“I so enjoyed your singing,” offered the strawberry blond First Lady, and I trusted the warmth in her voice more than the practiced voice of the President.
Then we were escorted back to the limousine—or another one—for the drive back to Eric and Judith’s.
Llysette almost cuddled against me in the limousine on the way through Dupont Circle and up New Bruges.
“Both of us … we wanted to sing so much, and … we sang for us … and for you, Johan.”
For me? I could sense the tears, and I just held her. What else could I do?
I kept thinking about Bruce’s pen and pencil set and about the case under the wide bed in Eric and Judith’s guest suite—and about the deadly words psychic proliferation .
CHAPTER TEN
The Friday after Llysette’s appearance at the Presidential Palace was the first full day we were back in Vanderbraak Centre. I dropped her off at the Music and Theatre building, as usual in our routine, and went to Samaha’s to pick up the papers that had accumulated in our absence.
I scurried through the fitful drizzle that had replaced the early-morning snow flurries, but, barely four steps into that dark emporium, I ran into the proprietor.
“Doktor Eschbach … that was some picture of your lady,” offered Louie. “And right on the front page, too. Saved a couple extras for you. Rose says we’d best go to her next recital.”
“I’ll tell her. Thank you.”
“Fancy that—one of the world’s greatest, and right here in Vanderbraak Centre.”
“You never know,” I said as kindly as I could after picking up the papers and paying Louie for the extras. My stomach twisted at the mention of the front page. Even the annual Presidential Arts Award dinner shouldn’t have made the front page—unless someone important in the capital wanted it there very badly.
“Right here,” Louie repeated.
“It does happen.” I slipped the papers under my arm and made my way out into the damp.
Back in the Stanley, I read the story before heading up to the faculty car park. I thought I’d better know what had been said. Louie had understated the press—page I, if below the fold, of the Asten Post-Courier, with the picture taken outside the Presidential Palace, one of the ones that didn’t show me.
FEDERAL DISTRICT (RPI). “The greatest singer I’ve ever heard”—that was how President Armstrong characterized soprano Llysette duBoise after her performance at the National Arts Awards dinner at the Presidential Palace.
“Magnificent performance,” commented honorary National Arts chair Benjamin Kubelsky. “I only wish she’d had time to do another piece by Mozart—L’Amero e Costante.”
DuBoise’s performance marks the return of the French soprano once hailed as the next Soderstrom, and those who heard her were unanimous in their praise… .
DuBoise had been imprisoned after the fall of France, released after the intervention of the Japanese ambassador to Vienna, and granted asylum in Columbia. With an earned doctorate from the Sorbonne, rather than return to opera or the concert stage, she took a teaching position at Vanderbraak State University in New Bruges in 1989. Last year, she married another distinguished faculty colleague there, former Subminister for Environmental Protection, Doktor Johan Eschbach. Eschbach, a decorated pilot in the Republic Naval Air Corps and rumored to have once been a Spazi agent, was the most notable figure in the Nord scandal, when a still-undisclosed assassin wounded him and killed both his wife and son.
Sources in the capital indicate that duBoise felt she could not perform publicly in the uncertain status of an artistic refugee, but once she was granted Columbian citizenship earlier this year, the way was open for her return to the stage, and what a return it was and will be.
DuBoise is scheduled to present a demanding and full concert at the Salt Palace Concert Hall in Deseret in early December, where she will be accompanied by the noted composer, arranger, and pianist Daniel Perkins.
I shook my head. The story was nearly a duplicate of the one that had run in the Federal District’s papers, both the Post-Courier and the Evening Star, although there it had merely led off the entertainment and arts sections. Merely? More people read those than the front page.
With all the publicity, someone definitely wanted a target. That was clear. Why they did wasn’t so clear, for all the explanations.
I hadn’t even gotten inside the office before David practically swarmed over me. “Johan, the dean called over, and she was most pleased about the story.”
They both should have been. Although Llysette had gotten top billing, as she deserved, the story had mentioned both of us and suggested that Vanderbraak State University had a distinguished faculty.
“And a spy, Johan? I never would have guessed beneath that scholarly exterior.”
That was a purely political disclaimer, but I smiled. “The story noted that it was rumored I was a spy, David. I was a pilot and a subminister, however, as you know.”
David let my own political statement slide. “We shouldn’t go on rumors, I suppose.”
“No. The dean wouldn’t like it if people insisted that the rumors about her and Marinus Voorster were true.”
“Ah … no. That is true.”
“I’m glad that’s understood.” I smiled more broadly. “I need to get ready for my classes and talk to Regner and Wilhelm about what happened in the ones they took for me.”
“Of course.”
The papers in my box were mostly junk—textbook announcements and cards for perusal copies—but there was one envelope in the dean’s cream-and-green stationery.
I opened that as I walked up the stairs.
All it said was: “Bravo, Johan!”, with a scrawled “K” beneath.
Bravo for what? Having the sense to marry the woman I loved? To let her do what she had been born and trained to do? That merited congratulations?
