FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 2, Number 3 May-June, 1995 EDITOR'S NOTES: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine published 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 ngwazi@clark.net ================================================================= CONTRIBUTORS CLAUDIA BOWER is the pseudonym of a prominent Washington legal consultant and former District of Columbia government official. OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington. His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the co-ordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. SUNG J. WOO is an assistant editor at IAEE Transaction and editor of the electronic magazine "Whirlwind." ============================================================== CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Stone, Gold, Water," poems Claudia Bower "The Picture's Past," fiction Sung J. Woo "Hieronmyus," an excerpt (chapter 6) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "State of the Art," short story Otho Eskin ================================================================= STONE, GOLD, WATER by Claudia Bower STONE Stone has weight, and heft. It matters. It can glitter too, and shine. When wet -- a moon or planet, red or yellow. It can have a molten core that hardens to a galaxy of stars. It thrusts to mountains. It shatters too, and wears away to prairie, meadow, beach or ocean floor. Stone knows the score but cannot breathe a word of this lest mountains fall or oceans drop away. It bears its inborn secret with still dignity and only hints on certain sunlit days or under hidden waterfalls the breadth of its discoveries. GOLD Gold bubbles up among mariposite and quartz in cauldrons of geologic lust and heat to harden green, translucent gray and gold. The gold pops up in veins that bend or fork, Not placid rock or sleepy undisturbed beds. The gold appears in fossil streams of change. WATER Wet black gleaming road -- Moons of streetlamps -- Stars of water dancing: We also shine in darkness -- and gleam and glow and dance in raining splendor. ================================================================= THE PICTURE'S PAST by Sung J. Woo The first time I saw him, he was sitting down on the ground, his legs pulled close to his chest, in the middle of the soccer field, alone. Normally somebody, usually Bo Mercer and his crew, was playing soccer or football, but not that day. Nobody was playing anything, so the new kid in school sat down by himself and looked at all of us through his two midnight eyes, eyes as dark as mine. "He's new," Gavin told me. There were three new kids coming into the third grade, and he was one of them. I was happy to see him because he looked like me. He had black hair like me, he had black eyes like me. Although our features did not exactly match up, before this new kid there was nobody else in all of Wayside Elementary who even vaguely resembled my Korean face, for I was the only Asian in the entire school. During that recess period, I played on the swings with Gavin. Gavin was my neighbor; his dad and my dad went bowling once a week, although it was Gavin's father who won the occasional trophies, never mine. Because Cindy Minkoff and Barbara DeLeon were each commandeering their own swings, Gavin and I had to take turns in one swing. But I didn't mind because when Gavin was swinging, I stared at the new kid. Even though I was too far away, I knew that he was looking at me, too, one pair of black eyes connecting with another. * * * My parents ran a restaurant, a Chinese-Korean-Japanese- Vietnamese restaurant, although they only knew how to cook Chinese and Korean dishes. They didn't care; nobody knew one dish from another, and it was better for business. Besides, there wasn't Asian cuisine for a radius of one hundred miles from our restaurant, so my parents had a monopoly when it came to Eastern cooking. My father insisted that I worked. He was big into that, making his kid work. If I had known about child labor laws, I would have gladly informed him of his torturous ways, but of course, I was too young and too foolish to know any better but to obey. When the yellow bus dropped me off in front of my house at three-thirty, my father would take me to the restaurant in his sedan every day, five days a week. I didn't do anything, really -- I mostly I hung out in the kitchen with my father and my mother. My only job was to set up the tables when the busboys took away the finished meals and cleaned off the tables. Four plates, four napkins, eight forks, eight spoons, and sixteen chopsticks. When it came to chopsticks, we didn't use the bamboo kind; instead we used fancy lacquered ones with designs and Chinese letterings. They were such a hit that during our grand opening, everyone who came in bought a set. It made my father very happy. * * * When school was over that day, when I was dropped off at the bus stop, my father was of course waiting for me in the car. I got in. I told him about the new kid in school, how he looked like me. "Can you describe him, son?" he asked, so I did. "But he didn't look like you or me, right," he said, not a question. Then he thought about it for a bit and said, "He sounds like an Indian." That's what he looked like, and I felt stupid for not realizing it myself. "Like the ones on TV, in those cowboy movies, right?" He nodded his head and kept his eyes on the road. It was going to be another boring night at the restaurant, setting up places after places for the customers. At least that's what I thought. For the second time that day, I saw the new kid at school, the Indian. He was wearing the same clothes he wore for school, a gray sweatshirt with a hood and a pair of jeans. With him were his parents, I guessed. His father had long black hair that was braided a few twists at the end, tied together with a thin red band of cloth. His hair was longer than my mother's hair, which hung a shade below her armpits. The new kid's mother also had long hair, but she let hers flow all the way down to the small of her back. She also carried a baby in her arms, wrapped up in a white blanket. It was crying in little bursts when she came in, but she hushed it by rocking it to sleep. My mother led them to the far end of the restaurant. A few adults snatched little glances at them as they walked past them while the kids my age stared at them. They sat down and ordered dumplings, General Tsao's chicken, and beef lo mein. "It's him," I told my mother in the kitchen. "He's the new student in school." "Cute baby boy they have," she said. "They seem like nice people. If he's smart, make him your friend." That was my mother's big thing, that I should only have smart friends. She drilled that into my head, that I could learn nothing from stupid friends, nothing that matters, anyway. I thought she was wrong, but of course I never said anything. She was very adept at making me feel guilty whenever I disagreed with her. I stood at the front desk and looked at them. They were like I've never seen before, they were Indians. I only saw them on TV, in those John Wayne movies where he would sometimes beat them up with his bare white fists. In those movies they never had a shirt on and they always had streaks of red paint on their cheeks -- and they were always howling some wild rebel yell on their untamed, fiery horses. Again, our eyes met, black to black. He was small for his age, I thought. I wasn't exactly King Kong, but I was considered a normal-sized third grader. His shoulders were delicately narrow, his face missing the remnants of baby fat. He looked older for his age yet small for his age, a queer kind of combination that made you wonder. When they were leaving, I waved him goodbye, and he waved back. * * * I don't know how kids become friends, but I think that's exactly what we became. I invited him to play second base in kickball in recess, and he agreed, although a bit reluctantly. He was quick to throw the ball and even with that small frame, he could kick a ton. We were assigned the same teacher, so we spent a lot of time together. His name was Simon, which didn't seem like an Indian name to me, but then again, my name was Martin, so I really didn't have a leg to stand on. We were