PAPA'S SCHEME

by Jesse F. Knight

When we heard that Mama had inherited four thousand dollars--from the "passing away of dear Uncle Luke," as Mama put it--we all knew that Papa would come up with another of his schemes. It was strange about Papa and money--they never seemed to stay together for long, and perhaps that is why Papa was forever coming up with schemes to make a fortune. Gretchen, on the other hand, would have said that it was precisely because of Papa's schemes that we never had any money. Which was true, of course, but not something a seven-year-old wants to hear about her idol. Gretchen, at ten, was the logical one. Gregory and Hildi, nine and eight, found their logic in the green trees and red earth of Grass Valley.

Papa was a master--nay, a genius, of the scheme. He was the Leonardo da Vinci, the Shakespeare, the Napoleon, the Michelangelo of schemes. Like the Sistine Chapel, his schemes were always elaborate and convoluted, so breathtakingly complex you could hardly take it all in at one time. Before he could finish explaining it, your neck would have a crick in it, and you'd shake your head in wonder.

Four thousand dollars--you can imagine the labyrinths of pontentialities, the castles of conjectures, the enormous bubble of rainbow-hued fantasy that much money called up in Papa's mind. In 1938, four thousand dollars was a gargantuan amount of money, at least in our family. It could take care of a family for a whole year and more--food, a roof over your head, and a nickel left over every Saturday for the movies.

1938 was the cusp of American hope. The depression finally seemed to be coming to an end; the bloody smear of World War II had not yet stained history, and hence we still harbored the illusion we could avoid it; and you could get two hard candies for a penny.

In the dim parlor, with Roosevelt murmuring on the Edison radio in the corner, with the sounds of Paul Whitman gliding on the blue air, Papa said, "We're on our way, Skeeziks." He tousled my sun-bleached hair. With Papa, we were always on our way. To this very day, I imagine him--wherever he may be, heaven or hell--I imagine him on his way, trying to hitch a ride beside some endless, dusty highway or throwing a backpack into a boxcar as he tries and tries and tries to leap aboard the moving train.

"What do you mean," said Mama, from the kitchen, "we're on our way?"

Long-suffering Mama!--and she always made sure we knew it. "What do you mean?" she repeated. The hairs in her ears were alert--like an insect's antennae--for any nuance of a scheme. She came into the parlor with us.

"Didn't I promise you untold wealth when we were married?" Papa said expansively, if evasively.

"You promised a lot of things when we were married," Mama muttered. "I'd be satisfied if you'd just hold onto a job."

"But I wouldn't be," said Papa. "Untold wealth is what I promised you and that is what I'll deliver."

And Mama laughed, too, at his charming, winning conviction. She twisted a curl of Papa's hair, behind his ear. "You need a haircut," said Mama; "let me trim it up for you."

Papa took Mama by the wrist--took the hand curling his hair--and pulled Mama onto his lap. "Skeeziks," he told me gently, "why don't you run outside and play?"

In the front yard, Hildi was busy building a TVA project. A stream from the outdoor faucet meandered through the yard, through the red earth, for we had no grass. Hildi had finished the dam and was busy with the lake.

"Mama's going to kill you," I observed.

Hildi shrugged philosophically; she always did at impending doom. "Has Papa got a scheme yet?" she asked.

"I don't think so," I replied. "But he's working on it."

"Well, I hope he comes up with something soon," she said. "We haven't had any excitement around here in at least twenty years."

"More like twenty-one," I said.

Papa's favorite hangout, whenever he needed a scheme, was Max's Bar and Grill. Actually, Max's was his favorite hangout at any time, but it was especially vital to his creative juices when he was developing a new scheme. There may have been a grill in that smoky interior somewhere, but if there was, Papa never found it. From Max's came some of Papa's most inspired moments. Like the "It Really Works!" Chain Letter. He got back a thousand, all saying he should send himself a dollar. Max's was down the hill from us, just across from the railroad station. It is possible that the location itself was a major attraction for Papa, for the sound of a train always brought a look into Papa's eyes that spoke of distances untravelled, continents unvisited, roads unwalked, and bottles of rye untasted. We heard the whistle from the house too--one reason why the rent was so cheap--but for some reason it just didn't seem the same to Papa as when he was in Max's.

