Eventually, most drifted away, and Llysette changed back into the simple dress. I eased her performance gown into the bag.
The Danites, and there were four now, escorted us both back to the Lion Inn, right from the dressing room. One carried the half-dozen bouquets that had been pressed upon Llysette.
Outside the concert hall, a dozen people stood in the swirling snowflakes that weren’t sticking to the sidewalk or the street.
“Miss duBoise … please … would you please sign my program?” The girl barely came to my shoulder. “Please?”
I fumbled in my pocket and found a pen, not one of Bruce’s set, and extended it to her.
Llysette smiled and asked, “Do you sing?”
“After hearing you … I … I’m afraid to try.”
“So was I once, when I heard Tebaldi. Learn to sing, child.”
The girl looked down, then slipped away.
A white-haired woman eased a book toward Llysette—open to a picture of a much younger Llysette duBoise. “I never thought … You’re better than all of them, and I’ve heard them all.”
“You are kind.” I could see the moistness in my diva’s eyes as she signed the picture, moistness that glistened in the reflections of the street glow throwers.
When the woman closed the book, I caught the title—Prima Donnas: Past and Future.
Llysette signed all fifteen programs, with a kind word and a smile for each. But she was silent, withdrawn deeply into herself, as we walked the last half-block to the Lion Inn and took the elevator up to the suite.
The Danites followed silently, and I wondered why, half-musingly, still in a detached state myself, until we reached our door.
“Miss duBoise? The flowers, ma’am?” asked the Danite who had carried them all the way from the dressing room.
We both looked at the flowers held by the Saint. What could Llysette do with them?
Finally, she took the one bouquet with the pale white roses, barely more than buds, and looked at the young Danite. “Have you a wife?”
He nodded.
“And the others?”
“Some do, Miss duBoise.”
Llysette smiled. “I cannot have too many flowers around me. Perhaps you could take them … if you would wish … for all of you, and for watching out for us.”
“Thank you.” A momentary smile cracked the pale face under the blond hair.
“We thank you,” she said.
After they left, I closed the door and took Llysette’s coat, then hung up her gown.
She stood almost where I had left her, in the sitting room area, staring blankly in the general direction of the windows.
“Johan … you have not said much.”
I shook my head, and my eyes burned again. “What could I say? I’ve never heard … no one had ever heard …” I looked into her green eyes, saw the pride and the incredible pain. “I don’t have the words. I feel anything I say is so little to describe how you sang.” What could I have said that would have been adequate to describe that incredible performance?
“You know.”
“I know.” And I did.
“Some wine. It might help.”
I filled her wineglass, and she took it and nearly drained it in one swallow.
I wanted to tell her to take it easy, but I didn’t. Instead, I set the bottle on the table and stood behind her and squeezed her shoulders, sort of an awkward hug, then kissed her neck.
“The critics, they are not the audience.” She stood, unsteadily, and walked to the window, looking out at the snow-flurried and misted lights of Great Salt Lake.
Well I knew that. The critics were like David and the dean, unable to do much, but always faulting everyone else. “Even the critics were impressed.” Enough, I hope … enough.
“Never like this … and I must sing tomorrow … and Saturday.”
I understood the pressure more, now. She had conquered, and she had to do it again … and again, never letting down, never letting up, and every critic would be wondering, first, if her performances were just a singular occurrence and, then, when she would fail.
“You’ll do it.” I put my arms around her, gently.
She sobbed softly, and I held her for a time, a long, long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, while Llysette was still sleeping, after running through my exercises as quietly as I could, I sneaked down to the lobby and bought copies of both Great Salt Lake City papers, each one in its polished wood stand. No plastic or metal in Deseret, almost a throwback in some ways to the New Bruges of a half-century earlier.
The news stories—if there were any—should have been favorable, but I’d learned a long time ago that critics were a species alien to reason, common sense, or public appeal.
Llysette was still asleep when I got back to the suite, and I eased the bedroom door closed and sat down in the wide-armed and overupholstered chair that almost resembled a padded throne. After opening the Deseret News, I turned to the Arts section, holding my breath as I saw a picture of Llysette and Dan Perkins just after taking a bow, Llysette with one bouquet of flowers in her arms. I’d been there, but I hadn’t even seen those flowers. Then I read, slowly, waiting for some bombshell. There wasn’t one. Were the Great Salt Lake City critics a species slightly less alien than their Columbian brethren?
GREAT SALT LAKE CITY. “Magnificent is too weak a word to describe the performance of Llysette duBoise and Daniel Perkins,” said Salt Palace concertmeister Jensen. For once, if possible for a man who praises everything, Jensen underpraised the artists he hired for the Cultural Series.
“Never has Deseret heard such a presentation of classic and art songs!” added Grant Johannsen, conductor of the Deseret Symphony. They were both right, even conservative, in their praise.