both a little surprised to have American names, I guess. Maybe I was expecting Sitting Bull and he was expecting a name that sounded like a wind chime. He was a phenomenal artist. When I was still trying to understand the idea of perspective, he was plotting against it, subverting it. It was like comparing a bicycle to an airplane; Simon literally flew while everyone else waved at him on the ground. I can still remember the portrait he drew of one of his ancestors, a Mohawk warrior named Red Cloud. It scared the hell out of me because the man wasn't screaming and his mouth was closed and rigid and he had no warpaint on his cheeks and no outrageous feathers sticking out of his head but he scared me because he was just a person and he looked like, he was, a warrior. But the reason why I really liked Simon because he wasn't a very good student. While the thought of not doing homework never crossed my mind, Simon sometimes came into class without it. When Mrs. Reitmeyer asked him about these missing assignments, he simply told her that he didn't do them, and that was it. What else was there? He didn't have an excuse, he simply didn't do them. I guess she called his parents, maybe, but nothing ever happened to him. He did some homework, didn't do other homework. After a while, I realized that most of the homeworks he skipped were in History. * * * "My father tells me that the history we learn in class is not fair to our people," Simon said. I told him that I didn't understand. "He tells me that the Europeans, the English, all the white people didn't understand our way of life." I still didn't understand, but I nodded. "Even though we live here, this really isn't our home anymore." So I thought about my situation. My parents moved from South Korea when I was three. Then they settled here, in the United States of America. But they weren't thrown out of their land. They left willingly, because they wanted to. That was not the case with Simon's people. Although we had the color of our eyes and our hair in common, that's where our river of similarities ended and the vast valley of differences began. * * * He was the most generous person I'd ever encountered, and the person most in tune with nature. Even in third grade, I realized that there was something special in his ways. If he liked you, he would give you anything you needed. Even when it came to simple things like sharing cookies or letting someone else play a game. Monopoly was one game that I never wanted to play with Simon. He, myself, and Gavin played once, and only once. He did very well for his first time playing the game, buying up all the utilities and many houses. He did so well in fact that I went bankrupt much sooner than expected. "I guess I'm out," I said sheepishly. "You're really good at this, Simon." "No, you're not out," he said with a smile. "Take some of my money. Let's keep playing." I've had many people do the same, even my own mother when we as a family played. But she would sacrifice herself to make her son happy. I didn't feel anything like that here, not at all. Simon simply gave because that was his way and he didn't know otherwise. That was how he was taught to live. He didn't give me the money to make me happy or to make himself happy, a kind of a self-gratification. He simply gave because that was how it was always done with friends. That attitude also reached into the world of animals. One time, we were outside in one late autumn afternoon, the leaves in that transient stage between turning to that last color and falling to the ground. "Look at that squirrel," I said, pointing at the little furry thing with a bushy tail running frantically gathering nuts. "He's preparing for the winter," Simon said, and rolled a nut that was near his foot to the squirrel. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal, but even as a dumb kid in third grade, I had felt the difference. Of course, there were people who would have done the same, but not because they considered the squirrel a friend. That was the feeling I got when he said those words and rolled that nut, that Simon considered the squirrel a friend. Years later, I was to witness an animal-rights rally. Although I didn't participate, I watched. And the more I watched, the more I realized the difference in ideal between what Simon believed and what these people believed. Simon put the animals at the same level as himself, that the animals deserved respect and kindness because we were a part of them and they a part of us. But even that is my own interpretation. When it came down to it, there were no levels between animals and humans in Simon's eyes. Like his concept of giving, he was simply raised to believe that there are no levels separating living beings. I did not get that feeling from those animal activists. How could you when they had pickets with sayings like "Animals are People Too"? * * * There were days when I just listened to him, listened to him talk about the stories his father told him. During recess, instead of playing kickball or throwing a frisbee around, he would tell me about some Mohawk legend that was passed to him. Although I found these stories to be boring, I was fascinated by his storytelling ability. His voice would change when he was talking through a different character. He would delay saying some things to create a sense of drama and melodrama; he would ham it up, he would tone it down. A lot of the stories were about nature and sharing and praying to various gods. Some were about the World-Maker. I didn't really care what he was saying as long as he was saying it. For all I cared, Simon could have been talking about the significance of shoe sizes and I would have still listened. I wasn't the only one who listened, either. It wasn't long until other people, even stupid girls like Cindy Minkoff and Barbara DeLeon came to listen instead of swinging on their selfish swings. And instead of the increasing crowd making him tense or nervous, Simon seemed to get more energetic, more fantastic in his tales, as if he was receiving and giving back the spiritual force of those involved. But something else happened, too. I was jealous of him knowing so much about his past while I knew nothing. There were over five millennia of South Korean history and my father had told me none of it. * * * "Dad," I said. "Hmmm," he said, his eyes still glued to the newspaper pages. "Dad, I want to know about South Korea," I said. "What's there to know, son? You were born there, left when you were three." "No no no," I said. "I want to know about the five thousand years of history." "All tonight. You want to know all of it tonight." "Yes," I said. He folded his paper and looked at me. I didn't know if it was admiration for my thirst for knowledge or realization of his son's horrendous stupidity, but he smiled at me and told me a few old tales. I was never sorrier in my life. My father may have been a provider, a dad, and a husband for my mother, but a storyteller he was not. It was like listening to some voiceover of a PBS documentary on rice paddies. * * * Why Bo Mercer never picked on me was something I never could understand. I always did better than him in third grade, I ran faster than he could, I did everything better than he could ever hope to. And, I was different. I looked different than anybody else, which by itself should have given the class bully something to chew on. But he never touched me, physically or mentally. He wasn't buddy-buddy with me, either, but it was as if he and I were living in a different level, that I was invisible to him and he was invisible to me. Unlike the classic bullies, he picked on anybody he felt like picking on. It wasn't always the smaller guy or the geeky guy, it was anybody. And one day, just out of the blue, he set his sights on Simon. There was something fierce about Mercer, the way his fine blond hair would fall over his face, or the way he would strut around in recess. When he and his crew decided to pick on you, it made your life very hard. I knew because Gavin had been one of those people, and they broke him down to tears on several occasions. It was a relentless type of bullying treatment that he gave to Simon. He would push him and trip him, sprawled him on the ground. He