It took a moment to puzzle out what the up-timer meant, then Margherita nodded tentatively.
Elizabeth stood and followed Marla around the table. She came to Francesca, and without saying a word, simply enfolded her in a strong embrace. Francesca felt tears starting in her eyes as she returned the embrace as best she could.
After a long moment, Elizabeth released Francesca, only to place her hands on her shoulders and say warmly, “Welcome home.”
And at that the tears began flowing freely.
Home. She was home. Finally, after all these years, Francesca had found home.
Bach to the Future
Prelude
Magdeburg
July 1634
Magdeburg Times-Journal
July 18, 1634
The Royal Arts Council announced today that the contract for designing and constructing an organ for the new Royal Opera Hall and Fine Arts Complex has been awarded to Johann Bach of Wechmar. Herr Bach is a musician and organist of note who has studied under Herr Johann Christoph Hoffmann, Stadtpfeifer in Suhl. He has served as organist at Suhl, Arnstadt and Schweinfurt, where his responsibilities included maintenance of the organs. This is his first commission to construct an organ.
* * *
“Impossible.”
The word seemed to echo in the room for a moment. Johann Bach heard it, and folded his hands together before responding. “It had better not be impossible, or there will not be an organ in the opera hall.”
“But the plans are finished, the detailed drawings are almost complete, they’ve begun digging the trenches for the foundations.” Josef Furttenbach the architect, senior partner of Furttenbach and Parigi, clamped his jaw after making that statement. He and Carl Schockley, the general contractor’s project manager for the building project, glowered at Johann in concert. Alfonso Parigi, the other architect in the partnership, had a trace of a smile on his face.
Johann smiled back at them all. “I am sorry that you seemed to have received bad advice before now. The space you have allotted for the organ is adequate as far as the organ cabinet and pipe space and the wind-chest, but you have left little room for the bellows. Without the bellows, there is no wind for the wind-chest. That would be like God making Adam without lungs.”
Furttenbach and Schockley continued to glare across the table at him. Lady Beth Haygood cleared her throat. “You’re serious.” There was a hint of question in her tone.
Johann suppressed a sigh. “Very serious. An organ without bellows is like a flute that has been hung upon the wall: it may be made of the finest materials and the greatest of the craftsman’s art, but without moving wind it makes no music.”
“Can’t you…” Lady Beth moved both hands in the air as if trying to shape something, “…reduce the size somehow? Can we use electric fans or something?”
Johann did sigh now. “Perhaps. I will study it. But it would be best if we plan now for what I know will work. If another approach can be adopted later that will save space…” He shrugged.
“So what would we do with the wasted space then?” challenged Furttenbach.
“Make storage closets,” Johann smiled. “If musicians and artists are going to be using the building, there will always be a need for more storage.”
No one else smiled, but Lady Beth did jot a note on the pad in front of her. She looked up at the architects and contractor. “Fix it.”
“But Lady Beth…” Schockley began.
“Fix it, Carl. I’m not going to explain to Mary Simpson when she gets back from her trip that her opera hall doesn’t have an organ in it.”
“All right, but you know that changing plans after they’ve been finalized and the work’s begun is the first step to cost overruns. This one’s not our fault, and I don’t want to hear about it later.” Now he bent his glower on Lady Beth, who was singularly unaffected by it as far as Johann could tell.
“Then I suggest you get word to your excavator operator and stop digging until you know what the changes are going to be. I don’t want to hear about you pouring foundations in the wrong place, either.” She closed her pad and gathered her jacket and purse. “Send me word when the revised plans are ready and I’ll come and go over them with you.” She left the room.
Schockley ran his hand through his hair and looked to Furttenbach. “Fix it, she says.” He shook his head. “Well, like she says, I’d better go get the digging stopped.” His glance now included Johann. “Work it out as soon as you can. I really don’t want to lose any time if we can help it.” He followed Lady Beth out the door.
Furttenbach looked at his partner, jerked his head at Johann and left. Parigi looked at Johann, sighed, and flipped through the drawing packet until he found the sheet he wanted. “Okay, show me what you need.”
The two men bent their heads together over the page. “See, this wall is too close.” Johann traced a line with his finger.
“How much room do you really need?”
“Well, I was planning on twelve bellows, each about eight feet by four feet. And we’ll need at least two feet between each to get between them.’
Parigi looked horrified. “Mio Dio, Signor Bach. Excuse me, please, but that’s over one hundred and twenty feet!”
“No, no,” Johann laughed. “I was not clear, my friend. The narrow end of the bellows connects to the wind-chest. The length of them will go this way,” and his finger traced on the plan again.
“So, it is a mere seventy-two feet that we must allow for.” The Italian smiled and snapped his fingers. “That is nothing. A piece of cake, as Carl would say.”
“Perhaps a bit more difficult than that,” Johann said. “To get the most even wind pressure, it would be best if they were lined up on each side of the wind box.”
