Ghosts of Columbia (60 page)

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Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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“That’s the First Counselor.”
I shook my head. “So the same people wear different hats.” I added another frown. “Now what’s the difference between the Twelve and the Revealed Twelve? Is that another set of hats, too?”
Both Jillian and Llysette exchanged puzzled glances, then looked to the composer.
“No,” he said. “The Revealed Twelve … that’s some sort of underground schismatic religious movement. No one seems to know much about them, except they’re claiming that they’re the true Saints and that the current Apostles have betrayed the Prophet. I’ve seen some fliers around the university, but they don’t last long. The Danites get rid of them pretty quickly.” Perkins grinned wryly. “Some people always think the rest of the world is out of tune.”
Somehow I wasn’t certain whether he was referring to the Danites or the schismatics.
“Oh,” I answered. “I just thought … with all those interlocking names …”
He shook his head. “The Revealed Twelve, or whatever else they call themselves, are just disgruntled outsiders afraid to appear in public and make their case.”
I nodded. From what little I’d seen, I wouldn’t have given much for their chances if they did appear.
From there we talked of cabbages and queens, ships and sailing wax, so to speak, through a heavy chocolate cake for dessert and more chocolate to end the dinner.
In the end, Perkins drove us back to the Inn, and I noted that another pair of I Danites watched us from the back of the lobby.
T
he less said about the hours before the first Deseret concert the better. Llysette was as touchy as a caged cougar, not that I expected any less, with all that was riding on her performance.
The fewer words I offered in such circumstances, the smoother matters went. So I massaged her very tight shoulders and then confined my conversations to inquiries about what and when she wanted to eat, any chores I could run for her, and reading the favorable story in the
Deseret News
.
“The headline is good—‘World-Renowned Pair Open Concert Reason.’”
“They did not write our names?” said Llysette from the piano bench, where she looked at the music.
“The rest of the story is good, too.” I began to read:
“‘Great Salt Lake City (DNS). With one of the world’s top vocal piano and vocal duos in Llysette duBoise and Daniel Perkins, the Salt Palace performing complex opens its fiftieth consecutive season tonight.
“‘Perkins, recently awarded the Rachmaninov Award by Czar Alexi, is also the recipient of numerous other honors, including the Hearst Arts Medallion and honorary degrees from the Curtiss Institute, the University of Virginia, and the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. His arrangements and compositions have been played by every major symphony orchestra in the world. He is the composer in residence at Deseret University.
“‘DuBoise, most recently featured at the Columbian Presidential Arts Awards dinner, where she won rave reviews, has returned to an active performing career, interrupted for several years as a result of the instability in France. Former First Diva of France and featured soloist at the Academie Royale in Paris, she has appeared in most of the major opera houses of Europe. With a doctorate from the Sorbonne, she is director of vocal studies and opera at Vanderbraak State University in New Bruges, Columbia. Last year, she married former Columbian Subminister for Environmental Protection Johan Eschbach.
“‘The program will feature works by Mozart, Strauss, and Handel, as well as several new arrangements of Perkins’s own work written specifically for Fraulein deBoise. The concert will begin at 8:00 P.M.’”
“About the Debussy they said nothing.”
“They didn’t,” I agreed. “That’s one of your best pieces.”
“You do not like the
An die Nacht?”
“You know I love that, and you do it beautifully. But,” I sighed, “you do so
much so well that I’d spend all day categorizing them.” I shouldn’t have mentioned anything by name, not before a performance.
“I am difficult.
Je sais ça. Mais
…”
“I know. There’s a lot at stake.”
“
Trop
…”
We had eaten a late breakfast—room service—and from what I knew, a late lunch/early dinner would be the order.
“A short walk might do us good.”
“
Peut-etre.
” Llysette didn’t sound convinced.
“There were some shops on the other side of the street from the Temple, a woolen shop for one.”
She pursed her lips. “A short walk?”
“Three blocks each way.” ,
“Three. I can do that.”
