That bothered me for a moment, and then it bothered me more. Dirigibles were used for the actual patrols and stayed on station for days. Missions against submersibles were carried out by turbos because they could carry more armament, and return for more quickly, if necessary. That meant more actual missions against Ferdinand's submersibles—or at least more cases of contacts.
After I unloaded all the groceries from their sacks, I threw together a relatively quick chicken pasta, with a salad that was mostly iceberg lettuce, with croutons, dried apples, and raisins for variety, but before I could get the pasta off the stove and onto the table, Llysette was in the parlor, beginning to warm up.
“Mademoiselle la diva . . . your sustenance is ready . . .”
“Un moment, Johan.”
It was more than a moment, but not that long before my green-eyed beauty appeared and slid into her seat at the table. After we finished, Llysette warmed up.
A not-quite-dilapidated Reo hiss-whistled up the driveway at ten before two, the hissing signifying less than exemplary performance by the steamer's boiler system. I stepped outside and motioned for Terese Stewart just to stop by the door.
She got out and looked around, then flashed a smile at me. “You'll have to pardon me for the sound effects, but this is the old steamer, and I didn't want to take my sister's good one.”
“As long as it gets you where you need to go,” I temporized. “Do come in.”
The accompanist pulled out a battered leather case, not quite bulging, presumably with music, and followed me into the foyer, where she glanced around, then up the stairs.
I instinctively looked up, as if to check to see if Carolynne were there, but, of course, she wasn't, and hadn't been since she'd become a part of us. But years of looking for the family ghost still had left the habit pattern.
“An impressively modest dwelling, Professor.”
“Johan,” I insisted. “We're likely to be seeing a great deal of each other. Do come in. Llysette should be down in a moment.”
“A moment, and I will be there,” Llysette called down. “Johan . . .”
“I'll show her to the parlor.” I turned to Terese. “Would you like anything to drink before you start?”
“Just water, if you please.”
I returned with the water after Llysette came down the stairs and had greeted Terese.
“Good it was of you to come early,” Llysette was saying.
“I wouldn't have missed it.” The pianist hadn't changed any in the year since I'd seen her last. She was still small, dark-haired, and determined looking. The one difference was the warm smile. “I can't thank you both enough. I've always wanted to play in Russia.”
“Not both of us—Llysette,” I said. “They chose her, and she chooses her accompanists.”
“My friend Dmitri is a bit jealous. He graduated from the St. Petersburg Conservatory, but he never did get to play in the Mariinsky Theatre.”
“He's in Columbia?” I asked.
“Actually, he lives in Dublin. Unlike St. Petersburg, it has a sense of history that mirrors struggles, but not every stone is paved with tears, and not every ghost is bleached out in the white nights.”
Llysette inclined her head toward the parlor, and I followed the two. Terese sat down at the concert piano bench, and her fingers ran across the keys, doing, I supposed, the pianist's equivalent of a vocalise. She looked up. “This is a good instrument . . . one of the better Haarens.”
Llysette smiled as she moved to the side of the piano, equivalent to where she would be when performing. “Johan gave it to me just before we were married, as a wedding present.”
“Quite a present.”
“If you'll give me the keys to the Reo, I'll top off the water tanks,” I offered. “I have a filtration system in the car barn.”
“I can see he's one of those impossibly ordered people.” Terese smiled cheerfully.
“Llysette has called me impossible upon occasion,” I admitted. “Upon more than one occasion.”
“Johan.” My lady diva flushed ever so slightly.
“There's a story there,” said Terese. “I can see that.”
“More than one, but she is right, and I don't need to get in the way of your rehearsal.” I held out my hand for the keys to the Reo.
She bent down and flshed out a single key from the brown bag she'd placed beside the piano bench, and I took it and got out of the way. I did check over her borrowed vehicle and tightened a couple of hose clamps. My adjustments wouldn't help whatever was going wrong in the boiler assembly, but they would keep the water from vanishing quite so quickly.
Then I slipped back to my study and tried to concentrate on grading papers, except the sound of Tchaikovsky kept bringing back thoughts about what I was supposed to do in Russia. So I took out the box I'd brought back from Bruce's and looked over the matching pens and the pocket calculator, and the hair dryer. I checked them again, and then jotted down the extra batteries I'd be needing, wondering if I should contact Bruce for more hardware. I shook my head. He'd already given me the elegant-looking but bulbous pen zombification projector, and there wasn't much else I could use.
I did manage to finish grading the essays for the honors section of environmental studies. Most were decent, but then, I'd weeded out the worst students long before they reached that level.
The piano and Llysette had stopped for a time, and it was close to four when I eased just inside the parlor. Both women looked at me.
“You're staying for dinner, I presume.” That was directed at Terese Stewart. “It's no imposition,” I said. “Not at all. Llysette seldom ever gets to have a social occasion with another musician—unless it deals with faculty politics. And she's not cooking.”
Terese offered a grin to Llysette. “Is he a good cook?”
