1635: Music and Murder (36 page)

"Good evening, friends." Abati plopped into the chair left open for him.

Thomas felt a moment of envy, for Abati's German was as melodious as his Italian. Then something registered with him at the same moment that Master Giacomo gasped. "Andrea, what have you done?"

"Oh, this?" Abati ran his fingers through his hair—his much, much shorter hair. "Yes, I have set aside the trappings of being
Il Prosperino
. I decided that to spend so much time on my hair and clothing was a distraction from the music. So, I simplified my life." Abati ran his fingers again through his wavy auburn hair again. It was no longer than the bottom of his ears, and his grin was almost salacious. "Then, when I let it be known that I wanted my hair cut, the proprietresses of the 'beauty salons,' seemed to almost come to blows over who would cut it. I finally settled on Frau Thelma Jean Agnes Jenkins at the 'Curl and Tan.'"

Abati paused long enough to give his order to the waitress. "I had at first thought of taking all my shorn locks and using them as favors for ladies in Italy to remember me by and for ladies in Germany to come to know me by." His grin was now several degrees past salacious. "But Frau Jenkins convinced me that I should allow her to sell them to a wigmaker. Even after her commission for the cutting and the sale, I pocketed more than a few coins."

"And your attire?" Carissimi quirked an eyebrow.

Abati shrugged a rather expressive shrug. "Long pants and a jacket. Life is so much freer, more comfortable. Velvet, of course. I have not given up all thought of style." His wine arrived as they were laughing. After taking a sip, he continued, "I got a pretty penny from the seamstress who bought all the brocade, as well." Another grin. "I think they will use the former owner of the hair and clothes as a selling mark." More laughter.

Just then the performers on the stage all faced out, obviously ready to begin. The noise level in the room began dropping. Within moments, the man with the tambourine could be heard. "Good evenin', folks. I'm Huey Jones, and we're the OF Band."

One of the women stepped up and said, "That stands for Old Fa . . . "

"That stands for Old
Folks
Band." The man glared a mock glare. The woman smiled sweetly at him. "Anyway, we're goin' to get started with an old favorite,
She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain
.

The band started off, led by the mandolin. The patrons of the Gardens started clapping immediately. Seeing that no conversation was going to be possible for a while, Thomas and the others began clapping, too.

One song followed another. Thomas recognized several of them from his studies with Marla as being 'hillbilly' music, related to the country and western style. He decided the musicians on the stage were not the most polished he'd ever heard, but they obviously enjoyed what they were doing. Some of that joy communicated to the audience, who enjoyed both the music and the performers.

The final song ended to loud applause. The OF Band waved goodbye as they stepped off the platform. Finally, the room returned to a state approaching normal, with a constant buzz of conversation in the background. The waitresses were scurrying around seeing to it that glasses and mugs were refilled.

"So," Giacomo said, "we were talking about Andrea before the music started. What are you going to do next, Andrea, besides break women's hearts and bankrupt the tailors of Rome? Have you learned all you came to Grantville to learn?"

"I have learned enough. I have not gained your depth of knowledge, Master Giacomo, but I have learned enough to know that the future is not here in Grantville. Yes, the archives of the future are here, but the future is in Magdeburg. Musical archives are useless if they are not performed, so I will return to Magdeburg soon, to ally myself with Frau Marla and Herr Franz. I will support their orchestra. I will teach, I will sing, I will preach the new music to all who will listen."

Giacomo smiled. "My. Such fervor. And what has won your conversion to the cause, Andrea? Was it Frau Marla's recital in Magdeburg last year?"

"Oh, that opened a breach in the walls." Andrea laughed. "But it did not win the final submission."

"Then what did?" Master Heinrich asked.

"Opera."

"Opera?" It was a chorus from them all.

"Opera." Andrea was firm. "Oh, not the opera of Monteverdi, or Peri, or even yourself, Master Schütz."

"Then whose?"

"Verdi . . . one Giuseppe Verdi."

"An Italian," Master Heinrich snorted, smiling. "I should have known that only another Italian could have touched you so."

"You laugh." Andrea smiled in return. "But the man is . . . was . . . will be . . . what is the right word to say?" Frustration entered his voice.