Regner caught me opening the door to my office. “Oh, that was beautiful. Such a slap in Ferdinand’s face.”
“What?”
“Llysette’s performance. It makes him look like the uncultured barbarian he is.” Regner then glanced around the empty hallway. “About what they wrote about you…”
“I was a pilot and a subminister, Regner. I am a full-time university professor, and would like to stay as such. Let’s leave it at that.”
“As you wish, Johan.” Unfortunately, the young fellow grinned, but I didn’t want to lie outright. So I let it pass.
Nowhere could I escape the questions, not even in my environmental economics class.
“Ah … Professor Eschbach … is it true you were a spy?”
“Mister Nijkerk, you can’t believe everything that the newspapers print. I was a pilot and a subminister, and that’s enough for any faculty member.” More than enough.
“But they all wrote—”
“I believe what they wrote was that it was rumored that I was a spy. That is not quite the same thing,” I pointed out, trying to avoid an out-and-out lie but also not wanting it broadcast across the campus that I’d admitted to having been a spy. In my vanity, I’d rather have been classed as a Spazi covert operative, not a common run-of-the-mill spy, but they wouldn’t have known the difference. “The newspaper speculations will not assist you in discussing the impact of taxation on the consumption levels of environmentally sensitive goods. Mister Dykstra, what does the location of the Tejas oil fields have to do with the development of the current steamer technology in Columbia?”
Mister Dykstra swallowed.
After forty minutes more on the impact of transport technology on the environment, I escaped to Delft’s. I made it there before Llysette.
“Herr Doktor Eschbach, will the lady be joining you?”
“Yes, Victor.”
“Then you must have the table by the stove.”
I nodded toward the door. “Here she comes.”
Victor turned and gave a deep bow to Llysette. “I did not know, but I am pleased that it was a French sopran
o that the president did praise.”
“Merci.” Llysette smiled.
Victor ushered us to Llysette’s favorite table, and that was a good thing, because she was almost shivering from the damp cold.
“Do you know what you would like?” he asked.
“The New Ostend cheddar soup, with the green salad, and chocolate,” I ordered.
“The croissant with the salad, and the wine, the good white.”
“With pleasure. With much pleasure, mademoiselle.” Victor bowed again, as if Llysette’s presence had made his day.
“You are certainly the belle of Vanderbraak Centre,” I said with a laugh. “What did Dierk say?”
“I should apply for full professor. That is now before they forget.”
“He’s probably right. That assumes you want to keep teaching.”
“Johan. I have one paying concert.”
“So far.”
“We shall see.”
She was right about that, but she hadn’t seen the local paper.
“Here you are, prima donna of Columbia.” I passed the newspaper across the table to her.
Llysette still flushed ever so slightly. “This, it is … tres difficile—”
“Hard to believe? For the diva who was supposed to replace Soderstrom?”
“Long ago, that was so long ago … or it seems so.”
“Voilà!” Victor presented Llysette with the shimmering white Sebastopol, followed by my chocolate, and flashed another smile. He was clearly enjoying himself.
“Did anyone else say anything?”
“The dean, such a letter she wrote me.” Llysette gave a sound that was too feminine for a snort and too ironic for a sniff. “The butter, it would not melt in her mouth.”
I got the idea.
“She only told me, ‘Bravo.’” I lowered my voice slightly, not that it mattered. “David was worried that it said I’d been a spy.”
My diva smiled broadly. “Worry he should, the … weasel. He and the dean, they are similar.”
Weasel was probably too kind a description, but I was feeling charitable and let it pass.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Outside of the gray steamers that appeared in and around Vanderbraak Centre, especially in the vicinity of Deacon’s Lane, the next complete week after Llysette’s appearance was surprisingly quiet. Both Llysette and I actually managed to catch up on missed teaching and lessons, at least mostly.
No strangers appeared at our door with odd boxes, and the newspapers were temporarily silent on the subject of either Llysette or me.
That lasted until I picked up Llysette the following Friday, a clear late afternoon so cold that her breath was a white fog as she slipped into the Stanley in the twilight.
“I’m glad you don’t have any rehearsals tonight,” I said casually, easing the steamer out and around the square past McArdles’ and toward the Wijk River bridge. “It’s been a long week. Anything interesting happen?”
“Doktor Perkins—he sent me an arrangement, a special arrangement, to see if it would I like.” Llysette’s words ran together, the way she did when she got excited. “And he writes that he looks forward to playing for me, and would I send the arrangements I would prefer… .”
“Doktor Perkins?” I pulled up to wait for a hauler to cross the bridge.
“The composer—he is the one who put Vondel to music. But his art songs, they are so much better. I sang the one.”
I frowned, trying to recall her recital. For only a few weeks ago, it seemed even longer. “Fragments of a Conversation?”
“Exactement!”
“He’s a Saint?”
“For me, he wishes to play…”
“He should. Who could he play for that would be any better?” I had to smile.
Sometimes she still didn’t realize just how good she’d gotten.
“You are kind.”
“This time, I’m just accurate.” The Stanley slid a bit, and I eased the steamer into four-wheel as we headed up Deacon’s Lane in the dimming light.
