They went back to working on the song—Lord of Sand, I thought, the Evans poem.
In time, Perkins stopped playing and stood, stretching.
Llysette almost shook herself and glanced toward me. “I feel better,” she said with a faint smile.
“I am glad you do,” the composer answered, bending over and folding up the music. “I think a great number of listeners, even those few who heard you years ago, will be surprised.” He looked at me.
“I haven’t doubted that,” I said, “but I’m not a musician.”
“I am, and I know that they will be surprised.” He offered that boyish grin again.
I brought him his coat.
“How have you found Deseret?”
“We’ve not seen that much, except what we saw on the airship and the Temple grounds.”
“And the Salt Palace,” added Llysette.
“I hope you get to see more after the concerts. You might ask if you can get farther south. There’s so much there—Cedar Breaks, Ankakuwasit …”
Llysette nodded.
I decided to ask. “We’re strangers here, and some things aren’t obvious. When Herr Jensen picked us up, he had a driver who wore a green jacket. The coat looked like a uniform, but it had no insignia.” I spread my hands. “I might be mistaken, and I would dislike having an incorrect impression.”
“I doubt your impression was incorrect.” The composer smiled wryly. “The Danites wear green, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Brother Jensen’s driver were a Danite.” He turned to Llysette. “The Danites were the original militia in the first Saint war back in Columbia. Now … they’re more of a … something like the Masons in Columbia.”
According to Jerome’s briefing papers, they were far more than a fraternal order, more like a paramilitary order, if not a secret but official arm of the church.
I didn’t have to force the frown. “That seems odd.”
Perkins laughed. “Why would it be odd? Deseret is surrounded by Columbia and New France. Until comparatively recently, Columbia kept trying to annex us, and now Marshal DeGaulle has the same idea. We can’t afford a large standing army. That’s why the First Presidency has always supported the Danites and the Joseph Smith Brigades.”
I shook my head, then decided to push a little more. “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant his having a driver who was a Danite.”
“That’s no more strange than my having Brother Hansen as an escort.” Perkins paused. “Surely you understand that we all want this concert to go well and no one wants either this lovely lady—or, unfortunately, me—to be distracted. Music is far more highly regarded here in Deseret than in Columbia.” He smiled. “This lady would not have had to wait for citizenship to have sung here. Her concerts would have been mobbed.”
I got the message and felt guilty for pushing so far. “I guess I didn’t realize just how celebrated you two are here. I got into the arts business late, and by marriage.” I put on a sheepish grin and looked at Llysette. “In New Bruges, people are not exactly the most enthusiastic of music lovers. Sometimes … I’m not so bright … as I should be.”
“My lady.” Perkins turned to Llysette. “You are indeed fortunate to have a husband who is not a musician.”
“That I know.” She smiled fondly at me. “He worries about me, not about the notes.”
I tried not to sigh. I just hoped she wouldn’t analyze the conversation too closely, praying she was still thinking about the music.
“My wife is probably asking where I am.” Perkins turned to Llysette. “Tomorrow at ten?”
“That would be good.”
With a last boyish smile, the composer left. The gray coat and blond hair told me that Brother Hansen was waiting by the elevator.
I closed the door and turned to Llysette. She’d slumped into one of the armchairs.
“You’re tired.”
“Oui.”
“And hungry.”
She nodded.
“I’ll dig out some of the cheese and crackers. It’s hard working with a composer.”
“Non … he is easy to follow, but to sing his words … as well as one can … c’est tres difficile.”
“Do you want to rest? A glass of wine before we find somewhere to eat? Or should I order dinner up here?”
“The wine. Then I will decide.”
I went to extract one of the bottles from the cooler and to get her some cheese and crackers. Perkins was honest, and he didn’t want Llysette worried, and he was worried, and we were definitely under protective surveillance—all of us. All in all, a pattern was emerging, and I didn’t care for its shape in the slightest.
“Do you think you have … whatever it was … worked out?”
“I should think so. Tomorrow, then we will see.”
That we would, except I knew tomorrow was but the beginning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After breakfast on Wednesday, while Llysette reviewed her music again and warmed up some, I went through both local scandal sheets. In addition to a small article about the decision by Escobar-Moire to send another New French naval battle group to the Azores, the Deseret News contained an article mentioning the concert. That meant both papers were being fed material. I had my doubts that they had teams of reporters seeking it out.
GREAT SALT LAKE CITY (DNS). A select number of University of Deseret voice students will get the chance of a lifetime this coming Friday and Saturday—an opportunity to show off their talents to world-famous Columbian soprano Llysette duBoise… .
In addition to her three concerts this week at the Salt Palace (see Entertainment Calendar) with Deseret’s own world-renowned Daniel Perkins, duBoise will be conducting two master classes for the top female voice students at Deseret University.
“It’s a great opportunity for our students,” said Joanne Axley, the Director of Voice Studies for Women at Deseret University. “They’re really looking forward to working with Doktor duBoise… .”
