Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  There were more than a few puzzled expressions around the head table and around the others, from what I could see.

  Speaker Hartpence smiled broadly as he stepped up to the podium. “Thankyou, Mister President. I hadn't expected such an explosive opening to the dinner, but it may just serve to emphasize the importance of what we're here tonight to commemorate.” He nodded to Armstrong before continuing. “The arts are fundamental to who we are as a people. They are also fundamental to the survival of a civilized world. When the arts and those who create them are disgraced, or used as mere political tools and propaganda, we all lose. When we fail to recognize and exalt those who struggle to perfect the best in their art, those who often risktheir lives rather than compromise their art, we become far less than we should be and can be. Too often we do not recognize the contributions of those in the arts. Tonight, I am most pleased to make a special presentation of the Columbian Medal for Achievement in the Arts. The recipient has had a unique career, which has spanned early fame, years of suffering for her art, years more of teaching success, unrecognized except by her students and colleagues, and then, once again, great, well-deserved, and long-overdue acclaim.”

  I swallowed, glancing sideways at Llysette. She was swallowing, too, as eyes turned to her.

  Speaker Hartpence gestured toward Llysette. “ Mademoiselle Llysette duBoise . . . all Columbia . . . indeed, all those who follow music anywhere, thankyou for the spirit, the excellence, and the dedication that your life has exemplified . . .”

  The president stood once more, and he also motioned for Llysette to step forward.

  I eased out her chair, but did not stand, so that all eyes would be on her as she walked along the side of the table toward the podium.

  “We are both pleased to be able to make this award,” offered President Armstrong, “and to say that it is small enough repayment for all that you have given to us.”

  Llysette swallowed, but she did step up to the podium and the microphone. “Speechless . . . I am . . .” She smiled. “ Almost. A great honor this is, and I thankyou all. Most of all I thank Johan. All would have been lost without him.” She inclined her head, then stepped back.

  The applause filled the room.

  For a moment, I could not see.

  As Llysette turned to head backto her seat, Patrice Alexander leaned across the table. “She's right, even if but a few of us know.”

  When the applause died away, the Speaker stepped back to the podium. “I also have another announcement concerning Mademoiselle duBoise. She has most graciously agreed to perform on behalf of Columbia in St. Petersburg next month at the cultural exchange concert before the tzar . . . and I might add that she agreed to do so long before she ever knew about the award tonight. In fact, we tookgreat pains to ensure she did not know about tonight's award.” Hartpence smiled boyishly. “Now, I'd like to relinquish my moment in the light to the president for the rest of the awards and the program.”

  I frankly didn't recall much of the rest of the evening, except that the singer was from the Philadelphia Main Line, and she sang a medley from the season's early hit, something called “Always Tulips.” She couldn't compare to Llysette, and, in a way, I felt sorry for her.

  And, as could only be expected in a land settled by both Dutch and English, very little more was said about the shots outside the Presidential Palace.

  Then we were being escorted to another limousine, one with a plainclothes guard in the front beside the driver, and were driven through a clear night, unseasonably chill for so early in the fall in the federal district.

  “Johan? Why did you laugh when you and the woman across from you began to talk? You did not know her, but that is not how you acted.”

  I laughed again. “Patrice Alexander is the Liberal Congresslady from Michigan. I've never met her before tonight, but she's the one . . .”

  Llysette laughed as well, both in humor and, I thought, in relief, but I had no idea why. My diva remained the most beautiful woman in the world, and the only one with whom I ever could have shared my life.

  I almost forgot that we were in an armored limousine.

  11

  When the Spazi limousine dropped us off, Eric was at the door immediately, and Judith was waiting for us, standing by the table in the kitchen nook. A pot of chocolate, with vapor seeping from the spout, was set on a brass-edged trivet in the middle of the table.

  “You're both all right, I see,” offered Eric, “and with an armed escort. We were worried after the late news stories. I almost couldn't believe it when I heard about the shots.”