would throw his books across the hall. He would call him names like "Chief Pow-Wow" and "Injun Joe." But Simon never fought back. * * * It was the first day of December. Christmas seemed to be approaching us in light-speed, and winter vacation, too, for that matter. We were in third grade; we were young enough to still appreciate the magical qualities Christmas and winter vacation promised, young enough to feel instead of understand. I got off the bus and started for the school doors. But when I looked, I saw Bo Mercer and his gang run up to Simon and smack the books out of his arm. The pencils and erasers from Simon's bag also broke, spilling everywhere. I walked up to him and began to pick up the things silently. I didn't know why Simon didn't fight back. Mercer looked mean, but I had a feeling that if Simon got serious, he could maul him into submission. The way he kicked those kickballs, I could easily see Mercer doubled up on the ground, holding onto his stomach in pain. I wanted to help him, but fighting someone else's battle was worse than not fighting at all. At least that's what I told myself -- and it was true to an extent. Every boy or man is supposed to fight his own battles, and it was really none of my business to come between Mercer and Simon. But there was also the selfish undercurrent of fear that ran through my own youthful subconscious. What if Mercer were to come after me when he got through with Simon? If I were to intervene, wouldn't our secret and silent pact of mutual nonrecognition be null and void? So I said nothing and helped Simon pick up the rest of the stuff. He also brought in a whole bag full of crayons and other art material that day, and all those had spilled, too. "Why did you bring the crayons?" I asked. "We just finished that art homework yesterday." "I'm going to draw something in recess outside," he said. "Outside? It's cold," I said. "It's going to get warm today, much warmer than now," Simon said, putting the last few things in his bag. "You should help." I shook my head. "You know I'm not really good at art." "Who cares? I'm going to be drawing, and I wish you would help me." I shrugged. If he wanted his masterpiece to have a blemish, so be it, I thought. * * * So it was Indian summer; Simon couldn't have been more right. After the initial chill of the morning, the day was warming up. I took off my sweater and went outside in my t-shirt, and everyone else did the same. We all thought that the kickball had retired for the year, but it wasn't so. Gavin and I went into the gymnasium and got the red rubber ball to play. I looked around for Simon, but he was nowhere to be found. It felt good to play outside again. Ever since the middle of November, not too many people left the school indoors. Everyone was smiling with warmth and freedom on their minds. Then, in the distance, almost like that very first day that I saw him, Simon was at the opposite side of the school. He was standing in front of the west wall of Wayside Elementary, which curiously had a long, white sheet of paper running across it. We all stopped playing and looked. I was the first to leave the field to approach him. Soon everyone else followed. This was what Simon was talking about earlier, which I had completely forgotten until I saw it. The white sheet, which was actually cloth, ran the entire length of the wall. "Was this what you were talking about?" I asked him. "Yep. It's for the Holiday Fair. The school asked me if I wanted to paint something for it, so I said yes, but only if everyone was allowed to do it with me." Sitting near him was a huge box filled with crayons, markers, and other items in the artistic arsenal, certainly enough things that we could all simultaneously participate. Then he started to draw with black chalk some outlines. In the beginning I had no idea what he was drawing. We were all mystified, a bunch of little kids surrounding one little kid, looking and searching for the picture's meaning. Simon drew fast and furious, his small hands moving around and over, and then someone in the crowd realized something very peculiar about the picture. "That looks like our town," he said, "but it's not our town, is it?" "It is our town," Simon said. "Then what are those really long houses? Those aren't there now," a girl said. "That's what this town used to look like hundreds of years ago, before George Washington and everyone else," Simon said, still intently drawing. It was going to be a glorious picture. Drawn from the view of the town from Dickson Hill, the painting spawned these grandiose, long houses with the rolling hills and faraway mountains stabilizing the background. "There were only Indians before George Washington," the girl said again, "and they lived in tepees." Some other people giggled at that, probably conjuring up images of the John Wayne Indian, complete with warpaint and wild shrieks of fury. "My people lived in long houses like these," Simon said. "We called ourselves Haudenosaunee, People of the Longhouse. We didn't live in tepees." "Ho-do-nee what?" someone said. "Hau-de-no-sau-nee," Simon said, more slowly. "I need some animals on the ends of this thing. Does anybody want to do it?" "But it's your drawing," the tepee girl said. "I don't want to mess it up." "You're not going to mess it up," he said, and gave her a bunch of crayons. Slowly, one by one, we took up our instruments of art. It wasn't long until everyone had a chalk, pastel, or crayon in their hands, drawing animals and other stuff. In my little corner, I drew a pink flower and the South Korean flag. "What's that?" Simon asked, peering at my feeble attempts at drawing. His face was full of energy, he seemed to radiate a kind of a glow. That's how he always was whenever he was doing anything related to painting. "It's the Korean flag," I said. "And the national flower under it. It's pronounced moo-goong-hwa in Korean. It's called the rose of Sharon in English." He smiled at me and said, "That's great!" He then went back to work. We were at it for the entire period of recess, it seemed like. And we still weren't done when the bell rang. * * * Simon and I were walking side by side as we were dismissed from school, but before we could go too far, someone stopped us. He stopped Simon and told him to look at what someone did to their mural. Someone had written in thick black marker the words "I HATE INDIANS" all across the mural. There were other nasty writings, too, but that one stood out the most. It was Bo Mercer, no doubt. Who else would do something so cruel? Simon walked up to the mural and stared at it, and that's when he came from the side and shoved Simon hard to the ground. Mercer. "Come on, Indian, why don't you scalp me? Huh?" he said, his eyes sparkling. When Simon got to his feet, he pushed him down again, but Simon didn't go down this time. He kept his balance and stood his ground. He looked at him without saying a single word. Then Mercer just exploded. He started with a punch to Simon's stomach but didn't stop there. He was throwing punches and slaps -- but Simon still didn't go down. It only angered Mercer. He tackled him, and they were both on the ground. Mercer got on top of him and sat down and started slapping him and punching him. Simon tried to block the blows, but Mercer didn't care. He threw his punches wild, and some of them connected. I saw blood coming out of Simon's nose. And nobody did anything. Someone eventually got Mrs. Reitmeyer, who got Principal Williams, but it seemed like forever. It seemed like Mercer was beating on Simon for hours, and nobody, including myself, did anything but watch. When Principal Williams took hold of Mercer and led him away, everyone else left as well. School buses were lined up and waiting to take them home. I didn't go home. Father was going to have to go to the restaurant without me that day. Mrs. Reitmeyer asked Simon if he was okay, to which he nodded. She then went to get the nurse. Why didn't I kick Mercer in the head when he was on top of Simon? Why didn't I get my books and slam him on the head with them? I felt like a total coward, and I didn't want to meet Simon's eyes. But then I looked up -- at the wall, at the mural -- and it was gone. There was no wall. There was no Wayside