“What does he wish of you?”
“He didn't say. He wants me to stop by his office before the dinner.”
“That is not good.”
“No. But I don't know as I can refuse.”
“Never can we refuse. Would that we could.”
I nodded in agreement with that, and refilled Llysette's wine glass. Then I refilled mine.
5
The rain finally blew itself out late Thursday, and Friday had come in bright and clear, and colder than normal for mid-October, with patches of solid black ice on the roads. My morning run through the hills and lanes was more cautious, and slower. Because of a bonnet-boot smash on the east side of the river bridge, it was almost ten past nine before I dropped Llysette in front of the music building and headed back to Samaha's for the paper. I didn't even look at the headlines, but eased the Stanley back to the upper faculty car park. The campus sidewalks were worse than the roads, and I was muttering by the time I stepped into the natural resources building.
I wasn't three steps inside the foyer before David appeared. “Johan? I got your note.”
I frowned. There shouldn't have been any problem in dealing with a two-day absence to attend the presidential dinner. I had already arranged for my classes to be covered. Still, with David, one never knew. He closed the door to his office behind me, then settled behind his desk, fingering the meerschaum pipe he'd given up smoking years before. I took the chair across from him and waited.
“President Waa. wired me yesterday afternoon.”
I nodded, having no intention of saying anything until I knew where David was headed.
“He was most concerned that you offered nothing at the get-together on Wednesday. You know that he values faculty input.”
“He values being able to say that he offers faculty the opportunity to make suggestions. Can you recall the last time he took any faculty suggestion—unless he'd already proposed it?”
“Johan . . . a university must operate on a carefully developed consensus.”
“I agree. I just don't see any consensus being developed. I can see an attempt to impose one, but that's another issue.” I could see the blank expression on David's face. “What do you want? Waa.'s a slithering idiot who never had an original idea, and couldn't recognize one if it were delivered to him by an express steamer and wrapped in red ribbon. I didn't say anything like that. I didn't tell the group that his idea for multidisciplinary lecture classes of two hundred students plus was idiotic. Nor did I suggest that expanding class sizes for economic reasons was equally idiotic, since one of the biggest attractions we offer to incoming students is small classes.”
The blank look was replaced with one of stunned shock.
“Instead, I was quiet, restrained, and polite,” I pointed out.
“Your . . . attitude is uncalled for, Johan. The president and dean have been most supportive of both you and your wife, even at times when . . . well . . . matters were less than conventional.”
I could feel my blood pressure rising, but there wasn't any point in saying more. There hadn't been any point in saying what I'd said, now that I'd thought about it. David and Waa. were cut from the same mold—ignore reality, follow tradition, mouth platitudes, and try to save money at the expense of both faculty and students. Oh . . . and increase administrative costs, staff, and perks, while economizing on everything else. “You and they have been very supportive,” I acknowledged. “And we have reciprocated by mentioning the university most favorably in many places where it would otherwise have been impossible for the university to obtain publicity or favorable notice.” I took a slow breath. “You may convey to the president that I was not feeling as well as I might, and, if you would like, I will send a brief note conveying the same.”
“That would help, Johan. You know that the legislature is talking about reducing state support for the university system this year.”
“I'll send a note today,” I conceded.
“I would appreciate that.” David stood. “I look forward to hearing about the arts dinner, and I know the dean will also.”
“I'll give you a memo on the dinner for the file when we get back.”
David nodded, and I slipped out of his office. I even closed the door gently before I headed upstairs to my own far more modest cubbyhole.
I should have graded the natural resources quizzes, but I was too angry. So I turned to my first avenue for cooling down, and that was the paper. I looked at the lead story.
Asten (NBNS). As fuel and heating oil prices have soared across New Bruges, service station owners and operators have begun to hear more than the sounds of coins in their tills. Phrases like price trupps, blackmailers, and profiteers . . .
Steamer and hauler drivers don't accept the explanations of the petroleum companies, such as the explosions at Venezuelan refineries and the reluctance of Japanese consortia to increase exports to Columbia from Southeast Asia . . .
“They got money for a new building in Asten, don't they?” asked one customer. . . .
I couldn't read much more of that, but the story below the fold wasn't much better.
Federal District (RPI). “The Speaker is not considering increasing conscription levels or recalling soldiers and airmen recently released from active duty. There is absolutely no truth to that rumor,” stated Defense Minister Holmbek. Holmbek was reacting to a news report first aired by Trans Media's federal district subsidiary WFD that the Speaker would soon put before the House a measure to increase conscription levels and to extend terms of service for reservists now serving.
Holmbek also denied that the federalization and mobilization of two additional state air guards was anything other than a need for advanced training. “The transfer of the Austro-Hungarian First and Third Elite Cavalry to the border west of the Russian town of L'Vovhad nothing to do with the Speaker's decision. . . .”
Somehow, I recalled reading something else along that line not too long before. I hadn't believed it then, either. After reading just those stories, I suddenly wasn't terribly angry at David and Waa.. Disgusted, but not angry. The world was tottering closer to conflict and confiagration, and the two of them were wondering how they could water down education more and get away with it, when a decent universal education might be the only long-term hope for anyone.
