

                 FICTION-ONLINE

         An Internet Literary Magazine
               Volume 6, Number 1
             January-February, 1999



EDITOR'S NOTE:
     
     FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. 
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems.  Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
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                              William Ramsay, Editor
                                             
=================================================
 
                   CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors   

     Two Poems
          Tan Jen

     "Writers' Group," a short story 
          Jeanne Coutant

     "Fidel and Electronics," an excerpt (chapter 12) from
               the novel "Ay, Chucho!" 
          William Ramsay

     "Confidences," part 3 of the play, "Julie"
          Otho Eskin
=================================================

                  CONTRIBUTORS


JEANNE COUTANT, a native of France who has recently moved to
Washington, traveled widely as a child as a child with her diplomat
parents.  A travel writer by profession, she has retired and is currently
taking courses in both fiction and poetry.

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.. His play, "Season in Hell," recently had sixteen
performances at the SCENA Theatre in Washington.

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.  His play, "Revenge," recently received
readings by the Actor's Theatre of Washington.

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.
==================================================

                    TWO POEMS

                by Jeanne Coutant

                        
                    House

O house of dreams in you I stand awake
And breathe the subtle scent of time gone by
I reach to touch the memories never mine
I lean to hear the secret footsteps on the stair
When sudden sunlight dances through the door
And lets in echoes of the laughter 
I know that lying curled in sleep the dreams
That come are other dreamers other times


                    Ghosts   at Marguerite's House

Silent and gray, like wisps of smoke
They curl around the edges of a room
Deepening the hues of present time
With softer shades of memory
===================================================
                    

               THE WRITERS' GROUP

                by Jeanne Coutant


As Gary passed out the last piece scheduled for the evening's
discussion, Nancy bolted down the rest of the Chardonnay in her
lipstick-smudged glass and leaned forward in her chair, just enough to
offer a glimpse of well-tanned cleavage.  She touched Gary's fingers
softly while taking the papers, then waved her empty glass in the
general direction of Porter, the group leader.  Porter, however did not
jump up to offer another glass.  James accepted the papers absent-
mindedly, seemingly busy shuffling the other pages in his lap. 
Inwardly he was seething.  "That arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he fumed,
"he thinks he's such hot stuff, always showing off!" 

Jerry, her petite form etched sharply in black leotards and turtleneck,
was already perched expectantly as always on the very edge of her
chair.  She snatched the proffered pages with one hand and quickly
adjusted her overlarge horn-rimmed glasses before plunging in to the
first paragraph.  Next to her, Diana pulled the voluminous folds of
fabric which draped her very ample body to one side and quickly stuck
two fingers in the glob of melted Brie which was almost all that
remained of the evening's cheese and fruit tray.  A long term member
of the group, she knew better than to hope for another glass of wine
from Porter but had her eye on the one remaining pastry   however, it
was too far across the coffee table to reach.   Watching the blob of
Brie disappear into Diana's pursed lips, James was struck forcibly by
an image of her large, fleshy thighs spread open tantalizingly.  He
peered down at the piles of paper in his lap, aware that he had started
to harden slightly even as the thought of Diana's body filled him with
disgust.

Gary sank his long, lanky body into his chair and smiled amiably at the
group.  Even though he had just joined recently, he had never seemed
to suffer the initial reticence which so frequently afflicted newcomers. 
"You know, " he said, "I thought I'd try something erotic for this
exercise   there's a great market for this sort of thing.  I'll be
interested to see what you all think." Fury stiffened James's spine at
this remark.  "Fat chance that this bastard Porter ever make any money
on his writing!" he thought, as he attempted to scan the pages in front
of him. Porter tapped the edge of his pipe thoughtfully, cleared his
throat a little, and without looking directly at Gary suggested, "Why
don't we all take a few moments to look over the piece?" 

 Jerry of course had already read the few pages straight through and
made a few tiny notes in the margin.  Two bright red spots flamed in
either cheek, and she tapped her foot impatiently while the others read
through the piece. Even before Porter had time to offer his usual
overview, noting points of stylistic interest, she plunged in with a flood
of half articulated phrases, to the effect of "not erotic from the
feminine point of view", "strictly testosterone-driven", "compares
unfavorably with classics like "Story of O". Jerry's angry fusillade of
criticism completely disrupted James's reading of the piece.  Peppered
with phrases like "throbbing member" and "warm little mound", the
pages seem to send off sparks that further enraged him.  He glanced
sideways to sneak a look at Jerry's small, muscular legs and imagined
her tight little backside, so like a boy's.  "Wonder if she's really a dyke
  maybe all this stuff between her and Nancy is just frustrated lust!""
James tried as always to avoid looking in Nancy's direction but he
longed, just once, to tweak those erect nipples and grab her blonde
hair, forcing her head down, onto his "

 As Jerry warmed to her subject, Porter could see that Nancy was
unsheathing her talons in readiness for another of the cat fights that
seemed so often to characterize what he always hoped would be a
measured, nicely balanced assessment of strengths and weaknesses
without assassinating the author.  "Jerry dear, excuse me a moment,"
Nancy purred, "but I really have to disagree!  Just look at this
wonderful description of the heroine's sexual arousal, where he 's
talking about  that 'soft, tingling arc of desire beginning in her nipples
and radiating down to her warm little mound'"  She glanced archly at
Gary, crossing her legs to expose a long stockinged thigh under the slit
of her skirt, and laughed, "it's not only realistic, but it really turns me
on!"  

James's attention was riveted on Nancy as she sweetly demolished
Jerry.  When  she  licked her lips and shot that look of pure
lasciviousness straight at Gary, an X-rated image of Nancy kneeling in
front of him, licking those lips, and rubbing her nipples against his
thighs popped into James's mind like a firecracker.  However Diana's
large backside, swathed in fabric, momentarily blocked his view as she
lunged around the table to grab the last remaining pastry.  Through the
crumbs, she mumbled "you both have good points but as I see it the
essence of erotic writing is in the indirect, the suggestive, the allusive,
rather than the explicit   for example, language like "he thrust his
throbbing member into her wet pussy" is just a little too, ah, frontal 
 "  she drifted off in mid-phrase, looking hopefully at James as she
ambled back to her seat.  A new image of Diana came to focus in
James's mind, an image compounded equally of hope that she might be
an ally in his as yet to be declared war on Gary and the somewhat
exotic prospect of what lay underneath the long skirt as she settled
into her chair.