Parigi’s brow furrowed. The two of them bent over the plans again. Fingers pointed and drew lines and thumped emphatically several times before they reached agreement. The architect laid a very thin piece of paper over the plan and traced out the new dimensions that would be needed. “It is fortunate,” he said, “that this is actually outside the main support wall of the auditorium. If it had been necessary to move that, ai, old Josef would throw a fury such as would make my old papa proud.”
“Is Master Furttenbach difficult to work with, then?” Johann was not looking forward to working with the man if the answer was yes.
“No, not so much. He dislikes changes after things are supposed to be final. He’s German.” Parigi gave a fluid shrug. “He is a good architect, though, very good. He studied with my father in Italy years ago when he was young. When I told Papa I was going to come north to work with him, he harrumphed and said that I could do worse.”
“You will get the changes made, then?”
“Two days for the foundations and walls. We will not need to settle things like doors and crawlspaces just yet.”
“Good, because I have not yet done the details for the wind chambers and wind trunks yet.”
“Well, come by my office and maybe I can help with that. I would really like to understand this organ stuff in case I have to deal with one in another design.”
“Good. Meanwhile, go tell Herr Schockley where he can dig and then let’s go find an ale.”
“Un’ idea eccellente!”
* * *
The Green Horse Tavern was busy, as it was every evening when Marla Linder and her husband Franz Sylwester and their friends came to play and sing. Johann Bach sat at a table near the front of the room. His command of up-time English was improving, so he understood most of the words, and where he didn’t he just enjoyed the music. He especially enjoyed what they called the Irish songs. There was a lilt and a bounce to them that was unique in his experience.
Marla was singing one of the best of them now. It was a song that could easily have been dreary, but somehow in her hands, with her voice, it was fun.
The song was drawing to its close. Marla, eyes sparkling, was grinning at Franz as he played his violin like a der
vish.
When the Captain came downstairs, though he saw me situation
In despite of all me prayers I was marched off to the station
For me they’d take no bail, but to get home I was itchin’
And I had to tell the tale, how I came into the kitchen
With me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
And me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
Franz grinned back at his wife. Marla turned back to the audience and sang the last verse.
Now, I said she did invite me, but she gave a flat denial
For assault she did indict me, and I was sent for trial
She swore I robbed the house and in spite of all her schreechin’
And I got six months hard for me courtin’ in the kitchen
With me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
And me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
With me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
And me toora loora la and me toora loora laddie
They finished the song with a flourish. Marla joined hands with Franz to take a bow to loud applause. She waved as the applause crested and died. “We’ll be back in a while to sing some more.”
Violins were put in cases, pipes were wiped and a harp was hung from a peg in the wall. Marla and company crowded onto the benches around a table at the front.
“Johann!”
He looked up to see Franz beckoning to him.
“Is there room?”
Franz looked around, then nodded. “We will make room. Come.” Johann picked up his mug and squeezed onto the end of the bench next to Rudolf Tuchman, exchanging a nod with the young Hanoveran.
Marla and Franz were across the table from him. He bowed to them with a grin. “Well sung, Frau Marla. Very sprightly. But was that not a man’s song?”
She laughed, then said, “You got me there. But it’s so fun to sing I just had to do it.”
“Fun it is,” Johann’s smile widened. “One could dance to it easily.”
Marla started laughing again. Johann looked to Franz with raised eyebrows. That worthy sighed. “For all that she likes to sing sacred songs, she has a devilish sense of humor, and we never know what will set it off.” Franz leaned over and poked his wife in the ribs. “Enough, woman. Either tell us the joke or leave off your laughing.”
Marla managed to stifle her laughter, wiping her eyes as she did so. “Oh…oh, my. That just caught me off guard.”
“So, tell.” Franz growled with a fierce expression. Marla poked him back in his own ribs.
“Okay, it goes like this: When my parents were kids, there was a television show for teenagers on Saturdays. They’d play rock and roll music for the kids to dance to, and every week they’d play at least one new song. Then they’d get a couple of the kids in the studio to come up and rate the song. And the comment they heard most of the time was…” She paused for effect, causing Franz to raise a finger and aim it at her. “…‘It’s got a good beat and it’s easy to dance to.’ Then he hears a song I know darn well he’s never heard before,” she pointed at Johann, voice unsteady as her laughter threatened to break out again, “and what does he say?”
Everyone around the table, including Johann, chorused, “One could dance to it easily.” And laughter reigned supreme for a time.
Once they settled down to mere chuckles, Franz looked back over to Johann. “So, Johann, how goes the organ building?”
“Well enough, for a start.” He looked across at Marla. “I reviewed the plans for the organ spaces with the architects, and it is a good thing I did.” He shook his head. “They had not allowed enough room for the wind-chest and bellows, and it took a bit of talking to get them to see the need for the change. In truth, if not for Frau Haygood, we’d probably still be arguing.”
“Ah, Lady Beth to the rescue,” Franz drawled.