Papa could sit for hours--and frequently did--in Max's, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he sat on the barstool, sometimes staring into the smoky distances inches from his eyes, sometimes talking with people who would meander in from the train, which stopped at the Grass Valley station for twenty-five minutes.

A word should be said about Papa's schemes. Never once were they-out and out-illegal. At times, though, his ideas skirted the strictest interpretation of the law. It would be fairer to characterize his schemes as--well, Mama called them outlandish . . . harebrained . . . and just plain foolish. Perhaps they were all of those things, but they were creative and they were exciting.

How often I remember his gray frame cut from the azure sky as he came up the pathway to the house; and as often as not he would be singing in his wonderful, dark baritone.

"He's coming," shouted Gregory, from the lone pine that grew at the crest of the hill.

"You don't have to shout," said Gretchen. "We're right below you."

But it was useless, of course; Gregory loved to shout, and I often thought that if he could ever find a job someplace shouting that he would be the happiest kid in the world. He did find paradise: during the Korean conflict, he became a drill sergeant.

His arms swinging, as if he were striding up the curve of the earth, Papa was singing his way up the hill. "Happy days are here again."

"Papa must have a scheme," observed Gretchen.

She was right. All the hallmarks were there. Papa was singing, and it was only three in the afternoon. Usually, Papa liked to sing at two in the morning. Also, Papa didn't come home this early, let alone singing, unless he had a plan in mind.

Outlined against the sky, he uncertainly followed the wide crescent path to the house, his shadow slightly unsteady, wavering as if in a breeze, a gray suit hung on the line to dry.

"Happy days are here again."

Mama blanched when she saw him. She knew almost as much about Papa as we did. "Why are you home already?" she asked sharply. In some perverse way I suppose she would have preferred he stay at Max's another ten or twelve hours. That way, she could have been assured security for at least another few hours.

"Hi, Skeeziks," he told me.

"What are you doing home?" Mama repeated.

"I've come to bring you riches," he said, bowing. He almost tipped over, but I caught him in time.

Hearing those words, Mama got really worried. She snorted. "Come in the house; I'll make you some coffee," she said, as if to deflect the promised riches.

Papa, when he was onto something, could not keep quiet. We followed them into the house, as Papa went on talking to Mama's back. "How can you talk of coffee, woman, when we are staring at a fortune?"

"Maybe you are staring at a fortune, but all I'm staring at is the kitchen wall."

"That's because you have no vision."

"What you call vision, I call talk. And that's what you are: all talk."

Stung, Papa was actually quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You'll see; tomorrow you'll see."

Mama, bending over the sink, shot up. "See what?" she demanded.

Triumphant now, smug, Papa said, "You just wait," and he wouldn't be budged to reveal another word.

We could hardly sleep that night, so high was our anticipation.

Across the silver- and blue-lit room, Gretchen said, "What do you suppose Papa did?"

"Maybe he discovered a gold mine," said Gregory. "Or buried treasure. Yeah, an old miner--"

"I think," said Hildi, "that Papa has bought all the decoder rings in the world. He's cornered the market, and he is going to start selling them for vast sums to cereal companies. For rubies, I'm sure, and emeralds." Hildi had been reading a lot of novels lately. Right now, she was working on one about India and sultans. Rubies and emeralds got into her conversation a lot. Nevertheless, we considered the novel idea for some time. It seemed plausible enough to us. Far into the night we debated in blue whispers what Papa's scheme was until we feel asleep with exhaustion and conjectures.

The next day, about noon, a Ford truck with wooden slats for sides--the one from the train station--came rumbling up the hill. I think we already sensed it: it was our first glimpse of Papa's new scheme. The truck pulled into the yard in a whirlwind of red dust. Mama came out onto the porch, the bronze of her hand shielding her eyes.

"Where do you want them?" yelled the driver.

"Want what?" Mama demanded to know. Two things you could say about Mama; she never gave up and she never committed herself before she had to. She would have made one helluva poker player.

Papa rushed out onto the porch, blurry-eyed, unshaven. "Over here," he called, pointing to the side of the house.

The truck backed up, and the driver unloaded the boxes while Papa watched. We four kids lined up and watched Papa watch the driver. We counted the boxes as the men unloaded them. Two, ten, twenty, a hundred. "There's another truckload coming," said the driver. After the third truckload, we finally reached the end. Four hundred and one boxes there were, and they made a pyramid that must have reached ten feet high. We were already thinking of things we could do with the boxes: caves, houses, tunnels. . . .