 He was suddenly aware of Porter, the peerless and always tactful
group leader, encouraging some comment from him.  He could feel the
thin film of perspiration forming on his upper lip, and tried to control
the shaking in his hands as he  stubbornly refused to offer the
thoughtful and reasoned comments on which the group always
counted. For a moment which stretched on an on, the group was
uncharacteristically silent.  Gary's smile never wavered but stiffened
slightly.  Jerry, frowning, foot tapping faster than ever, took refuge in
her third reread of the piece. Diana shuffled her chair slightly closer to
James's and gave him an encouraging little nudge with her knee.
Nancy arched back in her chair, so that her blouse stretched taut over
her nipples, just as James looked up, noticed the nipples, and blushed
to the roots of his hair.  Glancing at his watch, Porter cleared his
throat slightly and said, "Well, folks, we're running out of time for this
meeting, even though we haven't given Gary's piece the full attention
it deserves.  Why don't we break for tonight, and if anyone has any
further comments or suggestions for Gary, you can just e-mail them to
me or to him."

As the group dispersed, the words of a savage e-mail to Porter about
Gary's piece were forming in James's mind " no respect for literary
quality  prurient with no redeeming value, social or literary    
degenerates into nothing but soft-core porn   an insult to the integrity
of our group  if we are to adhere to our standards, we should insist
that Gary resign from the group   shocked at the low level of
morality exhibited here "  In the front hallway, he fumbled to help
Diana with her coat and said softly, "Why don't we work together on
a response for Porter   want to come by my place for another glass of
wine so we can plan something?"
================================================== 
                                
             FIDEL AND ELECTRONICS

               by William Ramsay
                                  
(Note: the is chapter 12 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!"


       As you can imagine, I was a bundle of nerves, waiting to see
what the  "monster carrot" was going to do about things like me and
Valeska and Paco and  the counter-revolutionary plot she had
discovered.  After Valeska left, I tried  calling Pepita at her hotel, but
she was out.  The next day, Monday, there was  still no answer at her
hotel.  At about 7:15 that night, as I came down the  avenue from a
stroll along the Malecon, I heard a "chh-chh" sound, the Latin  signal
for attention, from behind a palm tree just inside the playing grounds.  
I peered into the dark shadows from the faint street lights.  It was
Paco.  He  was wearing a disheveled blue blazer and an undone tie. 
"Chucho!"        
       I went over to him.  The dim orange light glistened on the sweat
on his  forehead.
       "They've arrested Duran."  Paco bit on his lip, worrying it.       
"Duran?"
       "Yes, they got to know something.  I'm dropping out of sight,
maybe I'll  get a fishing boat back to the States if I can find one. 
Watch yourself."        
       "It was a crazy idea."
       "I don't know how they found out."
       I felt uncomfortable.  "They know _everything_."
       "Keep working on it, I've left the explosives and the detonators in
a  safe place."
       "Not with my mother!"
       "No, no, Elena doesn't know anything.  We've got to protect
her."  He  wiggled his little mustache as if his words were paining him. 
I suddenly  missed my own handsome _bigotes_.  "Valeska's found a
safe place for the  stuff."
       "Valeska?  You trusted her with the stuff?"
       "She's a good kid, don't get jealous."
       "But Valeska?"  It was like entrusting a crystal goblet to a
two-year- old.
       Paco smiled.  His smile was always one of his strong points. 
"Tell  Elena I'll keep in touch."  He shook my hand, gave me a brief
but breath- stopping embrace, and stepped back into the shadows of
the palms and ficus  trees and disappeared.
       The next day I got a note from Pepita.  She had gone back to El
Salvador  on the 6:30 plane.  She said she hadn't mentioned my name
to the authorities in  her voluntary report to them on "you know
what" and told me to stay away from  counter revolutionaries and the
"hoodlum element."  Her prose was firm,  rational: 

       Felipe, those who aren't with us are against us.  My glorious
meeting  with Fidel has only strengthened my conviction that the
Revolution demands of  all of us the highest standards in public and
private life.  I don't go so far  as to criticize your conduct from the
point of view of bourgeois morality, but  I must confess to a certain
disillusionment on the personal level.        
     Remember also that the Counterrevolution operates through
sapping the  ethical fiber of the continuing struggle to achieve
Socialist Personhood.... 

She went on like that for another paragraph.  Then:

             I've given them that Duran's name and description.  But after
much soul-searching, I've given your friend Santos the benefit of the
doubt  -- he seems like an honest, well-meaning fellow -- not too
bright    though.  Maybe he was led on by this Duran type.

       After all that, her "_Salud_ -- _y_ _adios_" at the end was like a
vague  shadow of a peace offering.  If she hadn't mentioned Paco to
G-2, she certainly  hadn't mentioned me.  I thanked God or whomever
that I was apparently in the  clear in the Great Prison Break Plot.
       Provided Llemo Duran couldn't -- or wouldn't -- implicate me.      
 