“Non . . .” Then Llysette smiled. “He is not good. A chef he could have been.”
“I don't know about—”
“You've both twisted my arm.” Terese laughed. “Not that it needed much twisting. Cherise and Michael are playing some private function tonight that they couldn't get out of.”
“Is your sister a pianist?” I asked.
“She's a violist. Her real job is with the Asten Symphony, but she and Michael have a quartet that pays for the extras.”
With a nod, I said, “It will be another hour or so, but I already have the main dish in the oven.” While they discussed the program, I repaired to the kitchen and completed making dinner with the light lace potatoes that had always been a family recipe and that I'd learned from my mother when I was probably fifteen.
Before I knew it, it was approaching six, longer than I'd expected, but that was often what happened when I experimented in the kitchen. I uncorked the cabernet, lighted the candles, and summoned my musical charges. “Ladies . . .”
Within minutes, while I was carrying out the crescent rolls I'd just eased into the roll basket, they came into the dining room, sharing one of those glances that it isn't always wise for any sensible male to interpret. I carved the stuffed flank steak quickly, so that it wouldn't get cold, and then added the laced potatoes. “This is simple, but the market was out of what I was looking for,” I said as I slipped a plate in front of Terese, and then Llysette.
“You should not apologize, Johan.”
“Habit,” I murmured. Any man who is a decent cook—and not a chef—had best apologize. After a mouthful of the steak, I took a sip of the cabernet and nodded. It did complement the marinated and parsley-mushroom-stuffed flank steak—just a hint of sharpness, with a smooth fullness beneath.
“Does he always cook like this?” asked Terese, looking at Llysette.
“Toujours . . . and always he thinks he should do better. But that is my Johan.” I got a fond and warm smile after those words.
“You don't have a brother, do you?” asked the pianist with a mischievous smile.
“No. I was an only child. After my mother spent the first year dealing with me,
she decided one was enough.”
“Someone said you were an Air Corps pilot, a Spazi assassin, and a minister in the Vandenberg administration.”
“Two out of three,” I said. “I did work for the Spazi, but just as a covert agent. My more interesting assignments were learning difference engine codes and working as a programmer for an equity assurance company suspected of passing financial information to the Austro-Hungarians. Very dull.” That assignment had been dull, relatively free of personal danger, and I would have preferred that all of them had been like that. It hadn't worked that way, of course.
“A real hero and spy.” Terese shook her head.
“Not a hero,” I protested. “Would you like a little more wine?”
“Yes, please.”
With a look at Llysette, Terese asked, “Just how did you land this gig in St. Petersburg?”
“I could not say.” Llysette shrugged and gave me a smile.
“Politics! I knew it.”
“I wish that were true,” I replied, and I meant that, if not in the way that I wanted Terese to take it. “It is political, but not because we know the Speaker or the president personally, but because the Ministry of State needed an internationally famous singer for their cultural exchange with the tzar. He'd sent the Ballet Russes here, and apparently the Russians suggested that Llysette ought to be on the program after her Salt Palace disk started making even the popular charts. They wanted her . . .”
“But Johan said I could not do it unless we were paid,” Llysette added firmly. “I cannot sing that many more years. Not singing as one should.”
“I'm most appreciative that you two pointed that out.” Terese laughed. “Too many people think that we should only get supper for singing and playing.”
“Last year, that I did at the presidential arts dinner,” Llysette replied.
“They didn't pay you for that?” questioned the petite pianist.
“Non.”
“I can see why you were reluctant to give another free performance.”
“I sang for many years when only students listened. They listened because they were required to listen.”
I remembered part of those years, and the voice that had been so beautiful, and yet lacking . . . something. And the events that had restored it and left their marks on both of us. I still had scars from the bullet Llysette had put through my shoulder, but the inner scars sometimes hurt more, as when a memory of an arc-lit stage I had never seen passed through my thoughts, or a ghostly view of myself as a child reappeared.
“You enjoy the academic accompanying?” I asked Terese.
“Some of it, but working with faculty and the visiting artists are the best part, but unless you're permanent staff, you don't get benefits, or a steady income.”
I could see that the life of a freelance pianist could be very uncertain indeed. But then, all life was uncertain. So, I sipped my wine, and mostly listened, as they got back to discussing the beauty and the history of the Rachmaninov Vocalise, and the fact that it was perhaps the most beautiful piece of vocal music written without actual words.
19
WE DID G0 to church on Sunday, but Klaus's sermon wasn't quite so good, with the emphasis on forgiving the unforgivable. I still wasn't that charitable. Later, in midafternoon, Llysette and Terese practiced, mostly the Vocalise, and early in the evening, the three of us went to Cipoletto's for dinner.
Monday and Tuesday, Llysette taught and practiced in the afternoon in her studio with Terese. Wednesday, it rained, a cold downpour that would have turned into black ice, except that the sun came out around three for long enough to warm up the sidewalks and roads to evaporate the incipient ice. That was good, because I was already late and didn't get to the post centre until after four, and the way I hurried I'd probably have slipped or skidded into something.