I shook my head and opened the folder with the natural resources quizzes in them.
6
Over the next week, I kept looking in the post for envelopes with briefing materials, the way Ministers Van Becton and Jerome had sent them to me when they had run the Spazi. Not an envelope, nothing. On Wednesday, I offered an official RSVP, and then, on Saturday morning, before noon, while Llysette was practicing in the parlor, I forced myself to sit down before the wireset in the study to finally call Eric and Judith. I'd checked with Llysette twice. It was still strange, but she had no problems staying with them, and they always seemed glad to see us.
“Judith? This is Johan.”
“It's good to hear from you. With Eric handling all of Llysette's legal work, I almost never hear from you. You're coming down for the president's arts dinner? Both of you?”
“Does the whole world know?”
Judith laughed. “It could be. Marjorie Rusterman wired, wanting to drop in when Llysette was here. She's got a daughter who wants to sing. Nancy Nollen called also. Eric even got a call from Dmitri Volkogonov, asking when Llysette would be singing in the federal district.”
“Volkogonovitch? Should I know something about him?”
“Volkogonov,” Judith corrected me. “He's the military attaché at the Russian embassy. Eric sees him now and again. I met him at a reception at their embassy once. We got invited because Eric's firm handles commercial legal work for PetroRus. He even knew who Llysette was, and who you were. He said you were a lucky man.”
“I am, but that amazes me. Eric's involved in everything.”
“Not everything.” After a pause, she went on. “Would you two like
to stay with us? That's why you're calling, isn't it?”
“Yes, I have to confess. I put it off, because . . . it's just . . . I feel strange.”
“We'd love to have you. Llysette's such a dear, and I can't tell you how much I enjoyed hearing her play and sing the last time you came.”
“You don't have to twist my arm.” I laughed. “If you're sure, we'll be down on the Wednesday afternoon. We'll take you and Eric out to dinner then. It's the least we can do.”
“I won't turn that down. We'll be looking forward to it, and I won't tell Nancy. If you remember, you could bring a brochure that tells about the school and the music program.”
“Llysette's department put out something this summer.” I wrote a note on my “to do” pad.
After I finished talking to Judith, since Llysette wouldn't be practicing that much longer, I went into the kitchen and studied the refrigerator, finally deciding that I could rejuvenate the potato soup and add bread and a salad. We'd need something to eat before driving down to Zuider. We needed odds and ends that no one in Vanderbraak Centre carried. I'd thought I'd stop by my old friend Bruce's establishment, just to see the latest in difference engine technology, and to say hello.
By the time Llysette stopped practicing and peered into the kitchen, everything was ready.
“A hot soup will be good.”
“It's not that cold out.” Grinning, I gestured outside to the bright—if cold—sunlight.
“You mock me.” She offered a pout that wasn't even an attempt at real hurt or anger.
“Only because I like to tease you. You're cute.”
“Like the baby ducks, no?”
I winced.
She laughed and slipped into the chair.
I served the soup, then the salads and the hot bread, and sat down across from her.
“Eric and Judith said they'd be happy to have us,” I finally said, as I finished the soup. “Is that all right with you?”
Llysette laughed. “Three times now you have asked. You wish I should say no?”
She took some things far better than I would have—such as my friendship with Elspeth's sister and her husband. Very few women would be comfortable staying with her husband's former in-laws, but after what Llysette had been through, she seemed far more focused on what she found important—her singing and teaching, and, thankfully, me.
“The problem with Beau Jonn, you recall?” asked Llysette.
“That Dierk wants him to teach mostly men? You weren't too happy about that.”
“ Non. We may have a larger difficulty, now.”
“What's that?”
“He belongs to the reserve forces in Ohio.”
“Is that one of the units the Speaker is mobilizing? Does that mean you'll have to teach both his men and your studio? Until the end of the semester, anyway?”
“I would judge yes.” Llysette shrugged. “There is little we can do if he must go.”
I stood and began to gather the dirty dishes. “Do you still want to go to Zuider?”
“There are no stockings here.”
“No water filters, either.”
We both laughed and finished the dishes together. While Llysette was gathering her jacket and purse and whatever else, I pulled on my trench coat and stepped out into the bright afternoon and brisk wind that had begun to strip the leaves from the trees and strew them across the lawn. I eased the steamer out of the car barn and turned it around, then went inside to tell Llysette. She was already standing in the foyer at the foot of the steps. She glanced up the stairs, with a look I didn't recognize.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “There are times when . . . there, I look, and expect to see Carolynne.”
“I know. Sometimes, I still have images, things that she must have seen, that I never did.”
“Moi aussi.”
Then, it was strange, and probably always would be, to have the memories of a ghost who had haunted the house for generations before I was born, and even stranger to know that Llysette and I shared those memories of a person neither of us had ever been or known, except as a ghost. But, then, that had only been one of the results of my desperate early attempts with ghost handling, and far from the worst. I still had scars on my shoulder from Llysette's nearly too successful attempts to kill me with a luger, but I wouldn't have given them up for anything.