We stopped by the concierge’s desk and converted 300 Columbian dollars into Deseret dollars. The two red hundreds also had the “Holiness to the Lord” motto, but the face on the bills was of someone called Grant.
It had snowed or rained earlier, and the streets were wet under high gray clouds. A steady cold wind blew from the northwest. Llysette fastened her collar.
Another pair of young and bearded Danites followed as we walked eastward on West Temple South.
Deseret Woolen Mills occupied a small red brick building practically across from the Temple grounds. In the window were woolen coats and brown and black woolen scarves.
Llysette wrinkled her nose. “Brown is for cows.”
“They might have other colors inside.”
“
Peut-etre.
” That was one of the more dubious “perhapses” I’d heard, but she consented to turn toward the door, which I opened for her.
“The ladies’ section is to the right,” offered a woman with braided gray hair, although I doubted she was much older than I.
Llysette marched in the direction indicated, as if to determine quickly that the Deseret Woolen Mills had little to offer her.
I paused by a small rack of men’s coats—jackets without matching trousers, almost blazers, except they were tweed and the upper part of the chest and back were covered with soft gray leather.
“Those are popular with the ranchers.” A gray-haired bearded man eased up beside me.
“Ranchers?” I hadn’t thought there were many left, with the energy developments.
“They do wear jackets, but they’re particular about what they wear. Why don’t you try one on?”
The jacket was comfortable and probably warm—definitely necessary in New
Bruges. In the end, though, somehow I just couldn’t see myself wearing tweed and leather to class or anywhere else.
I replaced the jacket on its hanger, put my own suit coat back on, and went to find Llysette.
She was in the rear corner of the store, holding a woman’s suit. She glanced at the pale green woolen skirt, then finally took off her own coat and tried the jacket.
“Looks good.” I tried to keep my voice enthusiastic, even as I saw the Danites on the sidewalk, waiting. “Why don’t you put on the skirt?”
“I do not know. The skirt is long.”
“Try it on. I think it would look good.”
The saleslady, the only other woman in the store, nodded.
While Llysette was in the fitting room, I walked toward the front of the store and studied the pair outside. Young, short-haired, but bearded, wearing the dark green overcoats, eyes hard with that look common to all too many fanatics.
At the creak of the ancient fitting room door, I turned and stepped back toward the women’s section.
Llysette pirouetted in front of the full-length flat mirror. Although the skirt was long, slightly below midcalf, the lines flattered her.
“You look spectacular.”
“
Le prix
, that also is spectacular.”
“You deserve it.”
“I do not know.”
“I’ll buy it.”
She shook her head. “Now … should I wish, I can purchase my own clothes.”
The outfit took most of our cash, but I had pressed because it was warm and looked good on Llysette and she needed both, particularly with another cold New Bruges winter nearing.
The streets were still damp as we walked back to the Lion Inn, but the air seemed even colder.
After hanging up the green woolen outfit in the closet, Llysette took out the music again and sat on the piano bench.
My stomach growled.
After checking the menu and running it by Llysette, earning a raised eyebrow for interrupting her, I ordered the plainest form of pasta from room service, with the sauce on the side, to be safe about the whole thing.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, Llysette glared at me. “
Le dejuener
… it is where?”
“It’s supposed to be here.” I picked up the wireset and dialed in the number.
“Lion Inn, room service. May we help you?”
“Yes. This is Johan Eschbach. I ordered a dinner nearly an hour ago, and we still haven’t seen it. Suite six-oh-three.”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
I waited.
“He’s already left, sir. Let us know if he’s not there in five minutes.”
“I will.”
I turned to Llysette. “It’s on the way.”
“On the way? And how proceeds it—by airship from Paris?”
“By Brit rail—wide slow gauge.”
“Humorous that is not.”
A rap on the door saved me from having to make further attempts at humor. The server wore the livery of the hotel and pushed a cart table.
“I’ll take it in,” I told him.
“But—”
“I’ll do it.” I smiled.