I flipped to the Entertainment Calendar, and, as indicated on the front part of the Arts section, all three concerts were listed, with three stars, presumably indicating a recommendation of some sort. I pondered the story, carefully placed below the fold, but on the front page of the Arts section in the lower right corner. Neither the place nor the times for the classes were mentioned, either.
The Deseret Star only mentioned the concerts in the section headed “Upcoming Cultural Events”—in bold type—but the Star had offered the earlier story.
“Johan?”
“I’m ready any time you are.” I stood and handed the section that had the News article to Llysette. “You’re getting even more famous. Show this to Dierk and the dean. ‘World-famous Columbian soprano.’”
She read the story slowly, then looked up. “I am not good enough for their men?”
“I don’t know that it was meant that way,” I said. “They seem to keep men and women almost separate.” I picked up my coat and donned it, then extracted hers from the closet.
“Women are not so good as men?” There was a glint in her green eyes.
“I don’t believe that, but I can’t control what the Saints do or believe,” I pointed out.
“So long as you do not become a Saint… .”
“There’s not much chance of that.” And there wasn’t. Who wanted to join a faith based on imaginary gold tablets translated by a prophet who had never been to school? While the idea of dying and becoming God sounded all right, I had my doubts about what it really might be like. Besides, I was having enough trouble learning how to be a real person with one wife, and polygamy had to be even harder. Then, maybe I was spiritually polygamous, with the fragments of Carolynne’s ghost welded to my soul and being married to a singer who was somewhere between one and two separate women trying to be one. And people out there were considering creating more ghosts?
“Quiet you are,” said Llysette.
“Sometimes … I just have to think.” I held her coat for her, then open
ed the suite door.
Llysette shook her head at herself and walked over to the piano and picked up the black folder with the music and then her handbag.
The concierge nodded as we stepped out into the lobby, and I returned the nod, although I wondered if his gesture was really for us.
Outside, even under the canopy, the wind was chill again. The sky was clear and a chilling blue. Cold as the air was, it smelled clean for the first time since we’d arrived, and for that I was grateful.
Llysette fumbled the top buttons of her heavy coat closed and clutched her music.
A green steam bus, trimmed in gold paint, hissed by and stopped at the corner ahead and disgorged several dozen people. All were fairly young, less than thirty, and most were men. The younger men were uniformly clean-shaven. Did beards come with marriage? Doktor Perkins was clean-shaven, but he had a reputation for being a nonconformist. On the other hand, Brother Hansen was bearded and he was definitely older and, given the Saint culture, probably just as definitely married for, as they put it, “time and eternity.”
A different pair of Danites followed us to the concert hall. I didn’t mention them to Llysette. What was the point in possibly upsetting her before her first big concert in years? Especially when they seemed to be there to protect her?
Still, my fingers curled toward the calculator in my jacket pocket, and I wanted to touch the pen and pencil set. There was also the plastic blade in the belt, but that would have taken too long to get out.
“Good morning … Doktor,” offered the white-haired guard. He struggled slightly with the “Doktor,” but someone had clearly briefed him.
“Good morning,” said Llysette cheerfully.
“They’re waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” She bestowed a dazzling smile.
I held the door for her, noting the slightest of headshakes on the part of the guard, almost as if he felt someone that beautiful didn’t belong in public—or something like that.
The two Danites had dropped back as we’d entered the Salt Palace complex, and I lost sight of them as we headed through the dimness toward the hall itself.
Doktor Perkins and Brother Hansen were waiting at the base of the stage, at the waist-high dark green curtain that circled the pit.
“Are you ready?” asked the composer.
“Yes.” Llysette started to unbutton the heavy black coat, and I stepped forward to help her out of it. “It is cold today.”
“We’re in for some snow later, only an inch or two, they say.” Perkins grinned. “Just so it’s over by noon tomorrow.”
Llysette shivered.
“It’s not any warmer here, or not much,” I pointed out as I folded her coat over my arm.
“That explanation, Johan, I could do without.”
I shut up. She was tense enough.
“What would you prefer?” asked the composer. “Would you like to warm up?”
“Non … already have I… . The two songs … first. Then the program as we would sing it.”
Perkins nodded, and I backed away as silently as I could, followed by Hansen. Llysette and the composer/accompanist moved toward the big Steinbach.
“How do you find Deseret?” asked Hansen, smiling his politician’s smile, when we reached the space at the foot of the temporary steps.
“With Llysette’s rehearsals and practice, we really haven’t had much time to sightsee. We did tour the Temple grounds and the Tabernacle, and the small performing hall and the park and the gardens. They’re all very impressive.” I smiled. “It’s always been amazing to me to read about how much you Saints have accomplished. To see it is even more amazing.”
“People work hard here.” Hansen paused, his eyes going to the stage, where Llysette and Perkins stood by the Steinbach. The composer gestured to the music, then seated himself and played several bars before looking up. Llysette nodded.
“You’re a professor now, aren’t you? Have you published many books?”