       I had to go to Santiago for three days to give a lecture for
Comrade  Deputy Assistant Administrator Millan of the Latin
American Bureau of MINEXT  on "my work with the progressive
elements in the villages of the free zone of  El Salvador."  Maybe
everything was all right, maybe not, but I did more of the  usual
amount of looking over my shoulder as I strolled back from my
lecture  along the dark winding streets of the old colonial city.  When
I got back to  Havana, I stopped by the Club Pipi.  A man in a red
shirt stood across the  street smoking.  I glanced at him twice before I
went in, but he seemed to be  concentrating on his cigarette as if it
were a last meal.  Inside, Valeska  smiled at me and asked me how
things were with the "monster carrot."          "Valeska, I'm worried."
       "About what?" she said, leaning into the mirror in the half-cubicle
that  passed as a dressing room and sponging away at her French
pancake makeup --  another little gift of mine.
       "About the stuff," I lowered my voice, although only old Pancho
the club  factotum was around.  "The 'equipment' my friend Paco left
with you."        
       She pursed her lips as she scrubbed them clean of rouge.  "Your
friend  Paco's cool, I like him."
       "That's great, where have you got 'the stuff'?"
       "Don't worry.  Paco didn't squeal on you.  He said how much he 
appreciated your helping him try to get his brother-in-law out of the
slammer."        
       'Brother-in-law,' I thought.  "Of course I worry, if the secret
police  get onto that stuff, you'll be in deep shit."
       "No."
       "What do you mean, 'No'?"
       "I haven't got it any more.  Hell, I haven't got any safe place to
keep  anything like that."
       "You haven't got it?  But where is it?"
       "Pierre's holding it for us."
       Oh God, I thought, Pierre!
       "He said you had told him it was all right."
       I didn't bother telling her I hadn't even seen Pierre in over a
week.          She wiped cold cream on her face, massaging her cheeks. 
She glanced at  me.  "You sure look nervous."  She cleaned off one
cheek and pointed at it.        
       "No," I said.
       "_Un_ _piquitito_," she said.
       "No, not right now," I said.  "I've got to think!"
       "_Si_!  A little, little kiss."
       I gave her a little kiss.  She tasted of cold cream, sweat and lilies.  
     "Don't forget about the panty hose with the gold spnagles," she
said,  reminding me of another item on my dollar store list.
       The next week I spent fending off my mother's questions about
Paco.  And  her complaints about the time she was wasting in Cuba. 
Amelia had offered to  come down and help, but Mama had written
that it was pointless.          
      "Chucho," said my mother, "tell me that Paco is all right.  Please." 
          "Don't ask, Mother."
       A faraway look.  "I know I can't keep him away from the young
girls.   But still, I worry."
       "It's not that."
       "What is it?"
       "I can't say, Mother, I really can't say."
       And I really couldn't say where Paco was or what he was doing.   
    But in Friday's paper, I did find out what another one of my
"comrades"  was up to.  The Reserve Bank in Camaguey had been
robbed by  "counterrevolutionary elements, using arms supplied by
the C.I.A., the F.B.I.,  and Emir of Bahrein."  The outer wall and the
main vault of the bank had been  blown up, "probably by mortar fire." 
Elements of the Militia were being aided  by volunteers from the
Committees for the Defense of the Revolution in carrying  out
searches throughout Camaguey province.  A night watchman had
been slightly  wounded.  He said that the attackers, faces masked  in
stockings, had  brandished the clenched fist and that one of them, a fat
man, had shouted "Viva  'Co-po-quin'," or something of the sort.  I
didn't blame the newspaper editor  for not recognizing the name of the
great Russian theoretician of Anarchism,  but I for one now knew
where Paco's electronic detonators and plastic  explosives had ended
up after the failure of the prison caper.  At least I was in the clear
on the prison business -- or so I thought.   You know, sometimes
when I think everything is O.K., when I've had a close call  but have
come out all right, it reminds me of the day after I first went to bed 
with a girl.  I was fifteen, and I was sitting on the beach at Boca,
feeling  good about myself, about life, about everything.  It was a nice
day in  November, looking out toward the horizon, and getting this
calm but complex  feeling, like there was a sort of beauty that made
my mouth dry.  Like music or  poetry.  But behind the line where the
dark blue of the sea meets the pale sky,  I could feel a hint of sadness
-- as if it were all too good to be true.  And  life being what it is, all
too damn often it turns out to be exactly that way!        
       That's all philosophy, or whatever.  But the tall man with the
wispy  beard wasn't philosophy, he was flesh and blood.  Or rather, he
looked more  like a clothed skeleton, with his long legs spread out in
shiny black leather  trouser legs, arrogantly half-blocking the main
pathway from the door to the  reception desk.  I think, looking back,
that I  had half-noticed him around  town before, but there in the
lobby was the first time I got a good look at  him.  Moving to one
side half behind a pillar, I stared at him, trying to see  his eyes.  His
dark glasses had fallen down halfway along his nose, but he kept  his
head down over a copy of "Granma," and all I could see were his
eyelids.   G-2, I thought -- even though he wasn't dressed in bright
colors.  After me? I  wondered.  Maybe, I thought.  Even probably. 
But what could I do about it?        The old beach-horizon melancholy
welled up inside me.  I didn't sleep  well that night.  And the next day,
I felt tired and jumpy as I returned from  attending a meeting of the
Vedado Committee for the Defense of the Revolution,  the
neighborhood amateur spy network and social club, which had asked
me for a  lecture on guerrilla tactics.  (I had had to study up on the
works of Mao  Zedong.)  As I walked into the lobby of the
Presidente, a tall shadowy form  arose from the skeleton's chair in the
Presidente lobby.  But when he turned  into the light to face me, there
was no beard, no dark glasses -- it was Eddy  Paniagua.  God, I was
relieved.  I gave him a handshake and a sketch of an  _abrazo_.  I
found out he'd gotten a ride with a friend to Casablanca across  the
bay and had been waiting for me all evening.  I took him into the
coffee  shop and bought him dinner.  He ate fastidiously but steadily --
Cuban students  may get fed better than manual laborers, but Eddy
looked at his steak as if it  were a brand-new laptop computer.  He
gazed up at me  from time to time with  his large eyes.  I can only
describe the look as worshipful -- and hey!  Not  many other people
were worshiping me these days.  
       "How did you get here from Casablanca?"
       "I borrowed a bike, Doctor.  No trouble at all.  We Cubans have
to be  inventive."
       "God, Casablanca's miles away," I said.  I invited him to use the
other  bed in my room for the night.
       As I was getting undressed, I noticed that he was staring at me. 
Then  his eyes dropped as he saw me looking.   Kids and their
curiosity!  I thought  at the time.
       The next day, we did find a book, a kind of old one, on computer 
software, at the bookstore.  Then Eddy let it drop that it was his
sixteenth  birthday.  
       "Oh, your birthday!" I said, thinking fast.  An idea.  I asked him
to  wait for me and I went into the dollar store across the street.  I
found a  little Japanese notebook computer with a memory of 640
whole words, not much by  American standards, but to any Cuban
kid, a small marvel.  Anyway, I gave it to  him.  He stared a moment
and then grabbed me, leaning over and giving me a  really close
_abrazo_, caressing my back.  I wanted to say, thank "The Men" and 
the "Company," I'll put it on the expense account -- but I didn't.  His
eyes  filled up, he mumbled "Thank you, thank you."  The caress
continued, but I  broke it off.  Latin male bonding! I thought.
       I was in a good mood after Eddy left, cycling away, his legs too
long  for the bicycle, headed east down the Calzada toward the
harbor.  That night,  going for my customary walk along the Malecon,
I was making a resolution to get  together some more computer
references for the kid.  The night was moonless and  misty, the lights
along the Malecon shone dimly.  I was passing a row of  waiting
