Mangon shook his head sympathetically. He pulled a pencil from his breast pocket and on the wrist-pad stitched to his left sleeve wrote:
Mr. LeGrande?
Madame Gioconda read the note, let it fall to the floor.
“Hector? Those lawyers poison him. He’s surrounded by them; I think they steal all my telegrams to him. Of course Hector had a complete breakdown on the spectaculars. Imagine, Mangon, what a scoop for him, a sensation! ‘The great Gioconda will appear on television!’ Not just some moronic bubblegum girl, but the Gioconda in person.”
Exhausted by this vision, Madame Gioconda sank back into her cushion, blowing smoke limply through the holder.
Mangon wrote:
Contract?
Madame Gioconda frowned at the note, then pierced it with the flowing end of her cigarette.
“I am having a new contract drawn up. Not for the mere 300,000 I was prepared to take at first, nor even 500,000. For each show I shall now demand precisely one million dollars. Nothing less! Hector will have to pay for ignoring me. Anyway, think of the publicity value of such a figure. Only a star could think of such vulgar extravagance. If he’s short of cash he can sack all those lawyers. Or devalue the dollar; I don’t mind.”
Madame Gioconda hooted with pleasure at the prospect. Mangon nodded, then scribbled another message.
Be practical
Madame Gioconda ground out her cigarette. “You think I’m
raving, don’t you, Mangon? ‘Fantastic dreams, million-dollar contract-poor old fool.’ But let me assure you that Hector will be only too eager to sign the contract. And I don’t intend to rely solely on his good judgment as an impresario.” She smirked archly to herself.
What else?
Madame Gioconda peered round the darkened stage, then lowered her eyes.
“You see, Mangon, Hector and I are very old friends. You know what I mean, of course?” She waited for Mangon, who had swept out a thousand honeymoon hotel suites, to nod, and then continued: “How well I remember that first season at Bayreuth, when Hector and I. .
Mangon stared unhappily at his feet as Madame Gioconda outlined this latest venture into blackmail. Certainly she and Le-Grande had been intimate friends—the clippings scattered around the stage testified frankly to this. In fact, were it not for the small monthly cheque which LeGrande sent Madame Gioconda she would long previously have disintegrated. To turn on him and threaten ancient scandal (LeGrande was shortly to enter politics) was not only grotesque but extremely dangerous, for LeGrande was ruthless and unsentimental. Years earlier he had used Madame Gioconda as a stepping stone, reaping all the publicity he could from their affair, then abruptly kicking her away.
Mangon fretted. A solution to her predicament was hard to find. Brought about through no fault of her own, Madame Gioconda’s decline was all the harder to bear. Since the introduction a few years earlier of ultrasonic music, the human voice—indeed, audible music of any type—had gone completely out of fashion. Ultrasonic music, employing a vastly greater range of octaves, chords, and chromatic scales than perceptible to the human ear, provided a direct neural link between the sound stream and the auditory lobes, generating an apparendy sourceless sensation of harmony, rhythm, cadence, and melody uncontaminated by the noise and vibration of audible music. The rescoring of the classical repertoire allowed the ultrasonic audience the best of both worlds. The majestic rhythms of Beethoven, the popular melodies of Tchaikovsky, the complex fugal elaborations of Bach, the abstract images of Schonberg—all these were raised in frequency above the threshold of conscious audibility. Not only did they become inaudible, but the original works were rescored for the much wider range of the ultrasonic orchestra, became richer in texture,
more profound in theme, more sensitive, tender, or lyrical as the ultrasonic arranger chose.
The first casualty in this change-over was the human voice. This alone of all instruments could not be rescored, because its sounds were produced by nonmechanical means which the neurophonic engineer could never hope, or bother, to duplicate.
The earliest ultrasonic recordings had met with resistance, even ridicule. Radio programs consisting of nothing but silence interrupted at half-hour intervals by commercial breaks seemed absurd. But gradually the public discovered that the silence was golden, that after leaving the radio switched to an ultrasonic channel for an hour or so a pleasant atmosphere of rhythm and melody seemed to generate itself spontaneously around them. When an announcer suddenly stated that an ultrasonic version of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony or Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique had just been played the listener identified the real source.
