in and make yourself comfortable, honey. Have a drink. ZENOBIA No thank you. I'm on duty. I have an audition this afternoon. CORLISS (Solicitously) Perhaps a glass of milk, Miss Birdsong? Some fruit juice? ZENOBIA Thank you very... TREADWELL Beat it, Shaw! (CORLISS shows extreme reluctance to leave ZENOBIA alone with TREADWELL.) CORLISS Perhaps it might be better if I stayed. You recall what happened last time. The trouble with the State Attorney General because of that unfortunate incident at the Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred... TREADWELL Miss Birdsong and I want to be alone. Right, sweetie? Now get out of here! (CORLISS hesitates) TREADWELL You hear me? Get outta here! (To ZENOBIA) You have any idea how hard it is to get good help these days? (To CORLISS) Beat it, birdbrain! CORLISS Yes, sir. (CORLISS reluctantly exits.) TREADWELL Nothing to drink? We need to create a mood here. Perhaps I can find something suitable on TV. Let's hope they have modern, made-for- video material. I hate those old elitist films where people sometimes had clothes on. (TREADWELL examines the channel listings on the hotel TV guide.) ZENOBIA (Squinting) Have we met? TREADWELL In Las Vegas, last week. What about "Road House Harlots"? No? "Jurassic Hussies"? (ZENOBIA puts down the cosmetics case, takes a pair of glasses from her purse, puts them on and squints again at TREADWELL. While this is going on, YURT, in the Empress Suite, carefully steps out from behind the curtains and moves stealthily toward the cosmetics case.) ZENOBIA I remember you... TREADWELL What about "The Bitches of Madison County"? (YURT has almost reached the cosmetics case.) BOOM-BOOM (From the bedroom) What the hell! (YURT freezes.) ZENOBIA You suggested something improper last week at the Ding-A-Ling Club. TREADWELL You must have misconstrued my actions. ZENOBIA I don't think so. TREADWELL Sit down. We won't be disturbed.. (YURT moves cautiously toward the cosmetics case. There is a sound from the bedroom and YURT rushes to hide again behind the curtains just as BOOM-BOOM enters and goes to the phone.) ZENOBIA I told you last week in Las Vegas, I'm not that kind of girl. TREADWELL Yeah, right. ZENOBIA I'm an artist. (TREADWELL tries to press a drink into ZENOBIA's hand. SHE puts it down.) TREADWELL Whatever. Just relax, honey. ZENOBIA I got to go now. I can't be late for my audition. It's my big chance. BOOM-BOOM (On the phone) Hello! Front desk? TREADWELL I'll tell you something in confidence, girlie. I'm very tight with the management here. We're like that. ZENOBIA Really? TREADWELL If you want, I could put in a good word for you. ZENOBIA You'd do that for me? BOOM-BOOM This is Mr. McKool in the Empress Suite. ...Somethin's fishy here. There are clothes in my closet. Girl clothes. TREADWELL Why don't you show me your audition piece? I'm a great judge of talent. ZENOBIA (Doubtfully) I don't know. TREADWELL Maybe some strip action. ZENOBIA Oh no! I tap dance BOOM-BOOM Don't tell me that's impossible! My closet's full some broad's clothes. TREADWELL (Disappointed) Well, let's see what you can do. ZENOBIA You sure you wouldn't mind? (TREADWELL relaxes on the couch, glass in hand.) BOOM-BOOM You send that old geezer up here and get rid of these things. Unnerstand? TREADWELL Go right ahead, Honey. Show me what you got. (BOOM-BOOM returns to the bedroom. ZENOBIA places her cosmetics case on the floor, strikes a pose and does a brief tap dance number very badly. TREADWELL interrupts, clapping loudly.) TREADWELL Terrific, Honey! Really terrific! (Pats the sofa next to him.) Come on over here and sit down. Relax. ZENOBIA I told you before, I think you're a disgusting, sex-crazed brute. TREADWELL I can live with that. (YURT cautiously puts his head out from behind the curtain and surveys the scene.) ZENOBIA I've got to get to the audition. This is my chance of a lifetime. TREADWELL Miss Birdsong, I don't think you quite realize just who I am. I'm a member of the most august and revered body on earth. ZENOBIA You're a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? (YURT cautiously moves toward the cosmetics case. There is a loud banging on the door to the corridor outside of the Honeymoon Suite.) CYBIL (From Off Stage) Horatio! Open this door. It's