Turistaxis.  Suddenly I noticed a lighted cigarette and a flash of 
reflected streetlight from a pair of dark glasses on a tall form leaning 
against one of the taxis.  Back at the hotel, I walked upstairs -- the
elevator  wasn't working that night -- and sat down on the bed, wiping
the sweat from my  forehead.  I had no idea what to do.  I didn't know
where Paco was, I couldn't  get help from my mother -- I could only
cause trouble for her.  Pepita was back  in El Salvador and probably
wouldn't have helped me if she had been there.  How  about
Dominguez in Cayo Hueso?  Maybe.  But maybe all that would
accomplish  would be to blow Dominguez' cover -- the tall guy in the
dark glasses and his  friends could presumably follow me anywhere
they wanted to.        
       But suppose it wasn't me they were after?   Christ, I told myself,
I  could well be worrying about nothing at all.  So the next evening,
when  "shades" was back in his appointed chair in the lobby, I willed
myself to smile  jauntily as I approached the desk.  The respectful
voice of the reception clerk  saying, "_Buenas_ _noches_, Doctor
Elizalde," made me feel like a baby rocked  in the cradle of a secure,
respectably  socialist identity.  I was safe, there  wasn't anything to
worry about.
       Lots of luck, Chucho!  A few days later, I was scheduled to give
a  lecture to the Revolutionary Action Committee at the College of
Fine Arts --  Dr. Felipe Elizalde was getting to be quite a flexible
fixture on the local  lecture circuit.  The car that picked me up at the
Presidente at eight P.M. was  a Mercedes painted olive-green.  As I
got in, I stuck out my hand to greet the  short man, tieless in a dress
shirt and a pale gray suit, who sat on the edge  of the far side of the
back seat.  His handclasp was limp.  We moved out onto  the Avenue,
but then we turned left instead of right at the intersection with  the
Pinar del Rio road.  I started to say something, then I looked over at
the  round face of the little man.  He shook his finger at me and
smiled.  The car  accelerated.
       Uh-oh!
       Suddenly I had to piss like mad.  First I thought of forcing my
way past shorty to the car door and jumping out of the speeding
vehicle.  Then,  abruptly, I had an insane desire to lay my head back
against the old, moldy- smelling cushion of the back seat and go to
sleep.  In the wildly flapping  streaks of light from passing streetlights
and autos, the man's little round  face smiled faintly.  Something
clattered on the floorboards, and the short  driver reached forward,
picked up a Kalashnikov from the floor, and laid it  down on the seat
beside him.
       Shorty's smile was now wider and showed some gold teeth.  We
passed one  of the big red-and-white billboards that carried Party
messages  -- I could  make out as we passed some of the words of the
familiar message: "Cubans,  choose to stay in Cuba."  
       The car drove up an alley near the Old Town and stopped.  The
driver  jumped out, took the Kalashnikov by the barrel and, reaching
in, slapped the  butt into my thigh. From the other side, Shorty poked
me in the arm with a  sharp finger.  I got out.
       "_Amor_, _amor_, _amor_," crooned Shorty in a wispy tenor
voice as we  walked into a bare hallway and then through a door with
a small window set into  it into a box-like room containing only a
chair and a bucket.  The bucket was  stenciled with the letters
MININT.  Shorty frisked me, confiscated my pocket  knife, and then
went out, interrupting his singing long enough to slam the door  shut:
"_Amor_, _amor_, _eres_ _de_ _mi_, _eres_... SLAMMM.  I faintly
heard..  _de_ _ti_, _eres_ _de_....."
       I was in the cruel, grubby hands of Castro's secret police.        
       First I used the bucket, my urine splashing into a few inches of
clear  water on the bottom.  I sat down on the chair, my stomach
trembling.  Then I  got up and started to pace.  After what seemed
like an hour, I finally eased  myself onto the floor.  The adobe felt
cold and when I shuffled my body into a  more comfortable position,
something  sticky pulled at my trousers.  They  hadn't bothered to
take anything besides the knife: in the Bogart flicks they  always took
away your belt and shoelaces.  I took off my shoes and tried to  prop
up my head on one of them, twisting, trying to get comfortable.  I
took  off one sock and made a kind of sleep mask out of it.  But the
sock was hot and  smelled musty on my face, the bright overhead light
still shone in my eyes.  I  lay awake, thinking, feeling very alone and
very scared.
       Duran must have talked after all.
       Despite everything, I fell asleep.  The shaking woke me up to the 
brightness of the light, glowing with painful sharpness like the
pictures of  the sun after an eclipse.  Shorty stood above me, looking
tired too.  He  motioned for a guard in a blue uniform, who prodded
me to get up and follow  them down a corridor and into an office. 
Shorty sat down in a chair behind a  desk.  He looked very official, I
expected him to start shuffling papers or  something.  There was no
place for me to sit.  He looked at me expectantly,  raising his
eyebrows.
       "You don't seem to have much to say," he said.
       "I don't know what all this is about..." I started to say.
       He laughed.  He started to sing again: "_Y_ _tu_, _quien_ _sabe_
_donde_  _andaras_, _quien_ _sabe_..."  
       I had already recognized the old standard "Perfidia."  I found
myself  shaking my head, my eyes felt heavy, irritated.  "Come on,
what's going on  here?"
       "You tell me, Comrade Elizalde."
       His voice had dropped, he was no longer a would-be lyric tenor,
but he  pronounced the "Elizalde" without irony.
       "I mean..." I started to say.
       "Shut up."  He sounded peevish.  The narrow nostrils looked
reddened.        
       "I have an official status here..."
       He jumped up. "'Official status,' Oh aren't we important."  He
bowed at  me.  "How elegant!" he said.  I shook my head, I felt as if I
hadn't waked up  yet.  He took several large steps around the room,
took his pistol from its  long leather holster, and started to dance,
waggling his head like an irritated  elf.  "Of-fi-ci-al bu-u-u-ull-shit,
of-fi-ci-al bu-u-u-u-u-u-u-ull-shit," he  started singing, to the tune of
"Guantanamera."  He waved one hand like a  ballerina, the other
flopped with the weight of his automatic pistol, while his  head swung
and his body bounced to his own singing.
       The door opened.  Shorty's mouth stopped in mid
"Bu-u-u-ull-shit," and  he raised his head high.  A blue-uniformed
guard looked through Shorty as if he  were some kind of insect and
said, "Pineda wants to see him."          
       Pineda was the name of one of the chief officials in G-2.        
       Shorty raised himself even higher and said, "Elizalde, move!"  He
waved  the pistol at me.  Going out, the guard muttered "Cokehead"
under his breath.        
       We went up a set of whitewashed stairs.  Pineda had
solid-looking wood  furniture in his office.  He needed it, he must
have weighed 250 pounds, his  arms bulged out of his short-sleeved
uniform blouse, propped on piles of  papers, inundating them with
flesh.  He stared at me.
       "There's nothing to be said," he said.  He had buck teeth that
darted  out at every other word.
       "What?"  I said.
       "Don't talk, listen!"
       "Yes sir," I said.
       "Yes, _comrade_."
       "Yes, comrade."
       "But I forgot, you're not one of us, are you?"
       "I'm Salvadoran."
       He waved his arms as if he were warding off a swarm of bees. 
"Lies,  lies, all I get is lies."  He stroked his little mustache.        
       I said nothing, I wanted to think, but my mind seemed to have
slipped  gears.
       "The Cuban Revolution is one of the most beautiful things
produced by  mankind!"  He glared at me.
       "Yes, Comrade."
       "Don't say 'Comrade'!"
       "Yes, sir."
       "And not 'sir,' -- God, the ways of the bourgeois past are with us 
always.  How can we build a new society without a New Man?"       
"Yes, sir."
       "Shut up, shut up!"  He made a move as if to stand up -- I found
myself  wondering if his muscles could handle the task.  "SHUT UP!"  
     I said nothing.  I felt as if there wouldn't be much time left for me
to  say anything, ever.
       "_El_ _paredon_ is too good for you!"
       Oh shit, oh shit, I said to myself.  The phone rang.  He picked it
up.        "Yes, yes, Comandante."  He talked for a moment in
monosyllables, hung  up and pressed a buzzer.  "_El_ _paredon_ must