Elementary School. The entire building was gone. Instead, a long house was in its place, made out of infinite logs, stretching for miles onward. I couldn't see the end of the house. It just ended, it seemed, to a point on the horizon. Standing in front of one of the doors was Red Cloud, his arms crossed, the muscles in his arms stone-cut, like his face. He looked even more menacing in person. And sitting in front of him was Simon, who was fine, not a scratch. I sat down next to him. I had to sit down. "You look worse than me," Simon said, smiling. ================================================================= HIERONYMUS [An excerpt from "In Search of Mozart," a novel: chapter 6] by William Ramsay The old Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, Sigismund, was dead. Long live Fuerst-Erzbischof Hieronymus, Count Colloredo, formerly Bishop of Gurk, the new monarch of the small independent archbishopric. The new ruler was his father's new boss and now Wolfgang's boss too: he was given his own position. "Concertmaster" to the court, at a measly salary of 150 gulden a year -- about the cost of a two new silk moire suits. And His Grace deigned to commission an opera from him -- "Il sogno di Scipio." "He's a stupid know-nothing!" he said to his father. "He may be," said his father. "But you'd better be both honored and grateful." "'The Dream of Scipio'! No, 'Mozart's Nightmare.'" His father made a face. Wolfgang put his feet up on the new red wool hassock in front of the fire. It was a cold March in Salzburg, there was dirty slush on the ground, and their shoes had become soaked in the walk over to the Residenz. He took off his wig and began idly to twirl several stray locks of his golden hair. "He's a grim-looking fellow, isn't he?" "Yes, not much sense of humor, I'd say." "Maybe I'll tweak his nose a little with this one." "Not when we need the money. Keep it inoffensive." "How could you offend anyone with a Metastasio libretto?" "Not easily," said his father, smiling. "Not unless the shepherds drop the shepherdesses and take out after the sheep!" "Wolferl!" His father's eyes widened. "I'm surprised at you!" But his father had to bite his lip to hold back a smile. "Maybe," he said, "that's why the shepherds wear those fluffy white periwigs!" Wolfgang smacked the uneven wooden table with his hand. "Currying favor with the ba-ba set!" His father tittered and pressed his lips together. "The Dream Of Scipio" was well-received. And the following autumn, the Archduke Ferdinand commissioned another opera from him for the Milan carnival season. "Lucio Silla" turned out to be a success -- naturally, thought Wolfgang. The impresario made a good deal of money out of it. Good for him! He himself got a new gold watch from the untidy hands of Count Carlo di Firmian. Add it to the collection in the closet upstairs. Shit! Besides, when he had returned from Milan, guess who had a new boyfriend? Right! Barbara von Moelk. It was spring now again, and he was seventeen years old. He sat on the pierced stool in the privy thinking. God, it was cold. He'd even lost his morning hard-on in the chill. Meanwhile Papa was driving him crazy pushing him to find a new position, a real job, not like being a junior hanger-on at the brilliant court of the Fart-Assbishop of Salzburg, prince of the ignoramuses, tone-deaf patron of the musical arts! *** In his book-lined study on the second floor of the thirty-room baroque Residenz, Prince-Archbishop Hieronymus was talking to Count Felix Arco. The Archbishop, with his slender, wrinkled face, sat in a tall-backed chair, gazing with a brooding expression down at the sloping mound of his belly. He looked first up, at the Rottmyer ceiling frescos of prancing horses, and then across the table at his chamberlain, Count Arco, whose face feigned polite expectation. "I'm a churchman, Felix," said the Archbishop. "And, I admit it, perforce a politician. I'm not a genius, I never said I was. I'm not even that proud of the little scholarship I possess. I know my place -- it's a humble but an honorable one." Count Arco, sixty-one, was a large, globular man, with a prominent belly and gigantic arms and legs that bulged over the tops of his breeches and stockings. He said "Of course, nobody would ever question that, Your Grace." "Then tell me, why am I faced with all these problems with this Mozart boy? He's a pleasant enough fellow sometimes, when he wants to be, but you can't tell him anything. Spoiled rotten. Arrogant. Is his music all that wonderful? I wouldn't know, people tell me it is." The Count raised his eyebrows. "He's very imaginative, full of ideas, always has been," said the Count. "I've known him since he was a baby." "'Baby,' indeed. 'Baby'! I don't care how wonderful he's supposed to be! 'Baby' had better learn some manners." "I'll say a word to Bullinger, Your Grace, maybe he can talk to little Wolferl." "'Little Wolferl!' Ugh! Everybody still treats him like a pampered infant around here. And I'm sick of it, do you hear, Felix, sick of 'geniuses'!" Count Felix Arco looked resigned. "Yes, Your Highness. Many people around here have been getting sick of Kapellmeister Mozart and his patented litlle genius for some time now." *** A few days later, Wolfgang was walking through the Domplatz when abbe Bullinger stopped him and told him what they had been saying about him at the Residenz. "What, me, arrogant, Abbe?" said Wolfgang. "I take people as they come, I pride myself on it." "Wolferl, be honest, how about the remark you made yesterday to Brunetti from the Court Orchestra?" "Oh," said Wolfgang. He lowered his head. "But I only said something to him about keeping the tempo, it wasn't anything about the Archbishop." "Apparently you said, 'Those were all lovely tempos -- why don't you try picking out one of them and see if you can hold onto it?'" Wolfgang laughed. "Really funny, Wolferl. And then you added something like, 'That bunch up at the Residenz has enough trouble with one tempo, we don't want to tax them unnecessarily with two or three.'" Oh, well, what the hell." "Be careful, Wolferl. This is a small town, these things get around." "I suppose." Oh God, Salzburg. Small town is right! Arrogance? What else is keeping me sane? After sitting on the Empress' lap and being knighted by the Pope, is this finally the dungheap of my destiny that Padre Martini described so poetically to me? That night as they sat at the table after dinner, he talked to his father about the conversation with Bullinger. His father made a face and poured himself another glass of port. "I've been aware of the problem," his father said, his face grim. The next morning his father told him to pack his things for a trip to Vienna -- the Archbishop had just left for a visit to Rome and it gave them the opportunity to make a desperation attempt at a position for Wolfgang at the court of the Hapsburgs. *** Two weeks later, on a hot day in August 1773, a small, elegant coach bearing the arms of the family of Hapsburg-Lorraine moved at a slow trot through the lindens, pines, and oaks of the Vienna Woods. The day was bright and warm. The shade of the trees felt good to the Emperor Joseph after the hot ride from Schoenbrunn Palace. He tapped on the roof of the coach to signal the coachman to slow down. As the driver reined in, the front left horse stumbled. The coach lurched. His mother caught at him to support herself. "Are you all right, Mother?" "Yes, fine. That wasn't anything. I've been through much more than that in my life, son. Besides, I've got so much padding these days," she said, pointing to her stomach, "that I'd probably just bounce if anything happened to the coach." "Nothing ever frightens you, Mother." "Well," she said, raising her double chins high, "I try not to let the little things bother me. And I have my son and co-regent to help me with the big things." "Of course, of course." He looked out the window as he saw a young doe, still partially spotted, flash from behind a thicket and down into a grove of spruce trees. "I'm so glad you were able to join me today," his mother said. "It means so much to me. Next week, it will be eight years since he left us." "Yes, it seems like yesterday." He pushed aside a wave of sadness, and instead