DuBoise offered depths, shadings, tones, textures in a shimmering and seamless weave of sound that melded perfectly with Perkins’s sure touch on the keys. So perfect was the match of keyboard and voice that every number ended with stunned silence—followed by thunderous applause.
My eyes burned as I struggled to the end. It hadn’t just been me. Everyone had sensed and felt that impossible energy, that emotional torrent encased in sheer perfected discipline.
The Star commentary was of the same timbre, and both ended with the recommendation that would-be listeners sell their dearest possession, if need be, to get one of the few tickets remaining.
Like all critics, the News reviewer did have a few nasty digs after the one at Jensen:
While the concert itself was an unimaginable improvement over past offerings, so much that Jensen will be hard-pressed to repeat such a triumph, even should he live so long as Methuselah, the Salt Palace management still manifests a carelessness of detail in other ways. There were far too few souvenir programs, and the concession areas were grossly understaffed. Likewise the warning bells for the intermission were weak and lost in the hubbub as listeners rhapsodized happily about the music. Fortunately, the warning lights were adequate, if barely.
The Star reviewer attacked the parking and the lack of concert-related transport and the lack of programs. I was just glad that everything about the performance itself was glowing.
I took a deep breath.
The bedroom door opened, and Llysette, tousled and beautiful in her robe, stood there. She squinted against the light pouring through the wide window. Then her eyes went to the paper.
“What said they?” She frowned. “Non. Do not tell me.”
I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. “No one has ever gotten a review this good. Ever.”
“You jest.”
“Not about this.” I folded back the News review, stood, and handed it to her, then went to heat water for the chocolate that was apparently the only warm morning beverage permitted in Deseret. The suite had the powdered kind, but it was better than the alternative, which was nothing at all.
“Non, c’est impossible.”
“Th
at’s what they wrote. It might even sell a few of those disks your friend Doktor Perkins is having recorded.”
“He is having all three nights recorded.”
“That’s good, but he won’t need them—unless it’s because of technical problems.” All problems were technical in one way or another, as I’d learned in the Spazi.
The wireline chimed.
“Hello,” I answered cautiously.
“Minister Eschbach … this is Orab on the front desk. Ah … we’ve received a considerable number of flowers… .”
“How considerable?”
“Fifteen arrangements, but the florist said there would be more coming.”
“Could I wire you back in a moment? I’ll need to talk to Fraulein duBoise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now does someone want what?”
I turned to Llysette. “You were a hit. The concierge reports that you have more than a dozen flower arrangements and bouquets downstairs.”
“Oh.”
“That many flowers… .” I paused. “And the florists told him more were coming.
“With so many, I will sneeze and not sing.” Her eyes went to the pale white roses, barely opening, that I’d placed in a glass pitcher taken from the minuscule corner that substituted for a kitchen.
I nodded.
“What will I do?”
I shrugged. “Keep the cards or notes. Maybe you could donate the flowers to a hospital or home or something.”
“You do what you think best, Johan.” She reached for the Star, stopping short of the paper.
“It’s just as good,” I reassured her, picking the handset back up.
“Concierge.”
“Orab? This is Minister Eschbach.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fräulein duBoise is overwhelmed at the thought of all those flowers. Unfortunately, she’s also somewhat allergic to many of them. She wondered if she could have any cards or notes that went with them, but if we could send the flowers to a hospital—for children or for older people?” I paused. “We’d be happy to pay the florists or the hotel for the transportation. It’s just not something we can do personally, and it would be a shame to waste such a lovely gesture.”
A brief silence followed. “Why, yes, sir. I’m sure we could arrange that. Would you want to send cards from Miss duBoise?”
“No. Make it anonymous.”
Llysette nodded from across the room, her eyes lifting from the Star Entertainment section.
I took the liberty of ordering breakfast that was half-lunch from room service, getting another nod as I did.
Llysette read each review several times.
After a meal that was probably too hearty, Llysette decided to immerse herself in hot water. She liked it hot enough almost to boil lobsters. Once she was safely in the tub, I experimented with the videolink set. I did find a noon news program after a half hour or so.
“… speaking on behalf of the First Presidency, Counselor Cannon was clear about the path Deseret must follow.” The screen shifted to the white-bearded Cannon.
“Deseret deplores the Austro-Hungarian action in further militarizing Tenerife, but neither can we condone the seizure of the Cape Verdes by New France… .”
I winced. That action hadn’t gotten into the papers yet.
“In related news, another squadron of the Columbian navy has been deployed to the Bermuda Naval Station. The Austrian ambassador to Columbia made his protest to Columbian Speaker Hartpence simultaneously with a protest by Ambassador Rommel to British Prime Minister Blair. Schikelgruber’s protest came immediately upon his return to the Federal District. Austro-Hungary claims the action violates the Neutrality Treaty of 1980 between Great Britain and Austro-Hungary.” The videoscreen showed a Columbian cruiser, accompanied by two frigates, in a blue expanse that could have been any warm-water ocean.