Maurice was almost waiting by the postal wicket. “Couple of big packages for you, Doktor,” he offered, with the grin he usually gave me when he could hand over a stack of circulars. “And some letters and bills, too.”
“You're so cheerful, you wretch.” He was right about the bills, which included one from NBEI for the utilities, one from New Bruges Telewire, and one that looked to be the annual property tariff from the town itself. I eased the envelopes into my inside jacket pocket.
Both boxes were oblong, ten inches by a foot, and a good foot and a half high or long, except the official stickers of the Ministry of Environment were on the short side, as if they were to be opened that way. They were heavy, but the last heavy package I'd gotten from the federal district had literally exploded.
Not without some misgivings, I carried them up the hill from the post centre to the car park and put them in the boot of the Stanley. All that meant that I was late picking up both Llysette and Terese. They were awaiting me at the music and theatre building.
“I thought you were the punctual type,” offered the accompanist.
“There were two large packages in the post, and I had to cart them back to the Stanley.”
Llysette didn't say anything. She didn't have to; the look she gave me told me to be careful. I didn't get around to dealing with the two boxes until after I finished cleaning up after dinner, when the ladies retired to the parlor to discuss obscurities in phrasing in the Vocalise.
So I was finally free to take my packages out of the boot of the Stanley and set them beside the stone foundation of the car barn, close to the corner. Then I taped my new razor knife to a makeshift crossarm attached to my newish rake and rummaged until I found the old mirror, cracked from the last time I'd attempted opening a package from a protected position. This time was different. It took much longer, because nothing exploded. The first box did in fact contain paper, a set of six manuals, all bound.
With a nod, I went to work on the second one. It didn't explode, either. I felt a little sheepish with all my precautions, but better sheepish than dead. Then I had to take apart my contraption and put the tools back in the tool case and close up the car barn. It was well past eight by the time I carried the open boxes into the study.
As I passed through the parlor Llysette looked up, eyebrows arched in a question.
“Books . . . technical manuals, I think.”
A faint smile of relief appeared, and then she was back to rehearsing.
In the study, listening to Llysette practicing phrases in the parlor, I took out the envelope that had been tucked on the top of the larger box. Under the Ministry of Environment's seal, it was addressed to The Honorable Johan Eschbach, Minister of Columbia, Retired.
Dear Minister Eschbach:
Enclosed you will find a set of five volumes that outline the Ministry's best technical analyses of the Dnepyr River watershed and effluent problems, along with a recommended technical approach for each of the four most likely contingencies. The sixth volume is the historical background and executive summary.
You should also have received under separate cover a duplicate version of this study in Russian . . . For your convenience, also attached to this letter is a listing of those who participated in the analyses and recommendations, with their areas of expertise, and their addresses and wireset numbers . . . These names are only for your use, but the studies may be distributed as you see fit.
I have been asked to inform you that, in a day or so, you will be receiving another set of documents from the Ministry of Interior dealing with low-cost technical improvements in petroleum drilling and recovery technology.
Our thanks in advance for your efforts to better our world's environment and safety.
The signature was that of Frederic Eisness, Minister of Environment. I had to smile, if ironically, at the last words.
The contact sheet was on white paper, with no identifying letterhead. After setting the letter and contact sheet on my desk, I looked over the manuals. One set, the larger set, was in English. The second set was clearly in Cyrillic.
Belatedly, I noted another matter. Both sets had no identifying na
mes, not even those of authors—nor any ministry contacts or imprints. The appendices listed a complete bibliography of scholarly articles, studies, and references, and their authors, but not the authors of the studies. In short, I'd been handed a set of remedial blueprints all on off-white paper. I had less than two weeks to learn everything in the material—or most of it—so that I could discuss it as if I were the expert the Russians thought that they were being sent. That didn't include whatever the Ministry of Interior was sending.
“Johan. You spent much time outside.” Llysette stood in the archway.
I smiled and gestured to the pile of remedial manuals. “ Environmental remedial plans. For the Dnepyr River project.”
“Outside, you were studying them outside in this cold?”
“No, I was opening them outside. Most carefully.”
“Will it always be so?”
I couldn't answer that question. I hoped not, but in the uncertain world in which we were living there was no surety of anything. “Is Terese still here?”
“We have done what we can today. My voice, it is tired.”
I stood quickly. “A glass of wine?”
“In a moment. Terese would like to go.”
I followed Llysette and Terese out to the front foyer, where I helped the accompanist into her coat. I flicked on the outside lights, and Llysette and I stood on the front stoop, where Llysette shivered as a few lazy flakes of snow drifted past us, while the pianist backed the old Reo down the drive and out onto Deacon's Lane.
“A very good accompanist, she is.”
“She's good, but you're better.” I ushered my diva back into the house, locking the deadbolt as I did.
Ghost of the White Nights Page 13