Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “They were waiting.” He gestured, and we stepped inside. “This is my wife, Jillian. She’s a pianist.”

  “When I get time.” Like the composer, Jillian Perkins was blonde and slender, except her hair was more of a strawberry blonde shade and very curly. She had a pixielike face, and her eyes sparkled. She wore a tailored blue dress that set off her eyes and hair. I liked her.

  “If you’d say good night to the children, Dan? They’re waiting.”

  “Excuse me.” The composer bowed and headed up the narrow staircase, shedding his overcoat as he hurried upstairs, his shoes slapping on the polished wood steps.

  “We can sit down for a moment.” Jillian nodded toward the front sitting room, which contained a couch and two armchairs, as well as a small grand piano, something called a Ballem, but I didn’t recognize the name. I walked over and studied the piano.

  “We inherited that. Dan hates it. It’s good furniture, but the internal works leave a little to be desired.” Jillian offered a short laugh. “I teach youngsters on it. It’s hard to keep in tune, but it’s good practice for my tuning business. The good piano is in the study.”

  I sat on the couch beside Llysette, our backs to the filmy lace-trimmed curtains that framed the small bay window overlooking the front yard and street.

  “How do you like Deseret?”

  “It is … different.” Llysette smiled gently. “Very … clean.”

  “The Temple is impressive. So is your husband,” I added. “Llysette had told me about his music. She’s sung some of it for years. But he’s much younger than I expected.”

  “Dan does have that boyish look,” Jillian replied, brushing a strand of curly hair off her forehead. “Would you like something to drink? We have hot or cold cider, hot chocolate, and orange and grapefruit juice.”

  Llysette smiled. “The hot chocolate, if you please.”

  “The same, thank you.”

  “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be right back.”

  Alone momentarily, we glanced around the sitting room. From what I could see, it was the largest space in the house, and the only one capable of holding even a small grand piano. The house was actually smaller than ours in New Bruges. A large brick fireplace stood in the middle of the outside wall at the end of the room away from the small entry space and stairs. On each side of the fireplace were built-in bookcases.

  I scanned the titles, those I could read, starting with the shelves on the left side. The few titles I could read told of the subject matter clearly enough—History of the Latter-Day Saints, Witness of the Light, Sisters in Spirit, The Gathering of Zion, Brigham Young: American Moses, and several volumes entitled Doctrine and Covenants.

  The books on the right side were radically different: Principles of Voice Production, Dynamics in Scoring, A Brief History of Music, The Complete Pianist, Vondel: A Guide, Henry Purcell, and two shelves of what looked to be scores, some hand-bound.

  The mahogany side tables, while akin to Columbian revival, were more spare and were scarcely new. Neither were the chairs and the couch on which we sat, although the room was as spotless as any well-kept Dutch dwelling. I definitely got the impression that composers, at least in Deseret, were not all that well compensated. And from what Llysette had indicated, Perkins was one of the better-known North American composers.

  From the couch, we looked into a dining room not much larger than the eating space in my kitchen, at an oval table set for four.

  “Modest … ,” I murmured to Llysette.

  She nodded.

  Doktor Daniel Perkins needed Llysette as much as she needed him, perhaps more, and the recording contract made a great deal more sense—a great deal.

  “Here’s your chocolate.” Jillian returned with a small tray and four cups, all steaming.

  “Merci.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the sound of shoes on the steps, she turned.

  “They’re all tucked in,” Perkins explained as he passed the piano.

  “It’s cold out. I thought you might like some, too.”

  “Thank you, dear.” He took the cup and settled himself into one of the chairs.

  She set the tray on the side table and took the other chair but perched on the front.

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Three,” answered Jillian. “Two boys and a girl.”

  “Ages ten, six, and two,” he added. “And they’re going on forty, fourteen, and two.”

  I must have frowned slightly.

  “You wonder about the stories of large Saint families? And multiple spouses?” asked Perkins with a smile.

  “It had crossed my mind,” I admitted, “but you really never know, and it hasn’t been that easy to learn more than the basics about Deseret. At least until recently.” I was pushing it, but too many loose ends were dangling about, with too much at stake.

  “Deseret is no longer a farming nation. We’re growing, and we need more hands, but they have to be guided by an educated mind. Minds take longer to train than bodies.”

  “So the ‘magic number’ is no longer five?” I asked blandly.

  Jillian winced, but Perkins grinned, a little self-consciously, before answering. “The church believes that while five children is an ideal, ideals don’t necessarily fit all families.”

  I got that message—immense social pressure to have large families, but not an absolute written declaration.

  “I’m curious. We saw a large house near the temple—with separate dwellings… .”

  “The old Eccles house. It’s almost a museum,” Perkins said with a nod. “There were more housing complexes like that even twenty-five years ago.” He shrugged. “Times change.” Then he stood. “I need to finish up with the dinner.”

  “Dan’s a far better cook than I am,” Jillian said with a smile as the composer vanished in the direction of the kitchen. “He’s not totally traditional.”