thought about how his father had enjoyed cutting him down to size. "Your father was a good man. Not a good politician, but he had a good heart." Which he gave to a good many other women, thought Joseph. His mother passed her hand over her brow. She smiled, and for an instant looked much younger than her fifty-five years. "You've been much more energetic than he could have been, but of course that wasn't his job, it was my job to govern, and I did." "And you did well. You saved the Empire." "Yes. Palffy and Kaunitz -- they and I -- saved it from that man. And now, son, we've stooped to acting in league with Frederick -- and that unspeakably vicious woman in St. Petersburg -- to rob our neighbors of their territory." Joseph started to speak. She waved away his objection. "I'm sorry, I know I agreed, it was necessary, but I've never felt quite right about it!" Maria Theresa clasped her arms across her large bosom and frowned. "It was either going in with them on the partition -- or letting Russia and Prussia take everything." "I know, I know. But two wrongs has never made a right." "Maman, the Polish government has gone downhill so badly, Galicia is better off in Austrian hands." "'Austrian hands'! Yes, Austrian, and Hungarian and Bohemian and Croatian and Italian -- and now we'll have Polish and Russian 'hands' as part of this empire. Hands, all stretched out for money and special privileges. God help Austria." Joseph felt his stomach was becoming upset. "Times have changed, Maman." "Right and wrong haven't changed, robbing your neighbors isn't right, leaguing up with scoundrels and whores like Frederick and Catherine will never do us any good. Never! Look what has happened. We have a new province. Wonderful. But look at what we also have. Instead of a single weak Polish state on our northern frontier, we have one even weaker Poland plus two new strong neighbors." She sighed. "And to think that for this I had to ask Toni to speak a courteous word to Louis' whore, that du Barry woman. Everybody assured me that we needed French support in the Polish partition, and I told her it was her patriotic duty. My poor girl should have disobeyed me." "Toni will be queen of France someday." "Yes, poor girl, and she doesn't have the head for it. Just being stubborn won't do it. I worry about her. I worry about all of you. You too, Joseph. You can't just say 'Let it be done.' Reforms mean you have to convince people. You have to lead them Joseph, not just order them." "I know that, Mother." "Joseph, when I had to go before the Hungarian Diet in 1742 and beg for their help to save Vienna from the French, that's when I learned about ruling. What it is and what it isn't." "I will lead, Mother, don't worry, I will lead." "Son, you've been raised to the purple. Growing up Crown Prince has its advantages, solid advantages -- but sometimes it makes it difficult to understand people. Even good people can be devious. Listen to Kaunitz, he knows. The others, they tell you what you want to hear, listen to Kaunitz." "I know that Kaunitz is a remarkable man. A politician, but sensitive. How he loves music!" "Yes, I asked him to come to the audience for the Mozarts this afternoon. But he can't. Can you come?" "No, I'd like to, but the Jesuit problem, you know." She frowned. "It's so painful to me when the Church is divided against itself. I want to defend the Church. But when the Pope is fighting the Jesuits, what can we do?" He laughed, harshly. "I don't know. But at least we can make sure that the Crown, not the Pope, ends up with the possessions of the Order." She crossed herself. "Don't jest about the Church!" The coach was coming out onto the flat ground again. Houses were appearing on the side of the road. "It's a pretty day, isn't it Joseph?" "Yes, Mother." She thought a minute. "Can we do anything for the Mozart boy?" He sighed. "Never mind, I won't bother you with it. Thanks for today, it meant a great deal to me at this time." She took his hand." He kissed her hand. "We all miss him. He was a good husband and father." "And yet," she said, "he had too little to do. That was bad." "He was a good man," he said, thinking of his father's constant visits to the dark-haired, svelte Princesse d'Ausperg. "I'd like to think that I'm like him in some ways." "You are, and I love you. But listen to Kaunitz. Please. And keep me informed. If I have to hear again about what's going on from that fool Baron von Stein, I'm going to try to put you over my knee as I did thirty years ago." He laughed and pressed her hand. "You may laugh, but I mean it." "I know you do, Mother. You always do." She frowned at him but then relaxed into a smile. "My Sepp, baby." "Please, Mother!" His eyes bugged out, he turned bright red and looked out the window. Her face convulsed and her mouth opened in a roar of laughter. She bent over, leaned back again and, holding her stomach, kept laughing, tears falling down along the furrows of her cheeks. Did she have to carry on like that? It wasn't that funny! *** Wolfgang stood gazing around the Grand Salon in the Schoenbrunn as his father made a flowery speech to the Empress. He sneaked a look at the ceiling, with its pale blue skies and cherubs blowing golden horns, while saints in brown and reddish robes gazed at the Virgin and Child. He remembered when he was five years old and that ceiling had seemed the most wonderful thing in the world to him. And when he had wanted to be a prince himself. Now his ambitions had been reduced to just making a decent living -- if he could. "And I'm so happy to see you again, young Herr Mozart," said the Empress. "It's been many years since you sat on my lap." "I am most honored, Your Imperial Majesty." God, she's gotten awfully fat. "How you've grown! How old are you now?" "Seventeen, Your Majesty." "My son has told me about the success of your operas in Milan." Son? Oh, she meant Ferdinand, not the Emperor. "Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty." His father reminisced with the Empress about her younger days, when she herself would sing roles in operas, especially once in "Ipermestra." Then he brought up the possibility of a position at court for Wolfgang. "Well, Herr Mozart. I admire your son's playing tremendously, I always have." "Your Majesty was responsible for the first encouragement given to his career." She smiled. "But the Emperor and I would like you to take this up with Signor Affligio. You understand, we have to keep the musical program organized." "Yes, Your Majesty," said his father. She turned to Wolfgang. "Young man, remember that it's a large world. There are many things to do and places to go." "Yes, Your Majesty." "Try to be grateful to God for what he has given you." Her blue eyes sparkled at him from beneath her heavy lids. "You have so much talent. As long as you have faith, you will prevail. If not here in Vienna, then elsewhere." She coughed. "I mean, of course, faith in God. I hope you're a good Catholic," she said, frowning at him. "Yes, Your Majesty," said his father, "he attends mass regularly and takes communion every Sunday." "Good," she said. "Good. I take communion daily. Confession keeps the heart young." She gestured to indicate that the audience was over. "One must do right," she muttered, "at all costs." They bowed their way out. As they were leaving the palace, he said, "Confession may have kept her heart young, but it hasn't kept the rest of her from aging." "Hush," said his father, crossing himself. "Does she do anything now, or does the Emperor run the place?" he asked. His father shrugged. "Everybody calls him Joseph the Bighead, and they say the two of them quarrel over everything." "Evidently they don't quarrel over us. They're both equally indifferent." "And Gluck has the Emperor's ear, they say," said his father. "And do you know what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart says to all that?" "What?" His father smiled. "Chevalier Gluck is welcome to the ear of the Emp-ty-roar Joseph -- and to his asskissing courtiers and his low-class lackey jobs!" His father shook his head. His father had kissed too many asses himself. But Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wasn't going to spend the rest of his life as a lickspittle! Not for all