  “You are all right?” asked Judith. “The news reports didn't say much.”

  “Johan got a scratch on his cheek. . . .” Llysette volunteered.

  “It's just a scratch. Probably from a stone chip. Some of the bullets hit one of the pillars by the east gate,” I explained.

  “I saw all the sirens just after I pulled away,” Eric said. “When I got back, I checked the videolink. It was a while, but there was a report on the news. All the reports said was that shots were fired, and that no one was injured, except one photographer in the shoulder. I take it that one of you two happened to be the target?”

  “Probably,” I admitted, “but I have no idea whether it was a warning or a serious attempt. Whoever it was was using a blue-green light sight.”

  “Semiprofessional, then, or a warning. About what were you being warned?”

  “Can we find out what happened?” interjected Judith. “From the beginning? Johan and Llysette have had a long day, and I'm sure they'd like to sit down.” She motioned to the other two chairs around the table, and we sat down. “Chocolate or tea?”

  “Chocolate . . .”

  “Moi aussi,” Llysette looked at me. I was supposed to give the report on events.

  “We arrived,” I began. “Someone fired shots in our direction and escaped on a motorcycle. We got an immediate presidential security escort into the palace. The minister of state personally cornered Llysette before we got to the actual dinner and asked if she would headline the cultural exchange concert in St. Petersburg next month. Then we went to the dinner.”

  “And the Congresslady Alexander tookgreat interest in Johan,” Llysette said blandly.

  “Only professionally. She was there with her son Estefan Alexander.”

  “He's supposed to be quite something,” rejoined Judith. “He's a rising videolinkstar on one of the daytime romance epics.” She poured Llysette's chocolate, and then mine.

  I tooka slow sip, enjoying the taste, even if it didn't happen to be quite as sweet as I would have preferred. “We had dinner. Then the first award was the one for Llysette. The Speaker gave her the special medal for achievement in the arts. She accepted it, and then they gave a few more awards—”

  “And, according to the news, she said she owed it all to you,” Judith said.

  “That I do, and Johan, he knows such.” Llysette smiled, then stifled a yawn. She hadn't touched her chocolate.

  “We're meeting with the minister of state tomorrow at ten-thirty, and I thinkthere might even be more media there. They claim that they'll pay Llysette a great deal for the performance.”

  “Always the politics,” Llysette said.

  “Always,” Judith concurred, “but isn't it better to get paid through politics than never to be recognized or paid? It's sad, but great artistry isn't ever enough. You have to have great artistry to get that far, but the artistry alone . . .”

  “It got me to Columbia, and no farther,” Llysette said. “ Johan, he did the rest.”

  “No,” I protested. “I helped, but the artistry is yours, and you got the invitation to Deseret on your own, because you worked with Perkins's student.”

  “You are kind, Johan.”

  Judith laughed. “I thinkshe's telling you that you're offering false modesty, Johan.”

  “They've got that picture painted,” added Eric.

  I think I flushed, and I tookrefuge in a
nother sip of chocolate before continuing. “Anyway . . . after the awards and songs, they bundled us into the limousine and carted us back here. Tomorrow morning, we go to the Ministry of State, and then catch a train backhome.”

  “Will you get some sort of protection there?” asked Judith.

  “Even before what happened tonight, Harlaan Oakes had said that there would be a team watching us. Now . . . there might be more.”

  Llysette smiled sadly.

  “That's another price for fame and artistry,” Judith said. “I'm very glad we live a more quiet life.”

  “We used to,” I said.

  Eric laughed. “When?”

  Both Llysette and Judith smiled.

  After a moment, so did I. After another yawn by Llysette, Judith stood. “Your lady needs some sleep, and so do we.”

  “It has been a long day,” I admitted.

  “Tres long . . .”

  So we staggered to our feet and made our way up to the guest suite, where I helped Llysette out of her formal gown. “You looked wonderful tonight.”