A second advantage of ultrasonic music was that its frequencies were so high they left no resonating residues in solid structures, and consequently there was no need to call in the sound-sweep. After an audible performance of most symphonic music, walls and furniture throbbed for days with disintegrating residues that made the air seem leaden and tumid, made an entire room virtually uninhabitable.
An immediate result was the swift collapse of all but a few symphony orchestras and opera companies. Concert halls and opera houses closed overnight. In the age of noise the tranquilizing balms of silence began to be rediscovered.
But the final triumph of ultrasonic music had come with a second development—the shortplaying record, spinning at 900 rpm, which condensed the forty-five minutes of a Beethoven symphony to twenty seconds of playing time, the three hours of a Wagner opera to little more than two minutes. Compact and cheap, SP records sacrificed nothing to brevity. One thirty-second SP record delivered as much neurophonic pleasure as a natural length recording, but with deeper penetration, greater total impact.
Ultrasonic SP records swept all others off the market. Sonic LP records became museum pieces—only a crank would choose to listen to an audible full-length version of Siegfried or the Barber of Seville when he could have both wrapped up inaudibly inside the same five-minute package and appreciate their full musical value.
The heyday of Madame Gioconda was over. Unceremoniously left on the shelf, she had managed to survive for a few months vocalizing on radio commercials. Soon these too went ultrasonic. In a despairing act of revenge she bought out the radio station which fired her and made her home on one of the sound stages. Over the years the station became derelict and forgotten, its windows smashed, its neon portico collapsing, its aerials rusting. The huge eight-lane flyover built across it sealed it conclusively into the past.
Now Madame Gioconda proposed to win her way back at stiletto point.
Mangon watched her impassively as she ranted on nastily in a cloud of purple cigarette smoke, a large seedy witch. The pheno-barbitone was making her drowsy and her threats and ultimatums were becoming disjointed.
“. . . memoirs too, don’t forget, Hector. Frank exposure, no holds barred. I mean . . . damn, have to get a ghost. Hotel de Paris at Monte, lots of pictures. Oh yes, I kept the photographs.” She grubbed about on the couch, came up with a crumpled soap coupon and a supermarket pay slip. “Wait till those lawyers see them. Hector—” Suddenly she broke off, stared glassily at Mangon and sagged back.
Mangon waited until she was finally asleep, then stood up and peered closely at her. She looked forlorn and desperate. He watched her reverently for a moment, then tiptoed to the rheostat mounted on the control panel behind the couch, damped down the lamp at Madame Gioconda’s feet and left the stage.
He sealed the auditorium doors behind him, made his way down to the foyer and stepped out, sad but at the same time oddly exhilarated, into the cool midnight air. At last he accepted that he would have to act swiftly if he was to save Madame Gioconda.
Two
Driving his sound truck into the city shortly after nine the next morning, Mangon decided to postpone his first call—the weird Neo-Corbusier Episcopalian Oratory sandwiched among the office blocks in the downtown financial sector—and instead turned west on Mainway and across the park toward the white-faced apartment batter
ies which reared up above the trees and lakes along the north side.
The Oratory was a difficult and laborious job that would take him three hours of concentrated effort. The Dean had recently imported some rare thirteenth-century pediments from the Church of St. Francis at Assisi, beautiful sonic matrices rich with seven centuries of Gregorian chant, overlaid by the timeless tolling of the angelus. Mounted into the altar, they emanated an atmosphere resonant with litany and devotion, a mellow, deeply textured hymn that silently evoked the most sublime images of prayer and meditation.
But at $50,000 each they also represented a terrifying hazard to the clumsy sound-sweep. Only two years earlier the entire north transept of Rheims Cathedral, rose window intact, purchased for a record $1,000,000 and re-erected in the new Cathedral of St. Joseph at San Diego, had been drained of its priceless heritage of tonal inlays by a squad of illiterate sound-sweeps who had misread their instructions and accidentally swept the wrong wall.