"And look at this," said Papa, opening one of the boxes. Inside were--yes--another ten, smaller boxes. We weren't confronting a mere four hundred one boxes. No, we were facing four thousand ten boxes.

"Don't you dare touch them," Papa lectured us, wagging a finger.

"What are 'them?' " asked Mama.

"Well, I can't rightly say. But they're electric."

"Electric?" said Mama.

"Vacuum cleaners," guessed Gretchen.

Gregory shook his head. "Too small," he said. "Electric trains."

"Lamps," said Hildi.

"Radios," I added.

Papa sniffed at such mundane objects and shook his head, No.

"What do they do?" asked Mama.

At that, Papa's eyes lit up with poetry, and his voice smoldered with passion. "Ahh, what do they do? Easier, woman, to say what they do not do. What will this handy little electric gadget do!? Why, it will core an apple; it will peel a potato. It will crush grapes and squeeze an orange. It will slice tomatoes without a bruise. It will mash potatoes; it will dice beets; it will grate carrots. And you should see what it will do to cauliflower, broccoli, and turnips. It will make coleslaw, salad, French Fried potatoes, onion rings. It will--"

"But four thousand ten of them?" asked Mama.

"Actually, I only had to buy four thousand of them," said Papa. "He threw in the ten extra for free."

"He?"

"This fellow I met at Max's. He was passing through on the Zephyr, and I talked him out of the whole kit and caboodle."

"I'll bet you really had to talk hard," said Mama.

Her sarcasm escaped Papa the innocent. "It wasn't easy," he told her, "especially considering what a hard bargain I drove--a dollar each. He wanted two dollars, but I told him, no way. A dollar was high as I'd go. Take it or leave it, I told him."

"A dollar," wailed Mama. "Where are we going to get--"

"I already paid him," Papa told her.

"With--" But Mama stopped right there, the dread dripping from her voice. It didn't take a wizard to figure out what four thousand times one dollar was.

"You didn't," she accused Papa.

"I couldn't let a deal like this go by. And the fellow was here for just an hour. He'd already made his fortune, and he was going back to San Francisco to retire. This was the last of his stock, and he wasn't keen to part with it."

The picture became clearer for Mama. "You were at the bank yesterday, weren't you?" said Mama listlessly. I bet when Mama was a kid she picked at scabs, too. "That's why you were home before three yesterday."

"Maybe," said Papa, as if there could be any other explanation. One could never tell what he would deny or admit to.

Mama closed her eyes a moment. Behind her eyelids, no doubt, she was watching her inheritance cross the counter into Papa's hand, watching a stranger take the bills and fold them carefully and place them in the vest-pocket of his jacket of his pin-striped, double-breasted suit.

"I made sure he got the boxes unloaded before the Zephyr left," said Papa proudly. "Must have taken up half of a boxcar."

Mama squeezed her eyes open. "What on earth are we going to do with four thousand and ten of these--these--a"

"Electric Maids," said Papa, helpfully. "They're called Electric Maids."

Mama shook her head. "What on earth are we going to do with four thousand and ten Electric Maids," she asked plaintively, "when I can't afford even one human maid?"

"Why, sell them, of course," said Papa, as if it were self-evident. "We'll sell them for two dollars each and double our money."

"Just like that?"

Papa nodded. "As quick as can be."

"There aren't four thousand ten houses in Grass Valley," Mama pointed out. "Let alone four thousand ten that want an Electric Maid."

That didn't faze Papa. "I already sold one," he said.

"Who to?" challenged Mama.

With a great show of dignity, Papa took one of the boxes from the tawny pyramid. A corner of the pyramid crumbled, spilling eight or ten boxes. He opened the box and took out one of the Electric Maids. "I bought it for our anniversary," he said, ceremoniously handing it to Mama, bowing.

What could she say? Looking down at the box in her worn hands, she muttered, "Our anniversary isn't for six months."

"I'm thinking ahead," said Papa.

"Anyway, that leaves four thousand nine to get rid of," Mama said.

"I have no doubt they will sell like hotcakes."

"That's good. You won't have a hard time selling them."

Papa looked at Mama all surprised like. "Me?" he exclaimed. "But my darling, I did all this for you."

