Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (19 page)

Chapter 24

“I’ve made you breakfast,” said Meg, “and in return, it is your duty to come to church and introduce the new organist to the choir. I’m the choir president, and I insist.”

“You insist, eh?” It was tough to argue with Meg when she insisted, especially when she dressed to the nines, ready for church.

“Yes, I do. It’s the least you can do for the choir since you’re abandoning us
…
to
him
.” Meg had already met the Chevalier.

“I’m on sabbatical.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Yet I shall do as you bid, m’lady, and come and introduce everyone.” Truth be told, I was planning on going to church anyway. Call it professional curiosity.

Meg said, “He’s called for the choir to be robed and ready at ten o’clock. An hour before the service.”

“He probably wants a little rehearsal time to get a feel for the group. I know I would.”

“Yes, probably,” said Meg, glumly. “You might has well take the rest of your detective story. It’ll be the last bit of fun we’ll ever have.”

“I don’t think so. From what I know of the Chevalier, he wouldn’t appreciate it. Anyway, it’s not quite finished. I’ve been busy for the last couple of days. I’ll get it finished by next week, though, and you can smuggle it in if you want.”

On the way into town, we listened to some Renaissance motets being sung by a fine octet of voices, and I told Meg about Nancy’s idea to restore the old pickup. If we had needed to rely on the four-wheel drive this morning, we would have been in the Chevy truck but there was no need on a day like this, still cold, but with the sun shining and the roads clear. We were in Meg’s Lexus which was a much more comfortable ride.

“Would there be new shock absorbers?” she asked.

“A whole new suspension. New seats, upholstery, a rebuilt engine, transmission, paint, everything.”

“It sounds like a good plan,” she said. “How long will it take?”

“I haven’t gotten that far. I haven’t even talked to the guy. He’s a friend of Nancy’s. I suspect it will take at least a month or so. Maybe a little longer.”

“Do it,” said Meg. “You can go and rent something while your truck is in the shop. Get something fun — like a convertible.”

“It’s twenty-eight degrees out,” I said. “How much use do you think we’ll get out of a convertible?”

“Hmm,” said Meg. “Okay, how about a minivan?”

“How about a four-wheel drive Suburban? We still have two months of winter to worry about.”

“Only if the groundhog sees his shadow,” said Meg.

I looked at her warily. “How did you know about the groundhog?”

“What?” she said. “Groundhog Day? Everyone knows about Groundhog Day. It’s not a secret. If the groundhog see his shadow, six more weeks of winter.” She looked at me sideways. “What’s going on? Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up,” I said. “That’s what I meant. Groundhog Day.”

Meg looked at me, but didn’t say anything.

* * *

At ten o’clock sharp, I walked up the stairs to join the choir. It was strangely quiet and I wondered if any of the singers had bothered to show up except Meg, who I knew was here. We had arrived at church at 9:45 and I had headed for the coffee pot in the kitchen, while Meg decided to go on upstairs and get settled. By the time I’d coffeed up and climbed the stairwell to the choir loft, I was met with quite a sight — eighteen choir members struggling to fasten ruffs to the collars of their choir robes. The Chevalier hadn’t waited for my introduction.

A choir ruff is a conservative fashion statement to say the least, and has its roots firmly in the Elizabethan era. In the late nineteen and twentieth centuries though, ruffs had been relegated to church choirs, then finally, choristers: that is, boys and girls. I had never seen an adult choir wearing ruffs and I’d seen my share of choirs. That didn’t mean there weren’t any. I just hadn’t seen them. Now I had.

Shakespearean ruffs could be twelve inches wide or even larger, but those fashion monstrosities, luckily, had been outlawed by Philip IV of Spain in 1643, or, no doubt, the
Master of the Musik
would have gone with something even larger than the eight-inch collar jutting from under the chins of the unfortunate singers. As it was, the choir looked as though their heads were all resting on giant, pleated, supper plates. If it would have been possible to hot-glue some vegetables around the edges, the choir could have auditioned for the Entrée Chorus in
Donner Party — the Musical
. Mark Wells turned to me with terror in his eyes. His graying beard scraggled across the top of the ruff like an old rat trying to escape down the front of his choir robe, held by it’s hind legs in a pitiless snare. “Help us,” Mark silently mouthed.

I wanted to laugh. I might have laughed. Then Meg caught my eye and the laugh turned to ice in my throat. I’d seen that look before, so I stifled my mirth and sputtered, “Nice ruffs.” The choir was absolutely silent, and those who had managed to attach their own collars were helping those less fortunate. It was like watching a war movie where everyone knew they were about to die, but bravely accepted their fate and donned their uniforms for the last charge. There was nothing to be said. No final goodbyes, no speeches. Just the mute camaraderie that certain doom creates.

“Nice ruffs, indeed,” said the Chevalier Lancelot Fleagle, his gelled and spiked hair standing at attention. He adjusted his glasses. “These are my own personal crinoline ruffs handmade in Holland. I carry them with me. Thirty of them.”

Steve DeMoss, standing next to me, made a small, pitiful mewing sound.

“It’s very difficult to find ruffs that will fit an adult choir,” said the Chevalier. “It’s especially difficult to find craftsmanship like this. This is handwoven Dutch crinoline — horsehair and linen. The horsehair gives them extra stiffness. They don’t even need to be starched, but I have it done anyway.”

“They are something special,” I said. “Truly.”

The choir, one by one, fastened their ruffs and sat down in their chairs, gingerly because now they had no vision below their chins no matter how they tilted their heads. They used their hands to find their seats, then lowered themselves gently onto the cushions.

“There are two advantages to the choir ruff,” announced the Chevalier. “First, of course, is the obvious. Wearing a ruff, the choir considers itself to be professional and therefore conducts itself accordingly. Secondly, the singer is forced to hold his or her music at the correct angle and therefore keeps the organist in their field of vision.”