Johann considered that statement. “Indeed.” He shrugged. “Anyway, once that got settled, I started looking for craftsmen. As it happens, the main builder, the ‘contractor’ I think they called the company, has already found most of the people I will need to build the organ. They have a good cabinetmaker, and of course regular carpenters abound. So I am down to two craftsmen that I need: a bellows maker, and a whitesmith.”
“Bellows?” Marla asked.
“For the wind-chest,” Franz leaned over.
“Ah. I never thought of that. The only pipe organ I’ve ever been close to is the one in the Methodist church in Grantville, and it uses electric motors and fans to force the air. I’ve never seen an old-style organ.”
Johann was taken aback for a moment. He was planning on using the best and latest approaches to organ building, and to hear them called “old style” caused him a moment of disorientation. But he made note of the electric motors. This was the second time that had been mentioned. He would need to look into that.
“I know what a blacksmith is,” Marla continued. “What’s a whitesmith?”
“A metal worker who works with metals like tin.” Johann regained his aplomb.
“And you need him why?”
Johann struggled to keep incredulity from his face. “To make the pipes for the organ, of course.”
Marla giggled. “Sorry. I never thought of tin being used for that. I think of tin, I think of cans with food in them.” She giggled again.
“When do you think you will be able to begin building the organ?” Franz asked.
“We will start making the pipes and other pieces as soon as we can. Putting it together will have to wait for the building shell and roof to be complete enough to keep the weather off. That will be a while yet; several months.”
“They keep saying it will be ready in a year.” Marla made a rude noise. “Ha! I bet it takes longer.”
Johann shrugged. “It will take as long as it takes.”
A thought crossed Johann’s mind. “Fräulein Linder, can I ask you something?”
“Call me Marla, and sure.”
“Why do all the up-timers, when they first hear my name, get such strange expressions on their faces?”
The whole table broke into laughter again, with Marla’s voice skirling over the top of them all. Johann sat back and crossed his arms, offended.
“We’re sorry,” Marla said as the laughter dwindled into chuckles. “It’s just that your name… Have you had a chance to study any of the music history from the up-time yet?”
“Not really, no.” Johann knew he sounded surly. He uncrossed his arms and continued. “Mostly I just know what I have seen in the concert programs and heard from those of you who have been to Grantville.”
“Umm, well, you see, Bach is a pretty familiar name to us.”
Johann sat back again, this time in astonishment. He knew the Bach family was well-known in Thuringia, but how would the up-timers know of them?
“We consider Johann Sebastian Bach to be one of the greatest musicians who ever lived.”
Johann…Sebastian…Bach…Johann shook his head. “I do not know that name,” he murmured.
“That’s because he hasn’t been born yet.”
Now Johann was truly confused. Has not been born yet? How…?
Marla and Franz both looked at him with sympathy. “Yeah, now you’re starting to understand just how weird this whole Ring of Fire thing can be,” Marla said. “You think this is weird, go talk to Kapellmeister Schütz about how he felt when he read a biography of his whole life.”
That thought had never crossed Johann’s mind—he might be able to read about his future. “Do you think I…”
“I don’t know,” Marla shook her head. “There might be a little information about you in the library, but probably not a lot. No offense, but I’d never heard of you before you showed up at the concert a few weeks ago.”
“But this Johann Sebastian…”
“Lots of information about him, sure.”
“And he was famous?”
“Yep. Wrote tons of stuf
f.” She frowned. “I don’t know how much of it came back through the Ring of Fire. Grantville wasn’t exactly a hotbed of musical culture, but I know some of it did. If nothing else, there are a lot of recordings, especially of the organ music.”
“Organ music?” Johann sat up straight.
“Oh, yes,” Marla grinned. “The greatest organ music ever written. I envy you,” she sighed, “getting to hear the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for the first time.”
Johann sat silent for a moment. “How do I find this organ music?”
“Go to Grantville,” everyone at the table chorused.
Grantville
Early August 1634
Johann looked at the book in front of him. “Johann Sebastian Bach. German Musician. 1685–1750.” Somehow seeing it in print in a book from the future seemed to have more weight than just hearing Marla and the others talk about it. He looked up at the young monk who was assisting him in the library. “This is the man?”
“You asked for Johann Sebastian Bach. This is the only article about him in this encyclopedia.” The monk looked apologetic.
Johann began reading the article, but after a paragraph or two realized he was struggling. The typeface, the spellings, the English of it, made for hard going for him. “Please, Brother…” he realized he didn’t even know the monk’s name.
“I am Brother Johann.” A smile crossed both their faces at the realization that not only did they have the same name, but so did the subject of their hunt.
“Please, can you help me read this?”
Brother Johann pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. Their heads bent together as they read through the text. At the end, Johann sat back, dissatisfied. “I was told he wrote great organ music. This man says nothing of that.”
“It is the nature of encyclopedias,” Brother Johann replied, “that they are summaries. There will be more detail available elsewhere in the library.”
1636- the Flight of the Nightingale Page 14