  “That you say because you love me.”

  “I do, but you still looked wonderful.”

  That got me a smile and a gentle kiss.

  As we lay there in the darkness after I'd turned out the lights and pulled up the covers, and the extra comforter, because Llysette was cold, she turned to me.

  “Johan . . . I know what you must say. But the artistry, it is not all mine. And I would be dead, mort, in the soul if you had not done what you did.” Her lips brushed my cheek, and I could feel the wetness on her face. “Never can I say such . . . sauf . . . seulement . . . to you.”

  “To do what you do takes great courage,” I said softly. “I could not get up before hundreds or thousands of people and sing. I couldn't open my soul that way.”

  “A soul to open, I would not have . . .”

  We fell asleep holding each other.

  12

  I WAS UP early on Friday, first so that I could call the B&O to change our return tickets to Vanderbraak Centre, and second to find out what had been reported in the Columbia Post-Dispatch about the dinner and the events of the night before. I let Llysette sleep while I had chocolate and something to eat with Eric and Judith, since the B&O recording told me that the wireline reservations office did not accept wirecalls until eight o'clock.

  After Eric left, I went backover the news stories. There were two in the Post-Dispatch, both on the front page. The lead story focused on the sensational.

  Federal District (RPI). Shots rang out on Pennsylvania Avenue, right in front of the Presidential Palace just before the president's annual arts dinner. Although a number of noted artists and political figures were entering the east gate at that moment, none were struckby the handful of bullets fired. District police and federal officers were unable to determine who fired the shots and have no suspects. “Most likely, it was a disenchanted artist or a supporter,” suggested Alberto Lucio, head of the Federal Investigatory Service. . . .

  Lucio worked for Harlaan, and I could see Harlaan's fine hand, but I doubted that the shots had come from any artist. The rest of the article detailed how no one knew anything, and how everyone was confident the shooter would be found. I had my doubts about that, and then some.

  I liked the second story, the one below the fold, a great deal more.

  Federal District (RPI). Last night President William L. Armstrong and Speaker Gerald Hartpence jointly awarded the Columbian Medal for Achievement in the Arts to Llysette duBoise, the diva whose Salt Palace recording has actually topped the classical charts and even appeared low on the popular charts. The award took some observers by surprise. “An outstanding singer, to be sure,” declared one noted art critic, who declined to be quoted by name, “but she's only been a Columbian citizen for the past few years.”

  Others were overjoyed. “It couldn't go to a more worthy singer,” declared Trans Media mogul Hartson James. Then, James should be pleased. His company has produced the Colombian version of duBoise's best-selling Salt Palace disk. . . .

  “An example of talent and determination for young singers the world over,” added Columbian Minister of State Mitchell Vandiver. . . .

  I almost laughed out loud at that one as I skipped through the other items in the column to the last paragraph.

  duBoise and her husband Johan Eschbach were among those entering the Presidential Palace when an unknown gunman fired two shots and vanished. Eschbach is a former subminister who was the focal point of the Nord scandal when he was wounded and his first wife and son were killed. Later investigations revealed that Colonel Nord ordered the shootings in an effort to silence the former Spazi agent. . . .

  I winced at that. Wouldn't they ever let that die? When the grandfather clockin the hall struck eight, Judith peered into the kitchen at me.

  “Is it all right if I use the wireset?” I asked.

  She nodded, and I did. After I wired the B&O ticket office and got our passages changed to the one o'clock New Amsterdam Express, my next wirecall was to Harlaan. I even got through.

  “Harlaan . . . what do you know about last night?”

  “Nothing, Johan. I mean that. From what we can tell, none of those who might have once been your . . . competitors . . . had anything to do with it. Al Lucio is steaming like an ancient flash boiler without safeties. It just wasn't from any source we've been able to track.”

  “Now what?”

  “You may see a few more gray steamers.”

