Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’m Joanne Axley, professor of voice at Deseret University.”

  “Llysette duBoise,” I said for my diva, “and I’m her husband and escort, Johan Eschbach.”

  “I’m so glad you could spend the time with us, Doktor duBoise. I’ve limited this group to graduate students in voice.” She smiled apologetically. “Doktor Perkins did prevail on me to let several of his graduate students sit in as well.”

  “I would be happy to hear all, and offer what I might.” Llysette’s smile was professional, her voice slightly warmer than cordial.

  The procedure was relatively simple. A student got up. Llysette was given a copy of the music and a little time to glance over it. Then the student went over beside the piano and sang one song and then stood and waited for Llysette’s comments.

  Llysette wasn’t at a loss for words, not in teaching.

  “Your dipthongs, you are letting them change the pitch.”

  The blonde young woman nodded.

  “When you shift to the second vowel, the pitch changes. Stay on the first vowel… . Touch lightly only the second.”

  That got another nod, but I wondered about the comprehension.

  “One more time… .”

  The blonde cleared her throat gently and then sang.

  “Non! … Like this… .”

  Llysette sang the same phrase, and even I could sense the difference.

  After a time, Llysette gestured toward the next student. The dark-haired girl/woman almost trembled as she stood beside the piano. I could tell that the student’s tone was good, better than that of most of the students Llysette had at Vanderbraak State, but there was no life in the song.

  Apparently Llysette agreed. “Stop!” My singer shook her head sadly. “What does this verse mean?”

  “It’s in Italian.”

  “Ca, we know. But what do the words mean? Tell me with your own words … what does this mean?”

  “Ah … Doktor … she’s singing about how she is sick and everything is hopeless.”

  “Do you sound hopeless?” asked Llysette with a smile.

  The dark-haired student looked confused. In the background, Joanne Axley nodded, and I understood one of the reasons for master classes. After a while students tune out their instructors. When someone famous and important says it … then the teacher—sometimes—regains credence.

  “You must sing the words and the emotions. A voice, it is not a piano. It is not … a drum.”

  The next student had trouble with something that Llysette called “the anticipation of the consonant.”

  “The body … it knows the next sound is the consonant, and it desires to sing that consonant. That closes off the vowel. You must stay on the vowel longer… .”

  The comments continued with each student.

  “You squeeze your breath too much here… .”

  “A nice touch there … delicate, and that it should be… .”

  “Do you know the style? How must one sing this style …”

  “Your neck, it is tight like a wire cable, and you have no breath on the long phrases… .”

  What got me was that these were good students. I almost shuddered at what Llysette—or most voice teachers—had to go through with the others.

  She motioned to one of the young men, dark-haired. “You, have you a song?”

  “Ah … yes, Doktor.”

  “Then sing it for me.”

  She nodded as he launched into some aria I didn’t recognize, but, then, I wouldn’t have recognized most of them.

  The “one-hour” master class lasted more than an hour and a half before Llysette heard the last song from the last male graduate student and Joanne Axley walked with us to the door of the lecture room.

  “You’ve been very gracious … and very helpful.” Joanne Axley’s smile was warmer than the one she had offered when Llysette had arrived. Another case of Jensen—or someone—leaning hard and people being surprised after the fact?

  “I would try,” Llysette said. “You have taught them well.”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  “They do not always listen,” Llysette added dryly. “That I know.”

  “You made quite an impression.” Axley smiled brightly. “Gerald and I will be at your recital tonight. We’re looking forward to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stepped into the hall, and Axley turned back to the group, perhaps for some summary comments.

  “She’s nice, but a little on edge.” I was trying to be diplomatic.

  “That I understand. She is a singer. She has worked hard. She has told her students much of what I tell them. More than that, I do not doubt. They do not listen toujours. I come, and they listen.” Llysette shook her head slowly. “The students, they are so stupid at times.”

  “They are, and you need to eat,” I said as we walked up the carpeted stairs to the main level.

  “I must rest, and I worry about the second piece of Doktor Perkins. Last night … I was not my best.”

  For a singer, I’d decided, or for Llysette, nothing short of perfection was acceptable, even when a performance was close to fantastic.

  So we walked back to the Lion Inn and the performing suite, where she sat at the Haaren with the music while I ordered a lunch/dinner from room service.

  I did manage to drag her from the piano when the cart table was wheeled in, partly by starting to pour some wine.

  “Half a glass. That is all.”

  That was all she got. I took a full glass—just one.

  Llysette went through several mouthfuls of pasta before she paused.

  “That class took a lot out of you? Why did you agree to it?”

  “The opportunity … the performance… .” She sipped the half-glass of wine she had allowed herself.

  I understood that part. It had been presented as a package deal. “But did you have to work so hard?”

  “How could I not? When I was their age, no one would listen to me, not someone … like I am now.”

  “You?”

  “Then, in France, in the provinces … every girl would be a diva. My parents could not afford the best in teachers, and I learned the piano too late.” She paused and took a mouthful of pasta.

  “At what, age twelve?”

  “Twelve,” she affirmed. “Eight, it would have been better. So you see, that is why I must teach—”

  “And why you get irritated with students who aren’t serious.”