"For me?" Mama raised an eyebrow, high like a Sierra sunrise . . . and as chill.

"Yes. I thought it would be an excellent way for you to supplement your meager income at the restaurant."

"That meager income, as you call it, is all we have to keep this meager home and meager family together and put meager food on our meager table."

Now, most people would have taken that as a not-so-subtle hint, but not Papa--dear Papa--sublime in his dreamworld of schemes. He held up a magnanimous palm. "I don't blame you, sweetheart; it's that money-grubbing Wassland; he won't pay you a decent wage," he told her. "But since you work in the evenings at the restaurant, I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for you to take advantage of your free time during the days."

"Do you call taking care of four children and a no-account, shiftless husband free time? Do you call washing and ironing and cooking and canning and making beds and cleaning house and dusting and planting a garden free time?"

Papa looked genuinely hurt by Mama's explosion. "I was just thinking of you, darling, of a way to increase your inheritance."

What could Mama say? She was, after all, staring at her inheritance, there in the red dust of the yard, in the form of four thousand ten Electric Maids, whether she liked the idea or not. Papa wasn't about to sell them; we all knew that. A chill almost visibly moved through her, escaping as a sigh from her gray lips.

"I don't suppose the fellow who sold them to you can be found," she said gently.

Papa shook his head. "Had to catch the next train. We barely had time to make the deal, unload these and get the money from the bank."

"And that is why you came home at three in the afternoon, yesterday," she said, still seeking confirmation, picking painfully at the scab. "You were at the bank, withdrawing my money."

"Investing it," was Papa corrected her. "Besides, that 3% interest the bank pays is an insult. Why a shrewd investor can--"

For a moment Mama gazed over Grass Valley, not listening to Papa's words. She gazed at the mountain opposite that was in reality a slag heap. She looked as if she might cry. Then a wave of steel rippled through her, and in its wake was the woman who took care of us--and Papa--through two decades, though a World War, through a depression, through poverty and even--God help us--through prosperity. She was the women in history who had crossed the prairie to get to California, suffering untold hardships; the ones who survived wars and pain and suffering. There she was: the indomitable Mama, her hair the color of barley, showing unmistakable signs of gray though she was barely in her thirties, her hair lifting slightly in the breeze. Her eyes flashed like a blue jay across a picnic clearing.

"All right, Papa, I'll sell those Electric Maids there."

"That's my girl," he said, swinging her off the ground and around him, singing "Happy Days Are Here Again," and we kids danced a circle around them, happy too, though we had not the faintest idea why.

Unfortunately, happy days weren't quite on schedule. For us kids, though, it was the next best thing. Each morning, after breakfast, Mama dressed up in her dark blue dress, the one with the tiniest polka dots, and in her white straw hat with the white cranberries on it, and in her white shoes. With a word of admonishment about not waking up Papa, she left us in the care of Gretchen, a box under each arm. Of course, Gretchen's authority barely lasted until Mama was through the gate. We waited until she was half way down the hill, at that point we all did exactly as we pleased. Hildi got busy with the latest TVA project; Gregory disappeared into a tree, and I sat in the middle of the floor cutting paper dolls from the Sears catalogue.

At mid-afternoon Mama came trudging up the hill, red dust covering her white shoes, so they appeared pink. She plumped into the rocking chair with a sigh.

"It's no use, Papa," she said, weariness staining her voice, despair resting upon her shoulders. "It's been three days, and there isn't one Electric Maid to be sold in the entire Grass Valley. Isaac Reynolds says it's the damned foolest thing he ever saw."

Papa appeared genuinely shocked at the news.

"Well, we'll see about that," he said.

"I'll rub your feet for you, Mama," said Gretchen.

Papa said not another word. He put his hand to his cleft chin. No cause interested him so much as one that was lost. He stared over the crest of the hill at the blue pine on the mountainside opposite. We all tip-toed about the house, speaking in velvet gray whispers, for we knew better than to disturb Papa when he was thinking--or as he preferred to call it, deliberating. Papa's deliberations continued until sunset. Finally, an idea descended upon him--like an angel, my seven-year-old mind decided, out of the salmon- and rust-colored sunset, out of the sky turning green, turning blue.