wait patiently for you, it  appears," he said and turned away to stare at
a photograph of Che Guevara on  the near wall.  A soldier in
camouflage came for me, clamped my elbow in his  fingers, and
guided me off down a darkened corridor, painted in what looked in 
the gloom like pukey olive-green.  Then into a small room.  There sat
Fidel in  an overstuffed chair by a small table piled with papers.  He
looked up from  under his thick brows and grinned.  I didn't like the
thin-lipped economy of  the smile.
       "Comrade Elizalde," he said.  The smile faded entirely.  "_Mr_. 
Revueltos."  He pronounced the "mister" as if it were evidence of
criminal  behavior -- which I guess in this case it was.  I wanted to sit
down badly, my  legs felt  heavy -- I also had a wild desire to urinate
again.  He rested one  hand on an automatic pistol lying next to some
papers and with the other waved  at the soldier to leave.  After the
door was shut, he told me to come up to  where he was sitting.  He
peered closely into my eyes.  His looked very dark,  like pools in the
mangrove forest of the Everglades.  He pointed a finger at a  straight
chair and I sat down.  He held out a box of cigars to me, looking 
anxiously at them -- I knew he had quit smoking, but he looked as if
the  addiction were merely lying dormant.  I declined.  He snickered. 
"Fedy  Revueltos' little boy," he said, rolling the phrase around with
his lips and  smiling oddly.  "A crazy man," he said.  He rehearsed the
story of my lawsuit  against the Cuban government, with a bare
mention of the outstanding  charges for counterrevolutionary
activities, fraud, and alienation of state  property.  He needn't have
gone into details, I remembered it all.  The need to  urinate suddenly
disappeared as if the liquid in my bladder had evaporated, or  rather
turned into a lump of metal under my navel. 
       I suddenly wanted my mother.
       I've never been one for suicide.  I don't know, I'm too chicken I 
suppose.  God knows I've felt bad enough about life sometimes --
doesn't  everyone feel at one time or another that there's no way out
but to open a  window on the tenth floor or so and lean out over the
ledge and just keep  leaning?  No, I never hope for death -- as a rule. 
But at  that moment with  Castro, I played hard with the wish that I
could do the job myself -- anything  but to be stood up against the
_paredon_ as an enemy of the Cuban state -- and  to suffer God
knows what grim games the G-2 creeps would think up for me 
beforehand.
       My head felt as if it were about to explode.  I stared at Castro,
seeing  his mouth moving but not hearing anything but a loud buzzing
noise, like a  swarm of hornets, with an occasional word like
"Revolution" and "crime"  appearing out of the background. 
Abruptly I noticed that he had stopped  talking and was looking at me
as if I had just dropped in from outer space.          
       "Electronics," he said, evidently repeating the word.        
       "What?" I said.  "What?  What?"
       He looked annoyed, he picked up a file folder and waved it at me
and  said that I was supposed to be an electronics expert.  I suppose I
qualified as  an expert in electronics, all right -- but at that moment I
would have admitted  to being a prima ballerina if that's what the big
man with the long wispy gray  beard wanted me to be.  "Sure," I said,
"Sure."
       He still looked annoyed.  "What kind of electronics -- be
precise!"  I  said TVs, VCRs, stereos, you name it, all the standard
items in a retail  store.  He raised his eyebrows, and I realized that
_no_ electronics store in  socialist Cuba -- if such a store even existed
-- would have as many different  kinds of merchandise as any single
row of  the white vinyl counters back in my  store in Miami. 
"Nothing special, you know," I said in modesty or terror.        
       "Could you get me one of the Philips DX-360 VCRs?"  I nodded. 
"With  stereo capabilities?"  I nodded again.  He started to discuss
television and  satellites, the role of video in the recent upheavals in
Eastern Europe.  My  stomach muscles were softening, and my
bladder started to ache again.   Somewhere inside a small voice was
wondering what the hell was this, was he  looking for a bribe or just
passing the time of day before my execution the  next morning, or
what?  But I said shush to that little voice as I concentrated  on
hanging onto the present moment, clasping onto the image of Fidel
sitting  there, blabbering on about Lech Walesa's TV image and
Havel's speeches.  My  throat was tight, my heartbeat felt irregular. 
My ass ached slightly from  being scrunched into the hardness of the
solid wood chair.  My body reassured  me I was still in this world. 
For the present.
       He stopped and raised a finger for emphasis.  The finger was very
large,  almost fat.  He said that the really interesting development was
the cellular  phone.  
       "Phone communications will replace speech, comrade -- Mr.
Revueltos.   All over the world people will soon use miniature
handsets, even ear-and-throat- sets -- everywhere, even at home."  He
laughed and said that even in bed  between a husband and wife...  
       He broke off, chuckling, and looked at me.  But when I tried out
a  smile, his face turned stern, puritanical.  The plump finger again. 
The  Russians, it turned out, had promised him some help in getting a
system -- this  was before the Soviet Union had cooled off so
completely on aid to its  Caribbean comrades.  But the engineer they
had sent had been incompetent --  worse, the Cubans had gotten the
idea that the Russians knew precious little  more about cellular phones
than they did themselves.  He stopped and looked at  me again from
underneath the gray-flecked bushy eyebrows.
       I said that the technology was relatively simple, but the systems 
problems, how to forward and relay the calls, required some analysis. 
We had  had some problems in Miami, I admitted, but we had solved
them.  He raised his  head.
       Him: You worked on these systems?
       Me (wondering if toe-dancing might really be coming next):
Sure, I was  involved.
       Him: Involved?
       Me:  Yes, I helped set up the south Dade County cells.   (Well, a
friend of mine had been on the staff of McGraw Cable, and he had
told  me stories about it, I _felt_ as if I had been there.  And I had to
learn  something about these things to help out the customers who
bought cellular  phone sets in my shop -- I mean, I knew
_something_.)
       Him: Good.
       Me (now catching on completely): Yes.
       Him: I'll need fast results.
       Me: Fast results?
       Him: They must be ready for the Latin American Rural Initiatives 
Conference here next month.
       The explosive feeling in my head now started to sputter and fizzle
in  all directions, like an uncoordinated Fourth-of July display.  On the
one hand,  I grasped immediately that I wasn't headed for the
_paredon_ in the near  future.  On the other hand, did I really have the
know-how to put together a  cable network for Fidel -- which is what
he obviously wanted?  And -- when and  if I succeeded in giving him
what he wanted -- what would happen to me  afterward?  I looked
into the gentle-looking eyes, with their deep lazy  wrinkles radiating
from the outer edges, and wondered about if any real  gentleness -- or
mercy -- lay in them.
       Fidel was famous for his enthusiasms -- methods of secretarial 
education, cassava cultivation, new types of flame-throwers.  I had
been  elected to provide him with a new toy.  The king must be
amused.  The aging,  long-bearded Merlin-King Arthur of Cuba.  But
what was the outlook for the  jester?
       He smirked.  "I'd like to see the Mexicans' faces -- they've been
having  a lot of trouble with the American consultant they hired!"  His
face grew truly  radiant.  He told me to keep my alias going -- it
would "reduce complications" - - to keep him or Pineda informed of
progress, to get started immediately, to  "redeem myself."
       "Maybe something can after all be done about your father, if
everything  works out," he said.
       Or maybe I could join him in La Cabana if everything went
blooie, I  thought.  Maybe "mercy" would mean prison instead of the
Wall, I thought.        
     I left feeling as if I had just pulled back from the edge of a
high  cliff above a deep river gorge -- but that now I had to cross a
swinging rope  bridge to get to safety on the other side.
       But first -- I needed to piss.
       How come Errol Flynn never had to piss?
=================================================