“Pauvre femme . . .”
We stepped outside, and I locked the deadbolts.
I whistled a five-note unfinished melody, just to be perverse, as I drove the Stanley out onto Deacon's Lane. Llysette elbowed me, but she smiled.
One of Benjamin's sons, Luke, I thought, waved as we headed down the hill toward Route 5. Before long I found myself behind another of the ubiquitous van Emsden milk haulers, with a long line of traffic headed north. It was definitely going to be a slow trip to Zuider.
“How's the Poulenc coming?” I asked.
“There is one part . . . but it is almost ready, not like the Rachmaninov.”
I hadn't realized she was even working on a Russian piece.
“It is . . . plus difficile que j'ai crois . . . ”
We talked about what songs she planned for the concerts ahead, and I finally got around the hauler, and passed Three Loon Lakes, just after the point where the road turned from the Wijk River and headed due east. The closer we got to Zuider, and Lochmeer, the less traffic there was.
Bruce's establishment was on the west side of Zuider, well away from the lake, identified only by the simple LBI logo. The only steamer in the small car park behind the building was the ragtop Olds that was Bruce's. Sometimes, I wondered about the oddities of things. Both Reos and Oldsmobiles were popular vehicles, but Ransom Olds had created both companies. He'd lost the first through financial chicanery, and yet had persevered to create the second.
Bruce must have seen us coming, because he actually opened the door—for Llysette, although he was gracious enough to keep holding it for me. He still bowed to Llysette after we entered. “It is always a pleasure.” He turned to me questioningly. “You don't need insurance, special equipment, miniature devices?” His eyes twinkled.
“Not today,” I replied. Bruce had provided all of the above, although his reference to insurance referred to a different type—his willingness to distribute certain information should anything happen to me. Then, we'd known each other for nearly twenty years, back to a time when we'd both served in the Spazi. Bruce had been in the technical side, and had left earlier, and more wisely, but I'd needed the government insurance for Elspeth. “We're shopping for more mundane things . . . water filters, stockings, conservative cravats. But you did say I should stop by and see what else you had in the way of difference engines.”
He led us to a spotless workbench in one of the rear rooms, where a difference engine, without its cover, sat next to a screen. “Here's a version of the newest SII model. It could handle three of your special requirements at once.”
“That is impressive. I'll keep that in mind.”
“If you got it now,” Bruce added, “you wouldn't be calling me to ask for the impossible in a week's time.”
I laughed; Llysette smiled. Then I stopped laughing. Bruce never said anything without a reason. “What do you know?”
“Nothing that you don't.” He shrugged. “I read the papers. Matters are getting tight. When that happens, people look for experts with experience. You have expertise and experience, and you're unfortunately loyal.”
“That is unfortunate?” asked Llysette.
“When a government needs someone it can trust, it is.”
“So, wizard technical expert, where are they sending me?”
Bruce laughed. “How would I know? I can tell you that it will be someplace where they can't send anyone else.”
“You must be having hard times,” I replied, “if you're trying to scare a poor university professor into buying the latest electrofiuidic technology.”
“I do have to stay in business,” Bruce pointed out.
“I'll contribute,” I said. “Fix it up with what you think I need, and then add more.”
For the first time, Bruce did look surprised. “Johan . . . I didn't mean . . .”
“I know, but I've needed a better machine for a while.” What I wasn't saying was that I'd learned a long time ago that Bruce was an optimist. Things were usually worse than he figured.
“Why don't you bring down the special items I made for you, then,” he suggested. “I'll look them over, and see if perhaps I can't improve them.”
Llysette looked from Bruce to me, and then back to Bruce. “You are two just alike.”
“I learned it all from Johan,” Bruce replied, deadpan.
“After I first learned it from him,” I countered.
“Assez!”
We both smiled. After a moment, so did Llysette.
“I'll let you know when the machine is ready,” Bruce promised.
“Thank you.”
With that, Llysette and I went off to find more harmless items, like water filters and stockings, and I tried to forget what Bruce had said.
7
On Sunday, Llysette and I were even virtuous enough to attend the Dutch Reformed service, where I enjoyed Klaus Esterhoos's sermon about “immeasurable compassion,” the idea that caring for others shouldn't be weighed by time spent, intensity of feelings, or quantifiable results, because such caring had an effect beyond the present and calculable results and because measuring compassion defeated its very purpose. That kind of sermon was the type I liked, perhaps because I preferred goodness and ethics that could stand without deistic support. Unhappily, Sunday didn't last, and the week began damp and uneventful, before the sun returned on Wednesday.
Bruce did wonders in his procurement efforts, and on Thursday afternoon I left right after my Environmental Politics 2B course and drove down to Zuider to pick up the new SII difference engine—and to drop off the calculator and hair dryer that were more than just what they seemed to be for Bruce to overhaul and improve. Then I drove right back to Vanderbraak Centre through more rain, hard bullet-like drops from the dark clouds that had gathered from nowhere while I had talked to Bruce.
Ghost of the White Nights Page 4