  Not totally? I was definitely getting the impression that Perkins was very untraditional in a traditional society, maintaining the mask while straining against it. Was that the reason why Brother Hansen was trailing Dan Perkins? “Are any composers traditional?”

  “I don’t know any others personally.” Jillian smiled. “Most biographies of composers show they have a certain … flair.”

  “That is true,” averred Llysette.

  I would have had to agree.

  “Here it is.” Perkins held a large serving dish, then lowered it onto the small oval table.

  We rose and inched toward the archway to the dining room.

  “If you two would sit here and here,” said Jillian, pointing to the two chairs away from the archway to the living room and the door to the kitchen. “That way, we can get to the kitchen.”

  I held the chair and seated her, and Perkins seated Llysette.

  The dinner was simple—the chicken pasta with portabella mushrooms, flaky rolls, and a green salad.

  “The white pitcher has ice water, the gold one cider,” Jillian added.

  I decided to try the cider and lifted the pitcher, looking at Llysette.

  “Mais oui… .”

  Then I tried the pasta. Not only was Perkins a composer, but he was also a good cook. Straight-faced, I asked Llysette, “Do you think he should have been a chef, too?”

  “Together, you should open a bistro.”

  “And you’d sing?”

  “The café songs, I heard them first, and when I was small, tres petite, a café singer I wanted to be.” Llysette took a swallow of the too-sweet cider and managed to get it down straight-faced.

  “You’ve come a long way,” I pointed out.

  “She really has,” added Perkins.

  “Your husband said you were a pianist,” I said to Jillian.

  “He is much better, but I teach part-time at the university, and I play at the ward services.” She smiled. “I enjoy it.”

  “I wish I had that kind of talent,” I answered.

  “You hav
e other talents, mon cher.”

  “Listen to your lady,” suggested Perkins.

  “I always do.”

  “Maintenant …”

  “It took a little while, but not long, to realize I got into trouble for not listening.”

  That got a smile from both Perkinses.

  “So,” I asked, after a moment, “how do you think the concert will go?”

  Llysette frowned over a mouthful of salad at my boldness.

  Perkins finished chewing before he answered. “If our rehearsals are any indication, it should be good.”

  “What about the recording?”

  “That’s easy. The hall has a permanent recording system. Deseret Media will record all three performances, and we’ll take the best version of each song. Hopefully … everyone in Deseret and Columbia will want a disk, and we’ll all make lots of money.”

  Jillian nodded. “At least to cover the deposits.”

  “You made deposits?” I asked.

  “Even in Deseret, artists have to pay,” he pointed out. “It seemed like a good idea.”

  “Everywhere we pay,” added Llysette.

  I wondered if Llysette and I could get the loudmouthed media type at the presidential dinner—Hartson James, had that been his name?—to push Llysette’s disks in Columbia. That would have to wait. “Artists pay everywhere.”

  “So true,” said Jillian wryly.

  I reached for the rolls, then offered them to Llysette. She declined.

  “Maybe you could answer a few questions for me,” I offered tentatively. “I’ve been a few places, but I’ve never been here, and Deseret is strange because, on the one hand, it’s very familiar, I suppose because we speak the same language, dress similarly. On the other hand, words and terms don’t quite fit.”

  “Such as?” The composer held his cider glass without drinking.

  “Well … don’t you call steamers Brownings?”

  Jillian smiled.

  “We generally call them steamers, or sometimes Stanleys, even though there are other kinds in Columbia.” I took a small sip of the cider, very sweet. “And you have chocolate, but not tea or café. You have cider, but not wine.” I shrugged. “I suppose I could come up with others, except I don’t know enough yet to point them out.” I offered a laugh. “A measure of my ignorance.”

  “You said you had questions … ,” prompted Perkins.

  “I suppose I do,” I said ruefully, “but it’s hard even to ask what you don’t know. I guess I feel like I have some, but when you ask me …” Actually, the problem was even more basic than that. I needed to know things, but I didn’t want to upset any of the three before the concerts. Yet I’d not have this chance again. It was frustrating, and I’ve never been that good at drawing people out. Llysette could be, when she wasn’t worried about performing, but she was worried now.

  My words—or my acting—got smiles from the others.

  “Maybe … it’s just that all the terms I read in the papers are confusing. I read about counselors and presidents and a presidency and apostles, and I see the same name being so many things.” I shrugged.

  “The same name?” asked the composer.

  “Cannon, I think. He talks about culture, and he’s a counselor to someone, and then I read that he’s an apostle, or one of the Twelve. But he’s also a businessman.” I shrugged, then grinned. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I don’t think I’ve ever done four separate jobs all at once—and been in the media as well.”

  Perkins nodded, an amused nod. “He does get around, but it’s simpler than you think. The same people are members of the Twelve and the First Presidency. Counselor is one of the titles within the Presidency. We’ve never really had a full-time government separate from the church and business. For Deseret, they all go together.”

  “So the Twelve Apostles are like the apostles of Christ, except that they’re more of a government, like, say the ministers of government in Columbia?” I paused, then added, “But what’s the difference between the First Presidency and the Twelve Apostles?”

  “Same people, but different functions,” answered the composer. “As the apostles, they guide the church. As the Presidency, they guide the country.”