                  CONFIDENCES

                 by Otho Eskin

(Part 3 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg,
a new version by Otho Eskin)

CHARACTERS:

         MISS JULIE    White, early thirties, the only daughter of a
                "patrician" family in the deep south

         RANSOM   African-American, late twenties.  The family chauffeur.

         CORA     African-American, early twenties.  The family cook.


PLACE:

The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep
South. One door leads to the kitchen garden.  Another door leads to
Cora's bedroom.


TIME:

Sometime during the 1930's.  It is Saturday night    Midsummer's
Night (June 23).  At Rise  the sky, seen through the doors, is still
light.  As the play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again
with morning.


                     JULIE
                  (Continued)
You know, like they do in the movies.  With the pretty flowers and
the waltzes and the beautiful girl and her gallant.

                                  (Obviously
                                  uncomfortable,
                                  RANSOM takes JULIE's
                                  hand and kisses the back
                                  of her hand. Instead of
                                  letting go right away, he
                                  holds her hand, gently. 
                                  JULIE pulls her hand
                                  away, slightly flustered.)

                     JULIE
That wasn't so terrible, now was it? I do believe you are truly shy.

                     RANSOM
                    (Angry)
I think we better stop play actin'.  Right now.

                     JULIE
Why on earth would we want to do that?

                     RANSOM
We not in the movies.  Besides somebody might see us.
                        
                     JULIE
What if someone did?  Who cares?

                     RANSOM
People talk.  They already begun to talk...

                     JULIE
                  (Delighted)
What are they saying, Ransom? Do sit down and tell me what they're
saying.

                     RANSOM
They suggestin'... well, you know, they see someone like you alone
with a man like me, at night, drinkin'...they get ideas.

                     JULIE
What ideas?

                     RANSOM
You know ideas.

                     JULIE
Stuff and nonsense! We're not alone.  Cora's here.

                     RANSOM
She's sleepin'.