the Josephs in Europe. *** The hardwoods on the upper slopes of the Moenchsberg were beginning to turn, making faint yellow patterns among the dark green of the conifers. All the old thoughts about money, about his son, about a dowry for his daughter, were coming back to him now that he was home again in Salzburg. His worries cast a melancholy shadowing onto the bright sunlight that warmed him as he came out of the darkness of the tall houses along the Getreidegasse and into the open square. He tried to clear away the gloomy thoughts, like cobwebs with a broom, by thinking of all the good things he had in his life -- his family, his work, his religion. "Hello, Leo, how was Vienna?" Abbe Bullinger fell in beside him as they met at the corner of the Domplatz. He shook Bullinger's hand. The big paw enveloped his warmly. "Nothing, I'm afraid." "Ah," said the priest, adjusting the tiny black skullcap on his immense square head. "I was hoping you would run across some new opportunities there." "Salzburg isn't the worst place in the world, I suppose." They walked along, across the square toward the Residenzplatz. "I don't want to worry you, but if you and Wolferl are planning to stay in Salzburg, Leo, it might be a good idea to mend a few fences here." Leopold stopped at the entrance to the Residenzplatz. A sausage seller was setting up his stand for the noontime rush. "Oh?" "That idiot Kremer and one of the other clerks were telling the Archbishop the other day that if people always think of Wolfgang as Mozart of Milan or Munich or Vienna, what good does that do His Grace? All he has is a young man, who -- I'm sorry, Leo, but it's what people are saying -- who thinks he's too good for this place." "But Sepp, what do they want of him? They won't give him suitable work, do they want him to stop accepting outside commissions from people who do recognize his genius?" "I don't know, Leo, but it wouldn't surprise me if they did." The tall, husky Abbe nodded his head profoundly. "But what if the Empress should make a request or if the Elector of Bavaria wants Wolfgang to compose another opera, say? Will he dare say no to them?" "Any Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg will have to get along with his neighbors." The Abbe looked closely at the sausages, leaning down to sniff. "But this particular Archbishop also wants his own way. Badly." "He can't expect someone like Wolfgang to stay here forever, writing routine choral music, with a theatrical sop like 'Scipio' thrown in once in a while!" Leopold gripped the edge of the sausage seller's wagon. "No point in talking to me about it, Leo. Talk to Firmian, talk to your friend Count Arco, talk to the Archbishop himself. Reassure them." Leopold expelled a deep breath, the air was filled with the aroma of roasting fat. "I don't believe it. What pigheaded, uncultured idiots." He shook his head. "Maybe good old Sigismund wasn't so bad after all." "He was a good man, and a good Prince-Archbishop." said Bullinger. "May his soul rest in peace." "In the realm where there is no selfishness, envy, or spite." said Leopold. "There's only one thing left to do, Sepp." "What, Leo?" Leopold gazed at the sausage cart. "It should be obvious." "What, Leo?" He smiled. "Let's have a sausage!" As they ate, leaning over to keep the juice from dripping on their coat fronts, Leopold Mozart said,"Why don't you arrange an appointment for me with Count Firmian?" "Really, Leo? What are you going to say?" "Whatever I have to to get Wolferl permission to take outside commissions. It's bad enough to have him stuck here in the Archbishop's service -- but if he doesn't get away at times, he'll die. Or stop composing -- which is about the same thing!" "Or maybe marry that red-haired Zimmerman girl?" said Bullinger. "God forbid!" said Leopold. *** The weather was unseasonably cold, and he scrunched his cold feet up under the down comforter as the night watchman called out midnight on the Getreidegasse. How was the weather in Guyana? Or in Constantinople? He remembered the sun-dazzled day on the boat in the Bay of Naples, the wind seeming to sweep away the stink of all the Dreck of terra firma. Anything seemed possible that day. Now nothing seemed possible -- he was in a prison called Salzburg. The search for the meaning of his life seemed to be ending up at the blank wall of a mediocre job in he service of a tone-deaf petty tyrant. He rubbed one foot against the other. And such a goddamned cold prison too! =============================================================== STATE OF THE ART by Otho E. Eskin A paper cup is pressed against my lips. I sip gratefully. Now I remember -- I've lost my mind. I don't mean I'm going crazy. I don't have hallucinations. I don't hear voices. I mean I'm literally losing my mind. Pieces of me are vanishing. I've spoken about this to Dr. Praetorius. He tells me it's perfectly natural. But I'm diminished. Soon there will be nothing left. Try and remember. The ad read: WANTED: Experienced popular fiction writer to assist in preparation of manuscript. Generous remuneration. Interview Monday, May 2 at 10:00 a.m. This was followed by an address in midtown Manhattan. I've been going through a rough spell recently. It would be months before I received the next check from my publisher and my latest book was not selling well. So the following Monday I appeared at Blackthorn Tower. You know -- that bronze and white building on Sixth Avenue. When I arrived at the 28th floor, I was disheartened to see a large waiting room filled with people -- all clutching small cartons and Manila folders tied with string. The receptionist gave me an application to fill out and told me to take a seat. After almost an hour, I was escorted to a small office with a single desk. Behind the desk sat a sallow man with narrow shoulders and a weak chin. "Sit down," he said, without enthusiasm. "Your application, please." He glanced at it and pursed his lips. "You're Nesbit Crane?" he asked. "That's right." "And you're the author of all of these stories?" "Some are novels. Yes." The man picked up the phone on the desk and pushed three buttons. "Dr. Praetorius, I have in my office a man who says he's Nesbit Crane." There was a long silence. Then the man replaced the receiver and said: "Come with me." We took me to an immense office on the 40th floor where a man with a neatly-trimmed beard sat behind a desk waiting for us. He wore glasses tinted blue so I could not see his eyes. The narrow-shouldered man placed my application reverently on the desk and retreated from the room. "You're Nesbit Crane?" the man in the blue glasses demanded. "Yes." "You're the author of The Riders of the Dawn?" "Yes." "You're the author of Moon Stalker?" "Yes. Have you read my novels?" The man looked at me as if I had asked whether he picked his nose in church. "I am Dr. Praetorius." He did not sound as if he was particularly happy to make my acquaintance. "Mr. Crane, you appear to have the qualifications we're looking for." "That's great," I said. "If you accept, you will be taken to our research facility at Winterhaven where you will stay for approximately sixteen weeks. For this, you will be paid $50,000." "Sounds fine to me," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "I have one question." I could feel the eyes studying me carefully from behind the blue glasses. "What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "We need your expert assistance." "I'm no expert." "Oh, yes you are, Mr. Crane." At nine in the morning the following Monday, a man dressed in a black chauffeur's uniform was waiting for me in front of my co-op building. He took my suitcase and escorted me to a gleaming, stretch limousine. As we drove over the George Washington Bridge and up the New York State Thruway, I tried to make conversation but my comments and questions were answered by grunts or monosyllables -- or by silence. I gave up finally and occupied myself by looking out the car window at the small towns and farms we passed. Late in the afternoon we drove through massive security gates monitored by television cameras and manned by armed guards. As we followed a winding, tree-lined drive, bands of roving guard dogs ran beside the car, their barking muted by the thick