He backed away.
Llysette watched as I set up the table, then went to the cooler and extracted a bottle of wine and set a glass beside her plate.
She looked at the wineglass, then shook her head. “A half a glass, that is all.”
“You can have the rest when you celebrate later.”
Unwind,
that would be more like it.
“Then, I will need the wine.”
After we ate, Llysette started on her hair.
In the end, I opted for the formal concert dress, black coat and black tie. As the consort to the star, it was better to be overdressed than underdressed.
I still brought the plastic blade, and the calculator and pens, as well as a few other items, such as the dart gun sections in my boot heels.
Llysette warmed up and did her makeup. She didn’t put on the performing gown at the inn but wore a plain dress. I carried the garment bag, and we walked the block and a half through the gray gloom to the hall—a good hour before Llysette’s curtain time.
Her dressing room was marked—in large red letters—and there were two flower arrangements there.
She read the cards and handed them to me with a smile:
Break a leg, or whatever—Bruce.
Best wishes. Jacob Jensen.
Then I helped her into the gown, and she went back to a few slow warmups. I stood in the corner, slightly away from the waist-high and oversize ventilation grate, half-wondering if that much cooling were necessary in the summer in Great Salt Lake. I shook my head. The big grate covered an air return. The inbound air
register was near the ceiling and about one-tenth the size of the big return duct.
I’d seen several of the large grates as we wandered around looking for her dressing room, and I supposed, with the heat from the stage lights, at times there was a need to suck out that hot air quickly.
A knock echoed from Llysette’s dressing room door. I walked over and eased it ajar to see who was there.
The brown-bearded Jacob Jensen stood outside, wearing a formal outfit. I was glad I’d worn my own formal dress. Jensen bowed, then extended an envelope to me. “Your tickets, Minister Eschbach.”
Strange as it seemed, I hadn’t really thought about tickets. For a moment, I just stared.
“The fifteenth row. After I heard your lady …” He paused and shook his head. “Her voice is too powerful to sit too close. There are two tickets. That’s so you don’t have to sit next to anyone if you’d rather not.”
“Thank you.” Why two and not three? Still, it was Llysette’s show, and I wasn’t about to upset anything.
“Does she need anything?”
I looked toward Llysette. She shook her head.
“No.” I added, “But thank you for the flowers.”
“I’m most grateful she’s here.” Jensen cleared his throat. “If she does need anything, let me know. I’m in the small office at the corner there.” With a nod and a smile, he walked briskly toward the back of the stage, behind the rear wall of the stage.
Llysette looked at me, and I got the message. “You’re ready to be alone.”
That got a nod.
I stepped over to her, hugged her, and whispered, “I love you. You’ll be wonderful.” Then I left, closing the door behind me.
I hadn’t realized just how big the concert hall was until I saw it lit. Llysette hadn’t been exaggerating, not much. There had to have been two thousand seats in the three tiers. Even a half hour before the performance, more than half were taken. It was strange to think that more people would hear her in one night in Deseret than had heard her in six years in Columbia. Strange and wondrous and sad all at once.
My seat was beside Jillian Perkins, who wore a maroon dress with a white lace collar. The seat on the far side of her was vacant, and I understood why I’d gotten two tickets, rather than three.
“Good evening,” I said as I eased in beside her.
She smiled, an expression pasted on under concerned eyes.
“Worried? They’ll do fine.”
“Dan … he’s worked very hard for this.”
I understood, I thought. Everyone needed the concert, for very different reasons. Llysette needed it to rehabilitate her career and give her leverage toward
more security and tenure … and financial independence. Dan Perkins needed it because … I suspected he and Jillian required the money for a growing family, and he needed another boost for his career, perhaps because his music wasn’t simple singspiel trash or lip-synch monotony, but complex composition based on good verse and possibly better music. The Saint theocracy needed the concert as an opening wedge toward wider relations with Columbia, and Columbia needed Saint oil and energy exports.

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