"I believe most everyone has settled on 'was,'" Thomas said.

"Thank you. Verdi was a genius. His lesser works are wonderful, but
Otello
. . .
Otello
is divine. Words fail me." But not for long, Thomas noted. "And then there is
Boris Godunov,
by Muss . . . Mussorgsky. Who would have expected a master work from Russia? The pathos of it."

Andrea gulped his wine down, looking somewhat haunted. "God is indeed fond of irony. Be careful what you pray for, my friends. For most of my career I have prayed to find great music, genius music, music that only those such as I could appreciate." His expression was now bleak. "I would die to sing Otello, to sing that part just once before an audience. But unless God the Father works a miracle in my body, it can never be." He brooded for a moment more, then forced a smile. "So, I must do the next best thing. I must help raise up the men—and women; I do not forget Frau Marla, Master Giacomo—who can fulfill my prayer."

"And you begin in Magdeburg?"

"
Si.
I mean, yes. It is the capital; it is where the patrons will gather. It is where Frau Simpson's arts league is centered. So, I will go there and begin. Perhaps with Frau Marla."

"Indeed." Giacomo took a sip of wine. "I have told her to study with you. Her voice, it is golden, but there is still much I believe you could teach her. And, perhaps, you could learn somewhat from her."

Andrea nodded.

"As it happens," Master Heinrich said, "I will be going to Magdeburg soon. I have heard much of what friend Giacomo has told me, but I am an old head—I need to see it and hear it in practice. So, I will go to see Herr Sylwester and his friends build this symphony. I think then I will truly begin to understand the new music, deep in my bones. Would you care to travel with me, Herr Andrea?"

"I would be delighted, Master Heinrich."

Aschenhausen
May, 1634

"Well?" Joachim ben Eleazar looked expectantly at his rabbi, Shlomo ben Moishe.

The rabbi looked sidelong at his wife, Rivka who sat next to him with a stony expression. Then he sighed. "Yes, I will go."

"Good, Rav Shlomo." Joachim clapped his hands together. "Very good. I will make arrangements."

A small smile of triumph crossed Rivka's face.

Magdeburg
June, 1634

Franz set the baton down on his stand. "Enough. We will resume after lunch with the Vaughan Williams. You have two hours, gentlemen."

After he'd stepped down from the podium, he found Marla talking to several men in the back of the great room. One of them seemed somehow familiar.

"Herr Franz, how good to see you again."

Franz stopped short, almost stunned, raising his hand by reflex. "Signor Abati . . . "

Abati laughed as he grasped Franz's hand and shook it. "Yes, yes, I know, I look different. But we stand at the dawn of a new age, so I decided to follow your example." He waved his hand first at Franz's trousers, then at his shorter hair.

"But what are you doing here?"

"Why, I have learned what I could from Maestro Carissimi. Therefore, I have returned to Magdeburg to begin to practice it. Master Schütz . . . " Abati waved to another of the men talking to Marla " . . . was kind enough to transport me in his carriage. And here we are."

Master Schütz! Franz had once accidentally received an electric shock in Ingram Bledsoe's workshop. The feeling that ran through his mind and body at hearing the esteemed German master's name was much the same.

Grappling his wits together, Franz bowed. "Master Schütz, it is indeed an honor to meet you. I have heard so much about you from the musicians you so graciously lent us."

"Hmm, indeed." Schütz fingered his beard. "I suspect, Herr Sylwester, that if what I hear of you and your goals is true, that the honor is as much mine as it is yours." He stepped forward and offered his hand. "In truth, I marvel somewhat at your boldness, to attempt to craft that now which took two hundred years to build in that other time."

Franz looked to Marla for a moment, then returned his gaze to the master. "I have no choice, Master Schütz. The music settles in one's very bones. It drives without remorse."

"Indeed," Abati murmured.

Schütz tilted his head and considered Franz for a long moment. "I believe I understand. You have my commiserations or my congratulations, whichever is appropriate."

Franz laughed. "On some days, it is both, but more often the latter than the former."