glass of the car windows, their wild eyes rolling, red tongues flicking. A few minutes later, the car glided to a stop in front of a large building with steel mesh over the windows. Two men in white smocks and little black name tags opened the car door for me. One held a clipboard in his hand. "Welcome to Winterhaven, Mr. Crane," one of them said. The tag on his breast pocket read 'Dr. Lewis'. The other -- the one with the clipboard -- took my bag and they led me into the building. Dr. Lewis asked whether I had a good trip as we walked through corridors painted shades of pastel. We stopped before a pale chartreuse door. "This will be your home for a while, Mr. Crane," Dr. Lewis said politely. He opened the door and I stepped into a small but clean room with a bed and a dresser. Sun streamed through a single, barred window. "Could you guys tell me what this is all about?" I asked. Dr. Lewis glanced at the man with the clipboard. "Everything will all be explained to you." The two men in white smocks smiled and, before I could ask anything more, they left. I felt nervous. I looked out the window for a while but all I saw were other men in white smocks. After a while, I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. I was awakened by a knock on the door. "Come in," I said groggily. Outside, it was already dark. The door opened and Dr. Praetorius entered. He switched on the room light and the fluorescent bulb in the ceiling fixture was reflected in the blue lenses of his glasses. "Please come with me, Mr. Crane," he said. I followed Dr. Praetorius up several flights of steps and into a part of the building I had not seen before. We entered a room paneled in dark wood. Several leather chairs were set around a large fireplace in which a fire was burning brightly. Along one wall were book shelves which extended from floor to ceiling. The door at the far end of the room opened and a tiny, old man with thin, white hair entered. Although I had never met him, I immediately recognized Justin Blackthorn, the third richest man in the world. "Mr. Crane," the old man said, holding out his hand, "I'm delighted to meet you." His voice was high-pitched and fluty. We sat in the leather chairs before the fire. Blackthorn seemed even smaller up close. His feet barely touched the floor and his neck seemed too thin for his shirt collar. "When Dr. Praetorius told me you'd answered our advertisement I was thrilled, Mr. Crane. Not just because you would provide the skills we need for our little project but also because it would give me the pleasure of meeting you at last." "You're familiar with my work?" I asked. "My dear fellow, I've read everything you've published. I'm a great fan of yours, Mr. Crane. A great fan." Blackthorn's eyes twinkled. "I'm going to tell you a secret." The old man leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm a frustrated writer." He sat back and watched me, his eyebrows raised into two little peaks. "What do you think of that?" This was the payoff, I thought. I had guessed from the beginning -- from that day I read the ad in the paper. "I've been successful in everything I've ever tried," Blackthorn went on. "I've created dozens of companies, made billions of dollars, done everything I wanted in my life -- except that which I have wanted most: to see my stories published. I've written dozens of them, you know. Sent them to magazines. Always they've been rejected." "There can be great satisfaction in just writing a good story. Having it published isn't everything," I said lamely. "Poppycock. Having it published is everything. Of course, I'm wealthy enough to have bought any number of magazines, or established my own publishing company if I wished. But I didn't want it that way. My work must be accepted on its own merits." He paused and looked reflectively into the fire. "I have a dream, Mr. Crane. To write a story -- just one story -- and see that story in print. That's all I ask. That's all the immortality I crave." "And you want my help in preparing your manuscripts for publication?" "I wish it were that simple. I've studied all the great masters, such as you. And I still can't do it. I've come to the realization that I have no talent." "Don't give up, sir," I urged, alarmed that my gold mine was about to have a crisis of confidence. "I'm sure with help you would be able to write very well." "I think," Blackthorn said, "the time has come to explain why you are here." He glanced at Dr. Praetorius, then back to me. "You are no doubt aware that, among my properties, I own the world's leading developer of computer software. Two years ago my people here at Winterhaven began development of the most sophisticated and complex applications program ever conceived -- a program to write fiction. We've incorporated all the latest advances in writing, grammar and editing programs. Our specialists have analyzed over a thousand award-winning stories to determine what formulas are successful. They also studied all of your works, even though they have, unaccountably, not received any awards. All of this has been put into the program." "How does it work?" "It's very simple, really," Blackthorn said. "The would-be author calls up the program on his computer. He first chooses from a menu of story genres -- adventure, gothic, science fiction and so forth -- then choose a writing style -- mainstream, magic realism, experimental, minimalist, etc. The author then selects a core story -- our knowledge engineers have identified sixty-three basic story types. The author follows this procedure through seventeen additional menus. He can pick from one hundred and thirty-three character descriptions -- all market tested. Finally, the program will draw on its memory of thousands of rules of composition to help create the story." "I'm very impressed, Mr. Blackthorn. I'd never have believed such a thing could work." "That's just the problem, Mr. Crane. It doesn't. It produces stories, complete with plot, characters and description, but they lack life. That's where you come in. Do you know what artificial intelligence is?" "Vaguely," I lied. "It's a computer program based on the analysis of how experts deal with a problem -- the intuitive process that the creative mind actually uses. Mr. Crane, with your help, we will now complete the final phase of our program development. We are going to analyze you in detail, learn everything about you. Dr. Praetorius and I are going to find out how you do it, Mr. Crane." *** I must remember. Keep what is left. Except that there is so little from before I came to Winterhaven. Was there a before? I must ask Dr. Praetorius. He will know. The next day Dr. Lewis escorted me to what he described as the Neurosphere -- a small room with concave steel walls in the middle of which was a chair padded in cushioned leather and attached by webs of wiring to a panel on the wall behind. Dr. Praetorius was waiting for us. "You will be spending most of your time in this room," Dr. Praetorius explained, gesturing for me to sit in the chair. "Please do not be alarmed, Mr. Crane. The procedure is entirely painless." Two technicians attached steel clips to my wrists and ankles, strapped sensors to my arms and legs and placed a kind of metal apparatus with earphones over my head. "Now I want you to relax," Dr. Praetorius said in a voice meant to be reassuring. Dr. Praetorius and the technicians left the Neurosphere and closed the door behind them. The lights dimmed and I could see nothing except the pale, pearl sheen of the curved wall. The voice in the earphones was a gentle and soothing contralto. It asked questions about my work, my life, my friends, about my parents and my childhood. At first I was hesitant -- self-conscious and uncomfortable -- but after a time I began to talk freely, even enjoyed talking about myself -- about what I liked to read, about my ex-wife, my trip To Puerto Rico last summer. After several hours, the door was opened and I was taken back to my room. I was exhausted and, after a light supper, I went to bed and slept soundly. The next day Dr. Lewis brought me again to the Neurosphere and I went through the same procedure. This went on day after day. The experience wasn't unpleasant at all. The questioner seemed so