Even the most conscientious sound-sweep was limited by his skill, and Mangon, with his auditory supersensitivity, was greatly in demand for his ability to sweep selectively, draining from the walls of the Oratory all extraneous and discordant noises—coughing, crying, the clatter of coins and mumble of prayer—leaving behind the chorales and liturgical chants which enhanced their devotional overtones. His skill alone would lengthen the life of the Assisi pediments by twenty years; without him they would soon become contaminated by the miscellaneous traffic of the congregation. Consequently he had no fears that the Dean would complain if he failed to appear as usual that morning.
Halfway along the north side of the park he swung off into the forecourt of a huge forty-story apartment block, a glittering white cliff ribbed by jutting balconies. Most of the apartments were Super-lux duplexes occupied by show business people. No one was about, but as Mangon entered the hallway, sonovac in one hand, the marble walls and columns buzzed softly with the echoing chatter of guests leaving parties four or five hours earlier.
In the elevator the residues were clearer—confident male tones, the sharp wheedling of querulous wives, the soft negatives of amatory blonds, punctuated by countless repetitions of “dahling.” Mangon ignored the echoes, which were almost inaudible, a dim insect hum. He grinned to himself as he rode up to the penthouse apartment; if Madame Gioconda had known his destination she would have strangled him on the spot.
* * *
Ray Alto, doyen of the ultrasonic composers and the man more than any other responsible for Madame Gioconda’s decline, was one of Mangon’s regular calls. Usually Mangon swept his apartment once a week, calling at three in the afternoon. Today, however, he wanted to make sure of finding Alto before he left for Video City, where he was a director of program music.
The houseboy let him in. He crossed the hall and made his way down the black glass staircase into the sunken lounge. Wide studio windows revealed an elegant panorama of park and midtown skyscrapers.
A white-slacked young man sitting on one of the long slab sofas —Paul Merrill, Alto’s arranger—waved him back.
“Mangon, hold onto your dive breaks. I’m really on reheat this morning.” He twirled the ultrasonic trumpet he was playing, a tangle of stops and valves from which half a dozen leads trailed off across the cushions to a cathode tube and tone generator at the other end of the sofa.
Mangon sat down quietly and Merrill clamped the mouthpiece to his lips. Watching the ray tube intently, where he could check the shape of the ultrasonic notes, he launched into a brisk allegretto sequence, then quickened and flicked out a series of brilliant arpeggios, stripping off high P and Q notes that danced across the cathode screen like frantic eels, fantastic glissandos that raced up twenty octaves in as many seconds. Each note was distinct and symmetrically exact, tripping off the tone generator to turn so that escalators of electronic chords interweaved the original scale, a multichannel melodic stream that crowded the cathode screen with exquisite, flickering patterns. The whole thing was inaudible, but the air around Mangon felt vibrant and accelerated, charged with gaiety and sparkle, and he applauded generously when Merrill threw off a final dashing riff.
“Flight of the Bumble Bee,” Merrill told him. He tossed the trumpet aside and switched off the cathode tube. He lay back and savored the glistening air for a moment. “Well, how are things?”
Just then the door from one of the bedrooms opened and Ray Alto appeared, a tall, thoughtful man of about forty, with thinning blond hair, wearing pale blue sunglasses over cool eyes.
“Hello, Mangon,” he said, running a hand over Mangon’s head. “You’re early today. Full program?” Mangon nodded. “Don’t let it get you down.” Alto picked a dictaphone off one of the end tables, carried it over to an armchair. “Noise, noise, noise—the greatest single disease vector of civilization. The whole world’s rotting with it, yet all they can afford is a few people like Mangon tooling around with sonovacs. It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago people completely failed to realize that sound left any residues.”
“Are we any better?” Merrill asked. ‘‘This month’s Transonics claims that eventually unswept sonic resonances will build up to a critical point where they’ll literally start shaking buildings apart. The entire city will come down like Jericho.”
“Babel,” Alto corrected. “Okay, now, let’s shut up. We’ll be gone soon, Mangon. Buy him a drink, would you, Paul?”