                     JULIE
I'll wake her then. (Calling out) Cora! Are you asleep? Wake up! 
She's dead to the world. Wake up, you silly girl!

                     RANSOM
                   (Angrily)
Let her sleep!

                     JULIE
                   (Offended)
Don't give me orders!

                     RANSOM
She been standin' all day at the cook-stove. Let her sleep.


                     JULIE
Yes.  Let's stay by ourselves.

                     RANSOM
You not like other ... other people...

                     JULIE
You mean I'm not like my father and other white people you've met.

                     RANSOM
I think you not like anyone I ever met.

                     JULIE
Perhaps I am different.  So are you.  I think we understand life better
than other people.  We know that life, people, everything is just a
bubble, pretty and bright, floating on top of the water  until finally it
bursts vanishes. 

                     RANSOM
I don' know what you talkin' about, Miss Julie.

                     JULIE
I used to have this dream. For years I had this dream. I'm on top of a
pillar.  I look over the edge and I become dizzy. I'm terrified of
heights. I know I have to get down but I can't jump.  But I can't stay
there either.  I want to fall but I can't. There's no peace for me there
  no peace for me until I'm on the ground.  Even then there's no
peace.  Not until I'm under the ground. Maybe not even then.  Have
you dreamed too, Ransom?

                     RANSOM
No, Miss.  Nothin' like that.

                     JULIE
Don't you dream at all?

                     RANSOM
I got dreams. Sometimes

                     JULIE
Tell me. 

                     RANSOM
I rather not...

                     JULIE
I want to know.

                     RANSOM
When I was a boy there was this old elm tree by the creek...

                     JULIE
I remember that tree.

                     RANSOM
Sometimes I dream I'm lyin' under that tree.  I want to climb to the
top an' look out to where the sun shines.  I climb an' I climb but the
tree trunk is thick an' smooth an' the first branch is very high.  I know
if I can just reach that first branch I can get to the top.  I haven't got
there yet. But I will, I can tell you that, even if only in my dreams.

                     JULIE
Do you believe in dreams?

                     RANSOM
My grandma used to say to me, if you want your dreams to come
true, you gotta sleep on nine Midsummer flowers tonight.

                     JULIE
Let's find out. Let's go into the garden.

                     RANSOM
With you, Miss Julie?

                     JULIE
Pick some lilacs for me.

                     RANSOM
I don' think that's a good idea.

                     JULIE
You don't think...? You don't think that I...?

                     RANSOM
I don' think nothin'.  But others will.

                     JULIE
What will they think, Ransom?  That you and I are having an affair?
You, the family chauffeur?  And me?  The daughter of the Judge? A
man known throughout the county as a hater of colored people?

                     RANSOM
People 'round here are ignorant.  They don' know no better.  They
think all kinds of things.

                     JULIE
And you're not like them. 

                   RANSOM    
I didn' spend my life in the fields.  I lived in the city.  I got some book
learnin'.  

                     JULIE
So you're a gentleman.

                     RANSOM
If you say so, Miss.

                     JULIE
What does that make me?

                     RANSOM
I s'pose that makes you a lady.

                     JULIE
Does a lady spend the night alone with the family's colored servant? 

                     RANSOM
No, ma'am.

                     JULIE
Maybe I'm no lady.


                     RANSOM
I can't say, Miss.

                     JULIE
Why don't we find out?
                                  (JULIE takes
                                  RANSOM's hand and
                                  draws him toward the
                                  door to the garden door.)

                     JULIE
You're trembling, Ransom

                     RANSOM
Miss Julie!

                     JULIE
Yes, Ransom?

                     RANSOM
I'm not made of stone. You'll be responsible if anythin' happens.

                     JULIE
What could you mean?  Responsible for what?

                     RANSOM
We not children.  We playin' with fire.

                     JULIE
Fire keeps me warm.

                     RANSOM
You can get burned.

                     JULIE
Are you going to burn me?

                     RANSOM
I'm a man an'...

                     JULIE
... and good looking. 

                                  (RANSOM tries to kiss
                                  JULIE; she steps back
                                  and slaps him.)

                     JULIE
How dare you!

                     RANSOM
                    (Angry)
This all a joke to you!

                     JULIE
I'm deadly serious.

                     RANSOM
You playin' games an' I too old for games.  Besides, yore kinda
games are dangerous.  If you don' mind, I think you better leave.

                     JULIE
Don't you dare order me!

                     RANSOM
I won' become one of your toys.  I'm better than that, Miss.

                     JULIE
Have you ever been in love, Ransom?

                     RANSOM
People like us we don' talk much 'bout love. 

                     JULIE
Did you ever want somebody so bad you could die.

                     RANSOM
Once. Once there was this girl   I wanted her so bad I got sick for
wantin'.


                     JULIE
Who was she? (Silence)  Tell me, who was the girl?

                     RANSOM
You can't order me to tell you!

                     JULIE
What if I ask you as an equal...?  What if I ask you as a ...friend? 
Who was this girl who made you sick for love?

                     RANSOM
You.

                     JULIE
That's ridiculous.

                     RANSOM
Yes, it is.  That's the story I didn' wan' to tell you before.

                     JULIE
Please tell me now.

                     RANSOM
You got any idea what the world looks like when yore someone like
me?  I was born not more'n a mile from here on the Larson land.  My
daddy was a sharecropper.  I was the youngest of seven brothers. 
One room.  No runnin' water.  No 'lectricity. A couple hounds an'
some chickens. There was nothin' there 'cept a packed dirt floor.  But
when I stood on the front steps of the house I could see the apple
orchard at the edge of the field where we worked.  An' beyond that, I
could see the Big House in the distance, surrounded by trees.  For me,
that was a Garden of Eden, guarded by terrible angels with flamin'
swords.  My mama tole' me never to go near the Big House.  But I
used to climb that ol' elm tree an' from there I could look at the house
an' garden.  For a long time I didn' go no nearer the house than that
elm tree.  But one day   I was still little   my mama took me with
her to weed the onion beds.  She was workin' just out there   in the
kitchen garden   an' I saw this wooden buildin' hung all over with
jasmine an' honeysuckle.  What you call it?  

                     JULIE
A gazebo.  We call it a gazebo.