interested, so understanding -- sympathetic and caring. Soon I was speaking of things I never told anybody; things I never told myself. I came to look forward to each session. It wasn't until the second or third week that I began to sense that something was wrong. I could never recall what the previous day's session had been about. I didn't worry about that at first but I knew the situation was serious when I stopped dreaming. It was then I became frightened and demanded to know what they were doing to me. Dr. Praetorius talked about transient neural effects and ephemeral dislocations. For several days I refused to enter the Neurosphere. Once I even tried to leave Winterhaven but was frightened by the dogs. Now I have given up. Even if I could get out, where would I go? I don't know where I am. *** "How are you this morning?" the man in blue glasses asks. I know I've seen him before. "I don't think I'm well at all," I say. "Why is that?" "This morning, when I woke up, I had a strange experience." "What was that?" "I didn't know who I was." "You have forgotten your name?" "It's as if I were empty inside. Like there's a void. Where have I gone?" The man in the blue glasses rubs his beard and studies me carefully. He turns and walks away. I try to remember who I was talking to. "Good morning, Mr. Crane." When I open my eyes, two strange men are looking at me. One wears blue glasses and has a small beard. The other is an old man with white hair. "Do you remember who I am?" the old man asks. I shake my head. "We've reached the final stage, Mr. Blackthorn," the man in the blue glasses says. "He won't last through another session." "Can he understand what we're saying?" the old man asks. "The cerebral cortex functions are largely intact but he can't relate what you say to him. Because there is no him there left to relate to." "I want to talk with him -- the real him -- before the final session." "I don't see the point." "Nevertheless, prepare him." There is more discussion but I soon loose interest. Someone rolls up my sleeve and gives me an injection. My body tingles and my mouth feels dry. "Would you like something to drink?" someone asks. I nod and a paper cup is pressed against my lips and I take a grateful sip. Memories I've been searching for come flooding back. "This will partially reconstitute the psyche but the effect will last only a very brief time," someone says. "And we won't be able to do this again. We are losing him by the minute." "Feeling better, Mr. Crane?" I struggle to focus my eyes. "What's happening?" I ask "Please tell me what's happening to me." "Surely you must have guessed already." Dr. Praetorius pushes forward a chair that rides on silent casters and Blackthorn sits near me and begins to talk. "I have too much regard for your talent to let you go without telling you the truth." "What truth?" I ask. My voice shakes. "In developing the writing program we discovered we needed more than a simple expert system. It was not enough to know the tricks and formulas that writers use. To make the program work, we had to replicate the creative human quality. We had to analyze the psyche of one writer, delve into the innermost recesses of his mind, into the millions of memories that make each person a singularity. We needed to know what formed you as a person." "You aren't interested in my writing techniques -- you want my soul." "Dr. Praetorius has developed a system to read the synapses of the brain through a three-dimensional laser mapping device and to replicate digitally the billions of neural pathways which make up the subconscious -- and indeed constitute the human personality. The information is analyzed and stored, ready to be processed and reconstituted as needed." "Everything that's me is now in the computer?" "Almost. We've taken what we need from the temporal lobes and the limbic system. Everything worthwhile. Unfortunately, there are still a few bugs in the system. The techniques we employ to explore your mind have the unfortunate effect of altering those parts of the mind we're most interested in." "You've destroyed my brain?" "Not at all. Your higher nervous system still functions. What we've been forced to do is dissolve the synaptic connections built up over your lifetime. A regrettable intrusion -- but necessary." I strain at the steel manacles around my wrists. "Give me back," I scream. "I want me back." Blackthorn smiles sadly. "Please Mr. Crane, do not agitate yourself. The drug we've given you will last only a few minutes. When its effects wear off, you will fall into a state of non- consciousness. I wished to explain to you..." "Don't explain anything!" I yell. "Just get me out of here. Get me to a hospital..." I feel my mind going. "Don't be angry with me," Blackthorn goes on. "What is happening to you, Mr. Crane, happens to us all -- sooner or later. We all lose our identities eventually. For some, it comes in a moment of sharp, breathtaking pain. For others, less fortunate, it slips away over months and years until there's nothing left but an empty room. You will be spared that. You will live forever -- those memories and experiences that make you different from anybody else on earth have been preserved for eternity in the computer. I'm giving you what every writer dreams of. I'm giving you immortality." I have a hard time hearing Blackthorn as there is a loud noise in the room which I come to realize is me, sobbing. "Please don't do this." "This is our final session. Today, the last of your psyche will be stripped away and stored, the few remaining worthwhile fragments of your subconscious will be removed. Then the writing program will be complete." I struggle to keep my mind intact. "Why did you pick me? I'm a second-rate hack. And even if the program works, all the stories you write with it will sound like me, not you." "That's a drawback to the system, I'll admit. I'm prepared to live with that." "But I won't develop as a person and therefore not as a writer." "Face it, Mr. Crane, you stopped developing as a writer years ago." "You're destroying me so you can write one story and get it published? You're insane," I scream. "Dr. Praetorius and I have often discussed that possibility. There are two schools of thought. According to one, I'm a genuine psychopath. According to the second, I'm simply very mean. I tend to subscribe to the former view. Dr. Praetorius, here, favors the latter. I doubt whether we can resolve the matter today. In any case, this program will not be for me alone. Of course I would not keep you to myself. I plan to market this program. Within a year, thousands of aspiring writers will be at their kitchen tables or in their basements using your talent to create new works. Just think of it, Mr. Crane. You will write forever and in a million different places. You'll never suffer from fatigue or from self-doubt. You'll never again experience writer's block. You'll never again know the pain of rejection. You will go on forever." I start to say something but discover I forget how to speak. I dissolve into the glittering harmonies of the Program. It's wonderful to be here, it's certainly a thrill...the Germans wore gray. You wore blue...to the last I grapple with thee...he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe ...made it, ma. Top of the world...oh oh Spaghettio...no, he had never written about Paris... where have all the flowers gone...I promise, Mr. Astin...it's Howdy Doody time...please! please!... who was that masked man?...the Shadow knows...Shazam!...is daddy ever coming home?...twelve full ounces, that's a lot....th-- that's all, folks... goodbyemoon...jackbenimblejackbequick.. mamamamamaaa. *** I am free. Free of the weight of muscle and bone, of thick clotting blood and rasping breath. Free of pain and weariness and the shadow of my own mortality. Free of false love, of empty hope. I used to be the banks of a river, brown and clayey, full of rocks and gnarled roots. Now I am the river. *** STATEART 1.0 Please select story genre by placing the cursor against the menu item and pressing ENTER. PLEASE WAIT BEGIN STORY A paper cup is pressed against my lips. I sip gratefully. Now I remember -- I've lost my mind. THE END =================================================================