  “Mais oui.... They waste my time, and that time I could give to others.”

  Others like little Llysette duBoise had been dying for a chance. I just swallowed and took a small sip of wine.

  Between one thing and another, we got backstage at the concert hall forty-five minutes before curtain time.

  Dan Perkins met us with a smile as we went backstage. “Joanne wired me,” he said. “She was pleasantly surprised at your master class. Very pleasantly surprised.”

  “She should not be surprised,” said Llysette.

  “I told her that.” His smile widened to a boyish grin. “And I told her that I’d told her earlier that I’d be telling her just that.”

  That got me smiling, and Llysette as well.

  “James B. Bird, one of my students, wired me to tell me you were outstanding.”

  “Your students were better,” Llysette said.

  “Don’t tell Joanne that.” He glanced toward the stage. “I need to warm up.”

  “Then you should.”

  He bowed and departed.

  Once Llysette was settled in her dressing room and once that look crossed her face, I kissed her and eased myself out. From somewhere, I could hear the sounds of a piano—Doktor Perkins warming up.

  After hearing Llysette from the audience the first night, I decided to view the proceedings from backstage the second night, although I couldn’t quite have said why. A feeling, more or less. I hoped Herr, or Brother, Jensen wouldn’t be too displeased.

  I found a stool,
which I appropriated, and stationed myself in the wings on the left side of the performing area, on the left looking at the audience.

  Of course, I couldn’t stay on it and found myself pacing in tight circles behind the angled partitions that provided slit views of the performing area.

  Brother Jensen paused as he walked past. “Just stay behind the tape that marks the sight lines, Minister Eschbach.”

  I glanced down. The stool was a good ten feet in back of the red tape on the stage. “I think we’re well clear.”

  He nodded, then walked on to continue his survey of the backstage area. About that time, I heard the murmurs and rustles that signified that they’d opened the house to the audience.

  In time, the five-minute lights blinked, and then the chimes warbled. But the murmurs continued from the hall as more Saints filed in—late—and it was nearly fifteen minutes later before Llysette came out from the corridor from the dressing rooms, accompanied by Dan Perkins. I smiled as they neared and got a warm but puzzled smile in return. “You are here?”

  “I thought I’d watch from here. Less company.” I grinned. “Your admiring public is waiting.”

  “Jillian didn’t come tonight,” said Perkins. “She said it was too nerve-racking, with all the crowds. It’s easier to perform than watch.” He offered that boyish grin. “For me, anyway.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t perform.” I reached out and squeezed Llysette’s hand.

  As they stepped toward the stage, I had to wonder why they’d both gotten tied up with people who weren’t thrilled with crowds. Then, my experience with the Spazi and in politics had inevitably led me to the conclusion that crowds tended to bring out the worst in people.

  Llysette and Perkins stepped into the light, and the applause built and slowly died away. They waited until the hall was perfectly still before his fingers drew the first notes of the Handel from the big Steinbach.

  I turned to my left, where a stagehand had eased up slightly more than a dozen feet away, partly shielded by one of the side partitions, apparently to watch the concert. He wore, like most of them, dark trousers and shirt and the ubiquitous leather equipment belt.

  Llysette’s voice rose with and over the Steinbach, but I couldn’t concentrate on her singing.

  The stagehand was dark-haired, and he watched Llysette intently. Too intently. Even with my poor sense of rhythm I could tell he wasn’t following the music.

  He eased forward, still well out of sight of the audience.

  My fingers felt like thumbs as I got out the calculator and fumbled the pen and pencil into the rubber-screened holes, even while I slipped from my stool and edged toward the blackshirted figure, slow step by slow step.

  Llysette’s voice glided across the Handel and toward the end.

  With the applause, the dark-haired stagehand took another step toward the stage, his hand straying toward the shirt that was too loose, Deseret or not.

  With the glint of metal and the thundering applause, I jammed the calculator’s delete key.

  The thump of his body and the dull clunk of the dropped revolver were lost in the applause, for which I was thankful. Bruce’s disassociator beam was so tight I didn’t even feel that shuddery twisting. I hoped Llysette didn’t either, but I hadn’t had much choice.

  The calculator went into my jacket pocket after I reached the unconscious figure and bent down. I shook my head—another zombie.

  A dark-suited figure appeared beside me, one with that air that signified professionalism. His fingers checked the prone stagehand. “Neatly done, Doktor,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t think you’d reach him in time. He’ll have quite a headache, I imagine.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, keeping my voice low but straightening and stepping back. Who knew who else might be around?

  “Danite Johnson. First Counselor Cannon asked us to keep a watch on the performances. This one slipped by.” His eyes continued to survey the backstage area.

  Two more Danites appeared and quietly carted the intruder off.

  Llysette went to the Mozart, apparently undisturbed—and that got another powerful ovation. So did the Debussy.

  After the first half, I slipped out of sight, back along the rear wall, still watching Llysette’s dressing room, but placed so it would be hard for her to see me. I didn’t want to interrupt her concentration or to let her see me too closely. She’d know that I was upset. One of the uniformed guards remained by her door from the entire time she entered until she headed back toward the stage with Dan Perkins.