Llysette swallowed. “And my concert, they wish to record. There is … an agreement… .”
“A contract?”
“I have it here.” She held up what might have been an envelope, but I was concentrating on driving.
“I’ll look at it when we get home.” I paused as it hit me. “A recording contract? That’s wonderful! Maybe you won’t have to teach Dutch dunderheads for the rest of your life.”
“Mon cher …sweet you are, but even I, I know that people, they must buy the recordings, and who will buy the songs of an aging French singer?”
“About half the world, once they hear you. And you’re certainly not aging. I can attest to that.”
Llysette laughed. “You are impossible.”
I probably was, in more ways than one, but I had this feeling. Llysette had needed only one break, and she’d gotten it. With her determination, she wouldn’t fail—not unless someone stopped her. And that led to the other feeling—the one that said she needed protecting more than I did.
Once we were inside, and after I’d stoked up the woodstove against the chill created by the cold and the rising wind, I did read the contract while Llysette sat in front of the stove and watched.
“It looks all right to me. Would you mind if I called Eric? I think they have someone in his law firm that does this sort of thing.”
“He would do that for me?”
“I am sure he would be more than happy. More than happy, but I probably can’t get an answer until late Monday or Tuesday.”
While Llysette changed into more casual—and warmer—trousers and a sweater, I went into the kitchen and started on dinner: a ham angel-hair pasta with broccoli that wouldn’t take too long, with biscuits and a small green salad. First came the water, since that took the longest to heat, and then I went to work on the sauce, digging out the butter, a garlic clove, the leftover ham and the horribly expensive broccoli crown. Fresh vegetables were still costly in the winter in New Bruges. Then I got out the milk and the dash of flour I needed.
I had the sauce ready, the biscuits ready to go into the oven, just about the time the kettle was boiling. So in went the angel-hair. I set the kitchen table, but the pasta wasn’t ready—still far too al dente.
Because watched pasta never boiled, not for me, I slipped out of the kitchen and into the study for a moment, taking the mail from my jacket pocket and setting it on the desk.
I looked at the mirror on the wall, with the bosses that opened the concealed storage area that contained not only the old artificial lodestone but also the deghosting equipment and, now, the equipment case from Jerome.
Strange … a year before I hadn’t even known about the hidden area, not until Carolynne—then known only as the silent and enduring family ghost—had pointed it out to me and begun to murmur Shakespeare and art songs. Now, from within me, sometimes I could almost hear the songs in my ears, not just in my thoughts. Llysette, I knew, heard more than I did.
When I’d attempted to develop a copy of Carolynne, assuming that’s what you could call a difference engine—generated replication of a ghost of a singer who’d been murdered more than a century earlier, I’d failed until I’d used the scanner to replicate her actual being. Did that mean there had been two Carolynnes until each joined with me and with Llysette? Did that mean technology would someday be able to clone bodies and each body’s soul? I wasn’t sure. The metaphysics was beyond me, and I didn’t want to think about it all that closely.
I shook my head, eyes refocusing on the mirror and the equipment it hid. The Colt-Luger from Jerome wouldn’t help at all, but some of the other items might, such as the detector-transparent rope. I had my own plastique, but there was no point in turning down some from Minister Jerome, and the miniature homing beacons might come in useful somehow. I’d have to consider what to take to Deseret—and how I could conceal it, although most of the equipment was radar- and scan-transparent.
My
hand brushed the difference engine as I turned. Was it warm? I frowned, checking the desk. I hadn’t recalled the stack of papers beside the console being quite so neat.
After the screen cleared, I ran a check, but there was no sign that the machine had been used since the night before. I shook my head. If strange agents with deghosters didn’t get me, paranoia would. I switched off the SII machine.
With the hiss and smell of pasta water that had boiled over, I hurried back to the kitchen. I still hadn’t managed handling both cooking and worrying simultaneously, and I doubted that I ever would, all Llysette’s comments about my being a chef to the contrary.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After another week of chill and occasional snow flurries, the temperature had climbed again until it was nearly springlike, although the scent of damp fallen leaves permeated the entire campus. My nose itched. The clock had struck four o’clock as I’d left Smythe after my last class for the week, and the wind—suddenly colder—gusted around me as I walked downhill toward the post centre.
Most of the parking spaces on the square were taken, and the small car lot beside McArdles’ was filled with the steamers of those who wished to do no grocery shopping on the weekend.
“Good afternoon, Constable.” I nodded to Gerhardt as I passed the Watch station and turned up the walk.
“Afternoon, Doktor. A good one.” He looked to the fast-moving clouds coming in from the north. “So far, but the clouds look nasty.”
“They do. Maybe I’ll get home before they get here.”
The post centre lobby was deserted, and my dress boots echoed hollowly on the stone floor. In our box were three envelopes, and one was manila. The manila envelope was exactly the same as the earlier ones postmarked in the Federal District. From Jerome, I suspected more and more. I shook my head and put it and the two bills into my inside jacket pocket.
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