                     RANSOM
I never seen nothin' like it. All painted white an' cream. It was the
most beautiful thing I ever 'magined.  After that, I used to come back
to the garden an' just look at the gazebo.  I didn' know what it was
for.  I jus' liked lookin' at it.  I'd watch people   white folks   go in
an' out.  Then one day, when I come to the garden there was no one
'round.  I snuck inside.  It was like I was in a dream.  It was like I was
drunk with the smell of the flowers, with the sunlight streamin' onto
the floor.  I don' know how long I stayed there. I 'magin it was a
couple of hours. Then I heard someone comin'.  Footsteps on the
gravel path.  I was young but I knowed that was no place for a
colored boy.  I was able to slip through a space in the floor an' crawl
out from under the gazebo an' hide in the honeysuckle.  From where I
was hidin', I saw a pink dress an' white stockin's. It was you.  I lay
there for a long time just lookin'. You sat on bench readin' a book. 
An' I looked.  You know what I was thinkin'?  What was goin'
through my head?  Why couldn' I visit this beautiful place and play
with this beautiful girl?  Why couldn' we be friends?

                     JULIE
Is that what all colored children think?

                     RANSOM
Yes!  They all dream that.

                     JULIE
It must be terrible to live that way.

                     RANSOM
That's right, Miss Julie.  It's terrible.  Much more'n you can ever
know.  A dog can play with you in the garden.  But not a nigger boy
like me. We not allowed to even look. The niggers are too much like
animals to 'ppreciate a gazebo on a spring mornin'.

                     JULIE
You mustn't talk like that.

                     RANSOM
Sometimes one of us gets the chance to change.  To stand up an'
walk heavy in the world.  I did.  For a while.  In Chicago.  For most
niggers, the mos' we gotta dream on is to look from a distance an'
hope we don' get caught. The next day, I got up early and washed an'
done put on my best Sunday clothes an' went to the front gate to the
big house down by the interstate an' waited.  In the afternoon I seen
you.  You was ridin' a horse.  You rode right by me an' never seen
me.  But I was happy.  I thought, if I die today I be happy.  After that,
whenever I had the chance I watched you, from a distance.  I knowed
we'd never be friends, we'd never play together. 

                     RANSOM
                  (Continued)
 I knowed I'd never be 'vited to sit next to you an' read a book. But
you meant somethin' to me. You meant there was another life. 
Somethin' better than a sharecropper's life, livin' an' dyin' on another
man's land. That's what I saw when I was watchin' you, Miss Julie.

                     JULIE
You're not like the others.  You speak well.

                     RANSOM
That's 'cause I listen... listen to white folks talkin'. That's where I
learned the most.

                     JULIE
You listen... to us?

                     RANSOM
Sometimes I think maybe there ain't that much difference between
people like you an' people like me.

                     JULIE
How dare you!

                     RANSOM
Remember, Miss, I see an' hear a good deal I not supposed to.  No
need to ack innocent with me.

                     JULIE
You're talking about my fianc‚, aren't you?  I saw you that day,
watching us. Pretending to work on the car. Watching us.  Well, he
was a terrible man   a brute.

                     RANSOM
I think you better go now.

                     JULIE
Go to bed on Midsummer eve? Nonsense! Let's go for a drive.  Get
out the LaSalle and drive me into the country.

                     RANSOM
I don' think that'd be a good idea.

                     JULIE
You sound as though you were afraid. Are you worried about your
reputation?

                     RANSOM
They's a lot of folks 'round here   I mean black folks as well as white
folks   who don' look kindly on seein' a black man out with a white
woman.  I don' wan' to get ridden out of this place on a rail, Miss.  Or
worse.

                     JULIE
You're exaggerating.

                     RANSOM
No, Miss.  Any number of black boys ended up hangin' from a tree for
less.  Yore daddy, in the old days, he put a rope 'round a lot of
niggers necks. He like to shoot me down like a dog if he knowed I
was even talkin' to you. He don' take kindly to uppity niggers.  Least
of all a nigger messin' with his only daughter. I 'spect he'd skin you
alive too.

                     JULIE
Don't you worry about my father.  I can handle him. Let's get the car
and go for a ride.

                     RANSOM
We both had too much too drink, I think. An' the music, it's gotten
into our blood.  Take my advice:  go to your room' get a good night's
sleep.  You'll feel better in the mornin'.

                     JULIE
Are you giving me orders now?

                     RANSOM
For your own sake, jus' go.  'Fore it's too late.  It's been a long day an'
we both tired.  When people tired they do dumb things.

                                  (The sound of music
                                  swells as musicians and
                                  members of the party
                                  approach.)    

                     RANSOM
                  (Continued)
                 (Very anxious)
They comin'. Lookin' for me an' Cora I 'spect.

                                  (RANSOM goes to the
                                  kitchen door and looks
                                  out into the garden.)

                     RANSOM
                  (Continued)
They comin' here!  You can't go through the garden now.

                     JULIE
Let 'em come in.  I don't mind. They're mostly my father's field hands.
They're our niggras.  I've known them all my life.  I know them all and
I love them.  And they love me...

                     RANSOM
No, Miss Julie, they don' love you.  Believe me, they hate you an'
everthin' you stand for.

                     JULIE
How horrible!  I never knew.

                     RANSOM
They comin'. We gotta get outta here.  We can't stay here in the
kitchen.

                     JULIE
The gazebo!  At the end of the garden.  We can hide there until they
go back to the barn.

                     RANSOM
Alright.  The gazebo.  But hurry. 

                                  (RANSOM takes JULIE
                                  by the hand and leads her
                                  quickly to the kitchen
                                  door.  JULIE looks
                                  around in panic; stops at
                                  the door.)

                     JULIE
Ransom.

                     RANSOM
Come on!  They' at the gate.

                     JULIE
I'm relying on you to behave like a gentleman.

                     RANSOM
Come on!  They'll see us.

                     JULIE
You promise you'll be gentleman.

                     RANSOM
I promise, Miss.  Now let's get outta here.

                                  (JULIE and RANSOM
                                  rush out through the
                                  kitchen door. The sound
                                  of the approaching
                                  musicians grows louder.)
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