Marjorie managed a guttural, “Gaaack,” as she tried to croak out a rebuttal.

“Now, let’s sing.”

The Chevalier played a five-note scale and ascended by half-steps as the choir tried to follow his lead. He changed the pattern every few minutes with no explanation, and the choir struggled to keep up. I had to take the blame for this. I usually warmed up the choir using a chorale that we all knew or had been working on. At Christmastime,
Lo, How a Rose
, in Lent,
O Sacred Head
, F. Melius Christiansen’s
Lamb of God
, that sort of thing. We’d do it in different keys and work the vowel sounds. There was no one way to do a choral warmup — other directors went up and down the scale and got beautiful results — but the choir just wasn’t used to it. The Chevalier had no patience with them and after about five minutes of ear-tearing scales, decided that the group would probably sound better if they
didn’t
warm up.

“Choir,” he said, using a tone that implied that he had their confidence, ” we
really
have some work to do.”

“Gaaack,” managed Marjorie.

“I’ll need you all to come for a rehearsal tomorrow evening. I know it’s Monday, but we have a major performance on Wednesday and I’m busy on Tuesday, so Monday will have to do. Seven o’clock. It shouldn’t take more than two hours. You there
…
” He pointed at Marjorie sitting at the end of the tenor row. “You really don’t need to attend. You’re excused.”

“Hang on!” said Meg. “You can’t just
…
”

“
I thought I made it clear,”
barked the new director. “
No talking!
”

He glared across the choir, but his stare was less than intimidating. Still, Meg’s mouth clamped shut.

“Now to the anthem,” he said.
Laudate Dominum
by Charpentier.” He played the introduction, then stopped abruptly and said, “Dr. Burch?”

Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, stood up and recited, “Marc-Antoine Charpentier, born 1643, died 1704. A French composer of the Baroque era, Charpentier was a prolific and versatile composer, producing music of the highest quality in several genres, including works for the stage in collaboration with Molière. His mastery in the composition of sacred vocal music was recognized and acknowledged by his contemporaries. If you’d like to learn more, please visit my website. www.ianburch.phd.com.”

Ian sat down and offered Tiff St. James a greasy grin. Green teeth. I watched her shudder.

“What a wonderful asset to the choir,” said the Chevalier, clapping his pudgy hands together in delight. “A true music historian. I bow my head to you, Dr. Burch.” Then he did just that with the fingers of one hand extended in a twirl of affected elegance.

A moment later, and without warning, he started the introduction again. The choir had been stunned to silence, but managed to come in when the time came. Badly, and not all at the same time, but who could blame them? The Chevalier didn’t stop and regroup, now hearing what he’d expected to hear in the first place. He plowed straight through the piece throwing in Baroque ornamentation here and there, giving the little anthem a bit of pizzaz. He was a good organist, no doubt about that.

Father Dressler appeared beside me, beaming. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”

“He’s a fine player,” I agreed.

“I’ve never heard better,” declared Father Dressler. “He and I are of one mind when it comes to the art of liturgy. We act as one.”

The choir finished miserably, mangled the cutoff, and ground to a halt a few beats after the Chevalier had finished playing. He signed audibly and sarcastically, and said, “Yes choir, we certainly do have a
lot
of work to do.”

Father Dressler said loudly, “We want to welcome the Chevalier here to St. Barnabas.” He started applauding wildly, and one by one, most the members of the choir halfheartedly joined him. Some didn’t. “Now remember,” said the priest, once he’d finished his ovation, “we will all genuflect this morning. Not only during the procession like last Sunday, but also when you come down for communion, which all of you forgot to do last week. Remember, you set the tone for the congregation. They will follow your lead. Stop, bow one knee, wait three beats, then rise and continue. If you need help, an usher will assist you. During the processional hymn, the Chevalier will be improvising between the verses and it may be mesmerizing to you. I implore you, don’t stop to listen! Please keep the procession moving.”

The choir had no comment. I turned, walked back down the steps, chose a seat in the back of the sanctuary, and waited for the service to begin.

* * *

In my opinion, the highlight of the service, as it was whenever he took part, was Benny Dawkins’ display of the thurifutic arts. As a two-time world champion thurifer, he had complete command over his medium, and his medium was smoke. Benny carried his own thurible, and this incense pot was platinum, rather than the traditional gold. It hung from matching Figaro chains and was set with polished obsidian from Mount Vesuvius. This hand-made thurible had been presented to Benny by the Archbishop of Naples after he had brought the man to tears during an Epiphany service in which he had created a remarkably lifelike rendering of Botticelli’s
Adoration of the Magi
during the censing of the scriptures.

Most of the thurifer’s display took place at the beginning of the service, during the processional, for it was here that the smoke-slinger could really shine, but Benny didn’t stop there. Yes, the processional was something to behold, and on this particular frigid morning on the last Sunday of January, Benny came down the aisle using his now-famous maneuver, St. Sebastien’s Revenge, arrows of smoke darting into the space between the congregants and leaping into the air before dissipating into nothingness. Then, when he had ascended the steps of the chancel and was standing before the altar, the thurible became a blur in his hands, and before us, hanging in the space between heaven and earth, was a traditional Shinto garden scene. Monochromatic waters moved gently across a serene lake, a waterfall tumbled in the distance, trees swayed in the peaceful breeze, then suddenly, two cranes leapt from the rushes with beating wings and ascended into the rafters. From where I was sitting, the intake of collective breaths from the congregation was audible, even over the music. A few moments later, the smoke dropped away, leaving the priest standing behind the altar, his hands raised in prayer, as if he had appeared by magic. The effect was breathtaking and we felt as though we were in the presence of holiness.