"Good, good. That is as it should be, then. Now . . . " Schütz smiled. "If I mistake me not, those musicians I have 'lent' you are about to descend upon me. I suggest you take your lovely wife and have your meal undisturbed whilst we have our reunion. I will endeavor to have them in their places at the appointed time."

****

Abati chose to accompany the others, leaving Schütz to face his men. They gathered around him, smiling. He called them by name and asked about their families.

Once the greetings were finished, he turned to where the four Amsel brothers were exchanging back-slaps and hugs. They immediately stilled when they felt his gaze. Matthäus sidled through the press to the front rank.

"Well?" Schütz asked.

Knowing full well what his master was asking, Matthäus responded, "The music is . . . different, Master Heinrich."

"Of course it is! But you can learn it, can you not?"

"Aye, master. We can, and we do."

Schütz fingered his beard again. "And Herr Sylwester?"

Matthäus looked around at the others, then back at his master. "He . . . it is very different, what he is doing . . . so many changes. But the more he leads us, the easier it is to both understand the music and understand his vision. He is . . . " The young man was obviously groping for a word.

"Formidable," his brother, Marcus, suggested.

"Yes, formidable." Matthäus seized on it. "He is formidable and unrelenting. He demands our very best. He accepts nothing less than that—his very words. But, he leads well, he is consistent, and he is fair."

Schütz nodded slowly, still running his fingers through his beard.

"He discharged Herwin Vogler," someone said from the back of the crowd.

"What?" Schütz frowned.

"The fool brought it on himself, Master Heinrich." Simon Bracegirdle stepped forward. "He started complaining on the first day and never stopped. He would not understand what was being taught. The new music distressed him. The thought of someone only half his age telling him that much of what he knew had to change in order to play the 'new music' . . . he would not accept that. Herr Sylwester talked to him, Matthäus talked to him, I talked to him, all to no avail. He would not stop resisting Herr Sylwester's leadership. Truth to tell, I would have sent him packing long before."

Schütz looked to Matthäus.

"He has the right of it, Master Heinrich. Herwin would not listen, would only half-heartedly play, would not even attempt to
hear
what Franz—Herr Sylwester—was trying to lead us to create." Schütz noted that Matthäus was on good terms with young Sylwester, good enough to use his first name.

Dropping his hand, Schütz sighed. "So be it. I perhaps let Herwin hang on too long, but he was one of the first players I ever hired, and . . . " He shook his head, then looked at them all. "Is the work worthy?"

Nods from all over, and a surprising response of, "Yes, Master Heinrich," from Johann Amsel, of all people. As everyone looked at him, the boy's complexion reddened, but he stared back resolutely.

"Good, good." Schütz smiled, then his face turned stern. "And make no mistake, my expectation is the same as Herr Sylwester's . . . your very best. While you follow him, it is as if you follow me. Nothing less is acceptable."

"Yes, Master Heinrich," came from all corners of the room.

Magdeburg
June, 1634

"Stop."

Marla stopped singing at Andrea's command.

"You are singing from the wrong place," he said, straightening from his slouch against the wall and walking toward her. "The voice, it does not come from here." He pointed to her abdomen. "Your breath must come from there, but not the voice.

"Nor does it come from here." Andrea touched her throat. As she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand. "Yes, yes, I have read of the vocal cords. But they are not the voice.

"Think of a violin, please. You play a violin by taking a bow to the strings, yes? But does the voice of a violin come from the bow or the strings?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "No. The voice of a violin comes from the body.

"In like manner, your diaphragm . . . " He pointed to her abdomen again. "Your diaphragm is the bow, and your vocal cords are the strings. But they are not where the voice comes from. The voice . . . " He leaned forward and placed a fingertip on her forehead. "The voice comes from the head. You cannot be lazy. You must relax your throat. You must place your tone in your head; sing from your head at all times." He turned back to his wall.

"Again, please."

****

"Cellos, you must follow me here. You must swell this passage." Franz tapped his baton against the podium. "Start softly. Then, as the theme rises, crescendo until it crests, then diminuendo to the end of the phrase."

Franz looked at his orchestra. "Start at letter F."

The orchestra began playing. Franz led them on. At the passage in question he began swelling his pattern, all the while looking directly at the cellists.