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                 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
                                             
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                    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

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                  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.

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                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.

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                    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.
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