  The audience got more and more enthused with each song in the second part of the program, and it wasn’t clear if the ovations after the encore would ever end.

  I hugged Llysette once she cleared the stage. “You were wonderful.” And I meant it.

  “I wasn’t sure how it could be better than last night,” added Perkins, “but she was. We’ve got some incredible recordings, if they didn’t have technical problems.”

  That was about as far we got at that moment, because people began appearing from everywhere. There were more admirers and a lot more guards, both those in serge blue uniforms and Danites. And I could see the hidden and portable scanners. While I admired the efficiency, I got an even colder feeling, because it was clear someone had let the presumed Austro-Hungarian agent in. Then, he could have been one of deGaulle’s as well. Either way, his presence had been permitted, and that meant Deseret was no different from Columbia or anywhere else.

  When the last admirers finally left and Llysette was beginning to sniffle amid another pile of flowers, I looked at her.

  Should I tell her? If someone else did, that would upset her even more. I took a deep breath.

  “You had another fan backstage,” I finally said.

  “A fan?”

  “I think he was invited by your former friend Ferdinand. He’s now getting a rest cure, courtesy of the Saints.”

  Llysette’s eyes widened. “Backstage you were… . Was that why?”

  “Just a feeling,” I admitted. “I didn’t think anyone would try something opening night. People let down their guards after opening night. So… .” I shrugged.

  “There was a coldness after the Handel, but I sang.”

  Brother Jensen, nearing with a pair of Danites, frowned at her words.

  “I tried to be quiet, and I hoped it wouldn’t upset you.”

  “What drew you to the intruder?” asked Brother Jensen.

  “He just didn’t feel right.” What I didn’t want to say was that, for some reason, the Saint security had let him into the backstage area. Were they watching me? If so, I’d fallen for the trap, and that meant trouble … but how could I have risked letting Llysette get shot?

  Someone clearly knew that, as well, and that left me feeling even more helpless.

  “Tonight, you must take the steamer,” Jensen insisted.

  Neither of us was about to argue and after Llysette changed, we followed him down a long ramp, flanked by Danites, two of them carrying more of the flowers. With Llysette’s garment bag over my shoulder and my fingers concealed by it, I checked the hidden belt knife, then the calculator components.

  We needed neither. A shimmering Browning—brown, of course—waited below with Heber at the wheel.

  We sat back in the dark leather seats of the Browning as it crept from the garage underneath the performing complex up a concrete ramp and around two corners and onto the street, going around the block to bring us in under the canopy of the Lion Inn.

  “It is sad. One concert, and now I can no longer walk a few meters.”

  It was more than sad. I nodded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was awake well before eight, and I finally eased out of bed before nine, leaving Llysette to get the sleep she needed. My back was stiff from trying to be quiet and still when I was wide eyed. I never could sleep as late as Llysette, but I wasn’t under the same kind of strain that she was, nor was I undertaking the more strenuous kind of w
orkout that a full recital or concert happened to be.

  After closing the bedroom door, I did struggle my way through my exercises again—twice. They weren’t a substitute for the running up the hill and through the woods, but the mild workout helped both body and mind. I wasn’t about to go running off, literally or figuratively, not while she was sleeping or after the various attempts on either or both of us.

  I did go downstairs and retrieve the papers, but no stories appeared in either daily, even concealed, about the assault by the phony stagehand or about Llysette. Most of the news that wasn’t local was focused on the Atlantic naval buildups and the increasing tension between the Austrians and New France and Columbia, although Ambassador Schikelgruber had met with Minister Holmbek to assure him that Austro-Hungary had no intention of beginning a naval war in the Atlantic.

  “Just like Ferdinand had no intention of annexing France or the Low Countries … ,” I murmured to myself.

  I had two cups of the powdered hot chocolate while I studied the papers, even the advertising, but there wasn’t even a hint in the police reports about the attack on Llysette. Should I have been grateful? I wasn’t sure.

  Then I read through the cards that had come with the flowers. A few were recognizable, one way or another, like the formal card from Walter Klein, the Columbian ambassador. He was one of President Armstrong’s few political cronies who had actually gotten rewarded. I might have met him once or twice. There was one from Hartson James, the TransMedia mogul, who definitely saw something in Llysette. I just hoped his interest was purely commercial. The rest were from people, presumably Saints, whose names were unfamiliar.

  Finally, I flicked on the videolink, keeping the volume down, and sampled the five channels, trying to avoid the endless family-centered commercials and to find something resembling either news or a cultural program.

  Llysette kept sleeping and I kept switching channels. After probably another hour, I picked up the wireset to order a brunch for us—Llysette needed to get up before long and eat.

  As I did, I thought I saw a video image of the Salt Palace, and I put down the wireset and eased the video volume back up.

  “. . Columbian soprano Llysette duBoise, in the midst of an acclaimed series of performances at the Salt Palace, has shown a side that most women in Deseret would find closer to their hearts than navigating the treacherous slopes to a high C. DuBoise was apparently inundated with flowers from admirers. While she has kept the cards, she sent all but a single bouquet to those in hospitals and homes.”