He rose majestically. "I," he said, although it could have just as easily been the royal We, "I," he said, "will take it upon myself to sell Electric Maid to the world." It sounded so heroic, as if he were offering to rescue a princess from a dragon.

"And how will you do that?" Mama asked, as she was getting ready for work.

"Come," said Papa, nodding towards the next room. "Big pitchers and all."

We four big pitchers knew what that meant, so as soon as they had gone into the next room, Gretchen commanded me, "You go listen at the door."

"Why me?" I asked.

"You're Papa's favorite. If he catches you, he won't kill you."

Which, I had to admit, was true enough. Still, there was an element of suspense about it. What if I actually did get caught? Would I get off scot free? Papa was, if anything, unpredictable. Who knew what might happen?

I crept to the door, standing out of the line of sight, and pressed my ear to the cool, painted panelling around the doorway.

Papa was saying, " . . . and what I'll tell them is that the gadgets are stolen."

"But they're not."

"I know that, and you know that, but they don't know that. You know how everyone thinks they get a great deal if something is stolen. Who can pass up something if it is stolen? They won't even question it. Everyone will want to buy one."

"I don't know," said Mama. It was easy to see she was already wavering.

"I'll charge them three dollars each . . . because they're stolen."

Her voice revealed she was weakening further. "But isn't it illegal?"

"If they want to buy something they think is stolen, but isn't, who am I to undisillusion them?"

"Well . . ."

"Of course, it's going to mean I'm going to have to spend a lot of time at Max's."

"I'm not surprised."

"But I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"I knew you would," said Mama.

"That way I'll be able to sell to the people coming in off the trains."

"I see," said Mama.

"And I'll need a little spending cash--call it seed money, if you will."

Mama's sighs always took in the sins and suffering of the world. Now she gave one of her biggest ones. "I suspected as much," she said.

Bowing before the inevitable was one of Mama's saving graces. Whatever she thought of the plan, she knew that once Papa got such an inspiration there would be no peace until he had given it a try.

"Go ahead," she said.

And Papa swung her around, singing.

Never one to let the opportunity to spend time at Max's pass him by, Papa immediately put his plan into action. "The sooner I start, the more I'll sell," he declared.

To the stupefaction of Mama certainly--and perhaps himself, for he wasn't especially used to success--his plan actually worked! His idea was a success! He actually sold the Electric Maids. Unbelievably, stupendously, miraculously, he sold some.

Often in the sapphire night I was awakened by the sound of Papa rummaging through the pyramid, hear the boxes tumble and Papa grumble, interlacing his complaints with profanity. In the morning Mama would find the money from the gadgets on the night side beside the bed--dirty, wadded and wrinkled dollar bills ("Spends just as well," sniffed Mama.) and heaps of coins. Papa snored peacefully as she counted the money. Of course, it never equaled what three dollars times the number of missing Electric Maids should have equaled. "I had to negotiate," exclaimed Papa. Which meant that when Papa sold one he bought the guy a drink. Sometimes he bought the whole house drinks. Nevertheless, Mama was not displeased. She was seeing some of her inheritance flow back into her welcoming arms. This money, Mama did not put in the bank; instead, she tucked it in a King Edward box in the broom closet--someplace she was sure Papa would never look.

Every evening Papa sold three or four. One night he even sold five. After a week Papa had thirty-three Electric Maids to his credit, and there seemed to be no end in sight of his new and unexpected success.

I guess we should have known that Papa and success could not stay friends for long. And it all began, as catastrophes often do, with good fortune.

Papa came running into the house. Mama, having the night off, had us all in the house, painfully scrubbed up. I was playing on the floor with Gregory. I had convinced him to trot my homemade paper dolls around on the floor with me.

"We've struck it rich, Mama," Papa exclaimed.

The eternal skeptic, Mama asked, "And how did we manage that?"

The rest of us were as surprised as Mama to see Papa home so early. It was still an hour until our bedtime.

"I met two men down at Max's, and when I told them about the Electric Maids, they were most interested in my proposition. In fact, they're interested in the entire lot, all--three" He ran outside, counted them, and returned. "--all three thousand, nine hundred and seventy-five. They whispered between themselves, even went off and talked on the telephone. But you know what a tough negotiator I am."