“Environment and natural resources. And no, I haven’t published many books, just a handful of articles. Most of them upset people.” I laughed softly, not wanting the sound to carry, but I supposed it did anyway, because Llysette looked in my direction.
“Time to sit down and be quiet,” I said wryly, moving back up the aisle and into the darkness.
Hansen again took a position in a seat on the end of the first row, from where he could watch both stage and seats.
I watched, but it took only a few attempts before Llysette and the composer appeared satisfied with the two sections they’d rehearsed the night before. Then they went into the program itself. Although it was only a rehearsal, it was still better. I wanted to cry and shake my head, understanding a little bit more why not performing had hurt Llysette so deeply.
Before I really knew it, the rehearsal was over.
As Brother Hansen stood in the open area below the stage, Perkins gestured to me. So I climbed up the temporary steps on the right-hand side, carrying Llysette’s coat with me.
Because she was perspiring slightly, I just held the coat.
“I realize that it is very short notice, but Jillian and I would like to know if you both would join us for dinner this evening.” Perkins’s eyes went fleetingly in the direction of Hansen, so fleetingly that I wouldn’t have caught the movement if I hadn’t been watching. “A very bland meal, a chicken pasta, if that’s all right,” he added. “I wouldn’t want to upset a singer.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Llysette. “Johan and I would enjoy that.” She paused. “I would prefer … cilantro I do not like.”
“This recipe doesn’t feature cilantro or much garlic.”
I supposed we could enjoy a dinner away from the Lion Inn. “Would you care to have lunch with us?”
“I wish I could.” He shook his head and checked his watch. “I still have a class to teach.”
“You teach also?”
“At the university.” He grinned again at Llysette. “I’m the one who set up the master classes for you. I hope you don’t mind if a few of my students sit in.”
“Mais non.” Llysette smothered a frown.
“If that would bother you …” .
“Non … I enjoy teaching men.”
“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at the Inn just before seven?”
“That would be fine.”
He nodded and then gathered up his music and headed down the steps and for the open hall door, his strides long and quick, as if he were already late. Hansen looked at us, then hurried after the composer.
“Do you want your coat?”
“Pas encore …”
We walked slowly out of the hall, not because Llysette was tired, but because she wanted to cool off before going out into the cold. My thoughts kept flitting to the business about his teaching and his students and the newspaper article that mentioned only female students—yet more pieces to a puzzle that got more and more complicated.
“Lunch?”
“Please.”
The two new Danites, or whatever they were, followed us back to the Lion Inn and The Refuge, where we were escorted back to the corner table—again with a healthy space around us.
Llysette didn’t feel like talking, and I didn’t press. As every performance neared, she drew more and more into herself. That was one reason why I’d been surprised that she’d accepted the dinner invitation. But her instincts were good, and if she accepted, I’d follow her lead—with a look over our shoulders.
The rest of the day was uneventful. After lunch, Llysette napped, and then … well … we both napped after that.
When we woke, she took a bath, and then I showered and dressed and she fussed over one of the songs at the piano before she dressed. I opened another bottle of wine, but she only had one glass while she dressed, and I read the hotel-provided guidebook from cover to cover once more.
At five to seven, we were down in the lobby. At three before the hour, a red steamer pulled up under the
canopy—unsurprisingly, a Browning—and we stepped into the night air.
Despite their ornate wrought-iron shapes, the streetlights were energy-efficient glow throwers that penetrated the gloom without searing the eyeballs. Again, as I sniffed and smelled chemicals and air pollutants, I had to wonder why the Saints had installed the most environmentally friendly and energy-efficient lights while only undertaking considerably less effective air pollution controls.
As Perkins guided the steamer eastward and uphill, I glanced back through the twilight, convinced that the same pair of headlights that had pulled out from the Lion Inn was still behind us, if a block back. There’s a thin line between occupational caution and paranoia. I wondered if I was crossing that line.
Doktor Perkins drove quickly, except when he neared what seemed to be a school, where he slowed down. That seemed odd, since it was well past any normal school hours.
“There’s a ghost of a young woman there. She was killed in a steamer accident several months ago, and her family visits her every night.”
We peered through the darkness. Sure enough, several figures seemed to group around a white shadow. I shivered, and Llysette reached out and squeezed my hand. How many ghosts were on my soul? I tried not to think about it.
Perkins turned right, downhill, then pulled into a bricked driveway another hundred yards past the turn.
The two-story house was nearly a century old, made of hand-formed yellowbrown bricks. The light on the wide front porch revealed that the trim was almost a forest green, accented with gold-painted gingerbread.
A double car barn had been added later, although some attempt had been made to match the house brick.
I held the steamer door for Llysette, feeling dampness on my face. Scattered flakes swirled down around us for a moment, then vanished.
Perkins led the way up the antique brick steps and across a wide-planked and roofed porch to a golden oak door, which opened as we neared.
“That didn’t take long,” the petite blonde woman said to the composer.
Ghosts of Columbia Page 55