Merrill brought Mangon a coke from the bar, then wandered off. Alto flipped on the dictaphone, began to speak steadily into it. “Memo 7: Betty, when does the copyright on Stravinsky lapse? Memo 8: Betty, file melody for projected nocturne: L, L sharp, BB, Y flat, Q, VT, L, L sharp. Memo 9: Paul, the bottom three octaves of the ultratuba are within the audible spectrum of the canine ear—congrats on that SP of the Anvil Chorus last night; about three million dogs thought the roof had fallen in on them. Memo 10: Betty—” He broke off, put down the microphone. “Mangon, you look worried.”
Mangon, who had been lost in reverie, pulled himself together and shook his head.
“Working too hard?” Alto pressed. He scrutinized Mangon suspiciously. “Are you still sitting up all night with that Gioconda woman?”
Embarrassed, Mangon lowered his eyes. His relationship with Alto was, obliquely, almost as close as that with Madame Gioconda. Although Alto was brusque and often irritable with Mangon, he took a sincere interest in his welfare. Possibly Mangon’s muteness reminded him of the misanthropic motives behind his hatred of noise, made him feel indirectly responsible for the act of violence Mangon’s mother had committed. Also, one artist to another, he respected Mangon’s phenomenal auditory sensitivity.
“She’ll exhaust you, Mangon, believe me.” Alto knew how much the personal contact meant to Mangon and hesitated to be overcritical. “There’s nothing you can do for her. Offering her sympathy merely fans her hopes for a comeback. She hasn’t a chance.”
Mangon frowned, wrote quickly on his wrist-pad:
She WILL sing again!
Alto read the note pensively. Then, in a harder voice, he said: “She’s using you for her own purposes, Mangon. At present you satisfy one whim of hers—the neurotic headaches and fantasy applause. God forbid what the next whim might be.”
She is a great artist.
“She way,” Alto pointed out. “No more, though, sad as it is. I’m afraid that the times change.”
Annoyed by this, Mangon gritted his teeth and tore off another sheet.
Entertainment, perhaps. Art, No!
Alto accepted the rebuke silently; he reproved himself as much as Mangon did for selling out to Video City. In his four years there his output of original ultrasonic music consisted of little more than one nearly finished symphony—aptly titled Opus Zero —shortly to receive its first performance, a few nocturnes, and one quartet. Most of his energies went into program music, prestige numbers for spectaculars and a mass of straight transcriptions of the classical repertoire. The last he particularly despised. It was fi
t work for Paul Merrill, but not for a responsible composer.
He added the sheet to the two in his left hand and asked: “Have you ever heard Madame Gioconda sing?”
Mangon’s answer came back scornfully:
No! But you have. Please describe.
Alto laughed shortly, tore up the sheets and walked across to the window.
“All right, Mangon, you’ve made your point. You’re carrying a torch for art, doing your duty to one of the few perfect things the world has ever produced. I hope you’re equal to the responsibility. La Gioconda might be quite a handful. Do you know that at one time the doors of Covent Garden, La Scala, and the Met were closed to her? They said Callas had temperament, but she was a girl scout compared with Gioconda. Tell me, how is she? Eating enough?”
Mangon held up his coke bottle.
“Snow? That’s tough. But how does she afford it?” He glanced at his watch. “Dammit, I’ve got to leave. Clean this place out thoroughly, will you? It gives me a headache just listening to myself think.”
He started to pick up the dictaphone but Mangon was scribbling rapidly on his pad.
Give Madame Gioconda a job
Alto read the note, then gave it back to Mangon, puzzled. “Where? In this apartment?” Mangon shook his head. “Do you mean at V.C.? Singing?” When Mangon began to nod vigorously he looked up at the ceiling with a despairing groan. “For heaven’s sake, Mangon, the last vocalist sang at Video City over ten years ago. No audience would stand for it. If I even suggested such an idea they’d tear my contract into a thousand pieces.” He shuddered, only half-playfully. “I don’t know about you, Mangon, but I’ve got my ulcer to support.”
He made his way to the staircase, but Mangon intercepted him, pencil flashing across the wrist-pad.
Please. Madame Gioconda will start blackmail soon. She is desperate. Must sing again. Could arrange make-believe program in research studios. Closed circuit.
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