  I frowned, not dissembling in the slightest. “Is the President also the … Prophet, Seer, and … ?”

  “Revelator?” Perkins took a sip of cider. “Actually, the First President—that’s the official title—is usually the head of the church, the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator, but in his government role, he’s more like the president of Columbia.”

  “The head of state? Then who functions as the real head of government?”

  “That’s the First Counselor.”

  I shook my head. “So the same people wear different hats.” I added another frown. “Now what’s the difference between the Twelve and the Revealed Twelve? Is that another set of hats, too?”

  Both Jillian and Llysette exchanged puzzled glances, then looked to the composer.

  “No,” he said. “The Revealed Twelve … that’s some sort of underground schismatic religious movement. No one seems to know much about them, except they’re claiming that they’re the true Saints and that the current Apostles have betrayed the Prophet. I’ve seen some fliers around the university, but they don’t last long. The Danites get rid of them pretty quickly.” Perkins grinned wryly. “Some people always think the rest of the world is out of tune.”

  Somehow I wasn’t certain whether he was referring to the Danites or the schismatics.

  “Oh,” I answered. “I just thought … with all those interlocking names …”

  He shook his head. “The Revealed Twelve, or whatever else they call themselves, are just disgruntled outsiders afraid to appear in public and make their case.”

  I nodded. From what little I’d seen, I wouldn’t have given much for their chances if they did appear.

  From there we talked of cabbages and queens, ships and sailing wax, so to speak, through a heavy chocolate cake for dessert and more chocolate to end the dinner.

  In the end, Perkins drove us back to the Inn, and I noted that another pair of I Danites watched us from the back of the lobby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The less said about the hours before the first Deseret concert the better. Llysette was as touchy as a caged cougar, not that I expected any less, with all that was riding on her performance.

  The fewer words I offered in such circumstances, the smoother matters went. So I massaged her very tight shoulders and then confined my conversations to inquiries about what and when she wanted to eat, any chores I could run for her, and reading the favorable story in the Deseret News.

  “The headline is good—‘World-Renowned Pair Open Concert Reason.’”

  “They did not write our names?” said Llysette from the piano bench, where she looked at the music.

  “The rest of the story is good, too.” I began to read:

  “‘Great Salt Lake City (DNS). With one of the world’s top vocal piano and vocal duos in Llysette duBoise and Daniel Perkins, the Salt Palace performing complex opens its fiftieth consecutive season tonight.

  “‘Perkins, recently awarded the Rachmaninov Award by Czar Alexi, is also the recipient of numerous other honors, including the Hearst Arts Medallion and honorary degrees from the Curtiss Institute, the University of Virginia, and the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. His arrangements and compositions have been played by every major symphony orchestra in the world. He is the composer in residence at Deseret University.

  “‘DuBoise, most recently featured at the Columbian Presidential Arts Awards dinner, where she won rave reviews, has returned to an active performing career, interrupted for several years as a result of the instability in France. Former First Diva of France and featured soloist at the Academie Royale in Paris, she has appeared in most of the major opera houses of Europe. With a doctorate from the Sorbonne, she is director of vocal studies and opera at Vanderbraak State University in New Brug
es, Columbia. Last year, she married former Columbian Subminister for Environmental Protection Johan Eschbach.

  “‘The program will feature works by Mozart, Strauss, and Handel, as well as several new arrangements of Perkins’s own work written specifically for Fraulein deBoise. The concert will begin at 8:00 P.M.’”

  “About the Debussy they said nothing.”

  “They didn’t,” I agreed. “That’s one of your best pieces.”

  “You do not like the An die Nacht?”

  “You know I love that, and you do it beautifully. But,” I sighed, “you do so much so well that I’d spend all day categorizing them.” I shouldn’t have mentioned anything by name, not before a performance.

  “I am difficult. Je sais ça. Mais …”

  “I know. There’s a lot at stake.”

  “Trop …”

  We had eaten a late breakfast—room service—and from what I knew, a late lunch/early dinner would be the order.

  “A short walk might do us good.”

  “Peut-etre.” Llysette didn’t sound convinced.

  “There were some shops on the other side of the street from the Temple, a woolen shop for one.”

  She pursed her lips. “A short walk?”

  “Three blocks each way.” ,

  “Three. I can do that.”

  We stopped by the concierge’s desk and converted 300 Columbian dollars into Deseret dollars. The two red hundreds also had the “Holiness to the Lord” motto, but the face on the bills was of someone called Grant.

  It had snowed or rained earlier, and the streets were wet under high gray clouds. A steady cold wind blew from the northwest. Llysette fastened her collar.

  Another pair of young and bearded Danites followed as we walked eastward on West Temple South.

  Deseret Woolen Mills occupied a small red brick building practically across from the Temple grounds. In the window were woolen coats and brown and black woolen scarves.

  Llysette wrinkled her nose. “Brown is for cows.”

  “They might have other colors inside.”

  “Peut-etre.” That was one of the more dubious “perhapses” I’d heard, but she consented to turn toward the door, which I opened for her.