To say Mama was surprised would be an understatement. She was shocked, flabbergasted, dumbfounded. Then common sense intruded, something Papa didn't worry about much. "Now why would anyone want to buy three thousand nine hundred and seventy-five Electric Maids?" she asked suspiciously. "One, I can understand. For the Misses. Even two. One for the mother, too. But three thousand nine hundred and seventy-five?"

"They're on their way to Chicago. They think they can wholesale them there."

"All of them?"

Papa shrugged. He was never one to deny good fortune, however absurd.

We heard a sound--outside. We all turned towards it, like a herd of deer.

"Children," Mama said, clapping her hand, "time for bed."

"But Mama--" Gretchen began.

"Now."

When Mama said, "Now, there was no brooking an argument. It was the voice of God speaking.

The four of us scattered like autumn leaves before the wind of "Now."

If you think we went far, you don't know kids very well. We held our ears against the bedroom door--all four of us.

Gravel crunched on the path outside; footsteps echoed woodenly on the porch, then we heard a knock on the back door, leading onto the kitchen.

"That's them," whispered Papa. "Now, Mama, they think the gadgets are stolen, so don't go doing anything to undisillusion them."

Mama remained silent. I swear we could hear her pursing her lips in disapproval. If she should have to speak a falsehood, squeezing out the words would make the lie smaller . . . or at least narrower.

Papa answered the door. "Come in, come in."

A dark voice said, "You got the goods?"

"Sure, sure."

Footsteps. We heard a door open and a whistle. Another, lighter voice said, "Can you beat that?"

The dark voice said, "It's hard to believe. How many you say you got here?"

"Three thousand nine hundred and seventy-five," said Papa. "At three dollars each, that comes to--"

"Hold on, hold on," said dark voice. "How do we know these are stolen goods?"

Papa seemed taken aback. "Why . . . why . . . I guess because I say they are."

The second voice snorted. "Because you say they are."

"Who would lie about something like that?" asked Papa in all simplicity.

"I see your point," said dark voice. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to place you under arrest."

Mama's scream covered every sound like cold jelly for a moment, so we never got to find out who was arresting Papa. But it was damned exciting, whoever was doing it. Mama's scream brought us tumbling out of the bedroom. And we danced around Papa and a bewildered guy holding a badge in the air, as if it were an amulet to ward off evil spirits or four noisy kids.

"Are you a G-man?" shouted Gregory.

"FBI?" screamed Hildi.

"Spies," declaimed Gretchen.

It was a subject for conjecture with us for nights and weeks afterwards. We would talk about it in the soft, sheltering darkness of our room when we were supposed to be asleep.

Mama was sobbing, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

"They're not stolen," stammered Papa. "Tell them, Mama."

But all Mama could do was wail anew and hold her handkerchief to her mouth. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.

"Come on," said the second man, taking Papa's arm.

They took Papa--speechless, for once--outside. Mama, unable to bear the sight, stayed in the parlor. Ahh, but we four kids went out onto the porch and watched them haul Papa away, down the path of the hill.

"Bye, Papa, bye." We waved and watched until they disappeared into the brilliant blue cool night.

And so ended another of Papa's schemes. Oh, he was back with us a week or so later. I don't recall exactly how long it was, for when you're a child time is as vague as fog. I do remember the Electric Maids went with him. "Evidence," said Mama ominously. All the way to Sacramento they went. Mama said Papa had to explain it all to some judge.

We decided that Papa and the Electric Maids got a divorce, for when he returned it was alone.

After that, we rarely played cops and robbers when Papa was in the house, and we never, never mentioned the words Electric Maid.

The End

Papa's Scheme © 2003 by Jesse F. Knight

Jesse F. Knight's short fiction, plays, and non-fiction have appeared in many national and international publications. His historical fiction has been published in Of Ages Past and several anthologies. He recently completed an historical play titled A Crown of Wildflowers, which will be performed in Stockholm, Sweden, in April 2003. He has done a number of literary biographies for the magazine Firsts--articles on Rafael Sabatini, Saki, Edgar Pangborn, and most recently on the mystery writer Mabel Seeley. An article on Errol Flynn is scheduled for the June issue of that magazine. He has written extensively on Rafael Sabatini, and was a guest speaker recently at a Conference on Sabatini in Italy.

---

---

Back to Bygone Days

E-mail: bygone@chien-noir.com Graphics Copyright 2001, 2003-2004 Kim & Pat Murphy Initial Markup Design by Pat Murphy