  That didn't exactly reassure me.

  “Isn't Llysette meeting with Vandiver and his deputy for cultural affairs this morning?”

  “At ten-thirty. She's very pleased with the concert side of matters.”

  “It will be wonderful for her career. The president is also very pleased, I understand. I know the Speaker is. He wired me again this morning, and he's most appreciative.”

  I didn't tell Harlaan that we hadn't had that much of a choice, being who we were and where we were in life. He knew that already, and he was probably happy to repay me for setting matters up so that he was the Spazi director. “I'm glad. I know Llysette is happy to represent Columbia, and you know I'll do anything I can to help.”

  “I know that, Johan.” There was a pause. “Have a good meeting, and if I don't talkto you later, a good trip to St. Petersburg.”

  After hanging up the wireset, I headed up the stairs to wake Llysette, but she was not only awake but emerging from the steam of a hot bath.

  “Johan . . .” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I know. My timing has always been . . .” I leered.

  “You are a naughty man.” But there was a twinkle in her eyes.

  “What can I say?”

  “Say that you will have tea and something to eat for me.” After the words, she did kiss me, and I wasn't terribly forward—somewhat, but not terribly—before I went backdown to start something for Llysette, except that I didn't have to, because Judith had returned to the kitchen.

  “Just sit down and talkto me,” she said, easing cheese into an omelet. “I didn't tell you last night, but Nancy Nollen and Marjorie Rusterman both wired while you were out yesterday. You didn't happen to bring—”

  “There are two packages about the university. I left them on the side table in the bedroom.” I started to get up.

  Judith motioned me to stay at the table. “That's more than they deserve. I'll get them later, and let them pickthem up after you and Llysette are safely away.”

  “I'm not sure we'll ever be safely away from anything.”

  “That doesn't sound like you, Johan. Do I hear a hint of self-pity?” Judith laughed good-naturedly.

  “Probably. I have to wonder. . . .” I let the words die away, perhaps better unspoken in any case, as Llysette appeared, this time in a darker green traveling suit.

  “Good morning,” Judith offered cheerfully. “I have an omelet ready for you, along with toast and some peaches. They're tinned, but it's hard
to get produce this time of year.”

  “Merci . . .” Llysette was almost shy in her response as she seated herself. “Is there not something I could do?”

  “Not a thing.” Judith slipped the platter in front of Llysette. “The article about you was very flattering.”

  I poured Llysette's tea.

  “It was a great surprise.” Llysette lifted the teacup, then glanced at me. “You are most certain that you did not know?”

  “All I knew was what I told you, that the Speaker and president wanted you at the dinner. Harlaan never even hinted at why, and I certainly didn't guess they'd honor you so.”

  “When one is honored so, Johan, the price is always high.” Llysette smiled and shrugged. “Yet it is better to be honored than not, and so we shall do as we can.” She looked down at the platter and cut a section of the omelet with her fork.

  After Llysette ate, and we finished packing, I carted our valises, and Llysette carried the hanging bag down from the guest suite. Judith was waiting with her smaller Stanley—more the size of mine, except newer. When we pulled out of the drive and turned onto New Bruges Avenue, behind us, an older and grayer steamer appeared—definitely government procured.

  “I see we have an escort,” Judith said dryly.

  “We may have them for a while,” I answered. “Minister Vandiver wants very much for Llysette to perform in St. Petersburg next month.” So did Harlaan, but I didn't mention that.

  The Ministry of State was a long gray building at the north-west end of the new Mall, overlooking both the Potomac and the recently completed Washington Memorial. From the outside, the structure didn't appear all that different from the Dutch Masters wing of the National Gallery, whose design I'd disapproved. For my pains, Speaker Ashbrook had overridden my decision, just before the complete and confidential report on the Nord affair had surfaced before the elections and defeated his administration, and now the federal district had two long and gray ugly stone buildings on the north side of the Mall.