Cybil. Open this door at once! (TREADWELL leaps from the couch.) CYBIL (Continued) Open this godamm door! Now! ZENOBIA What's going on? CYBIL I know you're in there, creep. Open this door! ZENOBIA Who's Cybil? TREADWELL She's... she's.. my secretary. CYBIL I've got a gun and if you don't open the door at once I'll shoot my way in. (TREADWELL grabs ZENOBIA and pushes her toward the common door between the two suites.) ZENOBIA Your secretary? TREADWELL She's here to take dictation. (YURT has reached the cosmetics case and is about to pick it up.) CYBIL Open the door now or you're dead! ZENOBIA She must be very devoted to her work. (TREADWELL unlocks the common door. YURT, hearing the sound at the door rushes back to the balcony. Just as YURT disappears behind the curtains, TREADWELL pushes ZENOBIA out of the Honeymoon Suite into the Empress Suite and slams the common door shut, locking the door but leaving the key in the lock. Zenobia's cosmetics case remains in the Honeymoon Suite. Simultaneously, BOOM-BOOM steps out of the bedroom and stops stunned to see ZENOBIA standing in his living room. Surprised, ZENOBIA lets out an astonished squeak.) ZENOBIA Eeek! (The door to Honeymoon Suite leading to the corridor bursts open and CYBIL rushes in, gun in hand. CYBIL crouches, pointing the gun at TREADWELL.) CYBIL OK, dickhead, where is she? TREADWELL Why, Cybil! What a pleasant surprise. (CYBIL still crouching and holding the gun on TREADWELL glances warily around the room.) BOOM-BOOM Why, ..eh .. Miss... Miss Birdsong. What are you doing here? ZENOBIA (Breathless) I have no idea. CYBIL Save the sweet talk, Horatio. You're dead meat. Where is she? TREADWELL (Innocently) She? Who are you talking about she? CYBIL (Screaming) The girl! The one you've been screwing. ZENOBIA (To BOOM-BOOM) Who are you? BOOM-BOOM My name is McKool. Boom-Boom McKool. Maybe you heard of me? (ZENOBIA shakes her head. She quickly takes off her glasses and puts them into her purse.) ZENOBIA You gave me quite a fright. I almost swallowed my gum. CYBIL (Continued) I've had it, Horatio. Twenty years you've been cheating on me. It's time for revenge! Sweet revenge. Blood-soaked revenge! TREADWELL You seem overwrought, Cybil. Bad flight coming out? (CYBIL, still holding the gun on TREADWELL, moves quickly around the suite, then goes into the bedroom.) BOOM-BOOM We've never met but I know you very well. ZENOBIA You do? BOOM-BOOM I've seen you perform at the Ding-A-Ling Club. I go every night you're on. ZENOBIA (Flattered) Oh, really? BOOM-BOOM I'm a great admirer of yours, Miss Birdsong. I followed your career ever since you arrived in Vegas. (CYBIL returns and slumps into a chair.) TREADWELL I told you there was no one here, Cybil. Now why don't you give me that gun, like a good girl. ZENOBIA 'Course I was only in the line and then only when one of the regulars got sick. (TREADWELL gingerly reaches for the gun. Hissing, CYBIL pulls away and glares at TREADWELL with fury. TREADWELL steps back, frightened.) TREADWELL That's OK, Cybil. You can keep gun if it makes you happy. BOOM-BOOM You were terrific in the line, Miss Birdsong. TREADWELL I don't know what could have made you think I was seeing someone else, Cybil. CYBIL I've had a private detective following you. He tells me you were seen in Las Vegas last week with some blonde named... named.. Zenobia. Do you deny it? ZENOBIA Did you see me in the Beauty and the Beast Act? BOOM-BOOM It was one of the most moving experiences of my life. TREADWELL It's all a misunderstanding. I was in Vegas on a fact-finding mission. CYBIL You told me you were here at Shangri La at a trade conference. (TREADWELL begins to move slowly, cautiously, toward the front door.) TREADWELL I am. I am. There's an international conference on pickle quotas going on right here at the hotel. CYBIL No one at the front desk knows anything about a pickle conference. TREADWELL It's very hush-hush. You know how international affairs are. (Looks at his watch.) My goodness, would you look at the time. I'm late for the brine committee. (TREADWELL exits hurriedly. CYBIL resumes her search of the suite.) END OF PART TWO ====================================================================== ======================================================================