Abruptly the screen shifted to a happy family, five children gathered around a table, with a clean-scrubbed woman serving them and the beaming bearded father.
“For that special family time …”
From the family image, the screen shifted to a blue book lying on a white cloth. The gold letters proclaimed The Book of Mormon, Another Testimony of Jesus Christ.
“Help your family better understand the eternal truths of the Book of Mormon.”
The screen shifted to an oblong box, bearing a stylized figure in a white robe and another set of gold lettering: The Book of Mormon Family Game.
“Bring the values of faith into your home in a fun and cheerful game the entire family can play. The Book of Mormon Family Game. Sold at LDS Bookstores everywhere. Here’s how to bring the Scriptures to life for the whole family.”
Another oblong game box appeared on the videoscreen, one with what seemed to be two stylized cobalt roads meeting at a golden intersection.
“The Missionary Game! Exciting and entertaining for Saints of all ages. A fun way to teach your younger children about missionary work. Everyone will catch missionary fever from this entertaining new game for the whole family.”
I had to wonder where the Saint missionaries were going. It couldn’t be to Europe. Ferdinand and his crew had treated the Saints as badly as the Gypsies and other dissidents. There were some Saints in the western parts of Columbia and in New France and in Oceania and South America. But were they trying to convert New France? Or would the loosening of relations with Deseret mean an influx of Saint missionaries?
Another video cut revealed still one more family, this time with four children, two boys and two girls, all blond, all seated around a table, caught laughing with bowls of popcorn in their hands, and an open blue-covered book on the table. A set of chimes rang, and a cheerful voice proclaimed: “Family … more important now than ever.”
With that, the video flicked back to the news studio and a bespectacled man in a dark blue suit and a cravat wider than the Mississippi.
“That classical concert at the Salt Palace last night? The one featuring our own Daniel Perkins and Llysette duBoise. Some had questioned, quietly, just how good it was going to be, since Miss duBoise hadn’t performed before a large audience in more than five years.
“No one’s questioning now. This is the first time in five years a classical performance has generated the level of enthusiasm that approached—no, it almost exceeded that of gospel music in the Cannon Center. Word’s gone out, though. The remaining tickets were gone in less than a half hour after the box office opened this morning.
“She can sing, and he can play, and it’s just that simple. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful. Here … take a look.”
The image shifted from the announcer to one of Llysette before the interviewers.
“Is there any message behind your concert, Miss duBoise?”
“Message?” Llysette laughed. “The beauty of the music will last when we are gone.”
“How do you like Deseret?”
“Many of the people, they are friendly. I have not seen much. I have prepared for the concert.”
Llysette’s smiling image remained on the screen, frozen, as the commentator added, “For those of you who haven’t any idea of how beautiful this music truly is, here’s a brief excerpt.”
Of course, the excerpt was from Perkins’s Fragments of a Conversation, but even over the degraded videolink speakers, Llysette sounded gorgeous.
The one news announcer looked to the other. “She seems very gracious.”
“She is. After she sang last night, she signed programs and talked to admirers waiting outside in the snow. And if you think all entertainers are elitists, she walked—that’s right, walked—back to her hotel. No limousines. If you haven’t seen her and Doktor Perkins, beg a ticket if you can. You sure can’t buy one now.”
“Oh.” Llysette’s voice was somehow very small.
I turned and flicked off the set, then walked toward her, but she sat in the other armchair before I could give her a hug.
“Are you a
ll right?”
“To get ready for the master class I must.”
“That, my lady, didn’t exactly answer the question.”
She smiled, wistfully, sadly, and with restrained happiness—all at once. “So many I … we … would have liked to see this, and now it happens in a foreign land. Only you understand, and that is sad.”
“Your father?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Your mother?” I didn’t ask about the deacon—Carolynne’s deacon. I knew.
“She loved me. She did not understand.” Llysette stood.
I did hug her—tightly—and for a moment, we clung together. Then she blotted her eyes. “Still I must ready myself for the classes.”
“What do you do at these classes?”
“I must listen, and then I must offer instructions. You will see.”
She dressed, and I showered and dressed, and we were ready about the same time.
We walked the short distance to the complex, and I held the map in my hand, occasionally noting that the Danites continued to trail us. How were they different from the Spazi? I wasn’t sure, only that it felt like we’d been shadowed for half our lives when, in reality, it had been something like two months. Or had it? Weren’t we shadowed by government most of our lives, one way or the other?
Outside, the sky was mostly clear, but the wind blew, far more than in New Bruges, but not quite so cold. Llysette still shivered within her coat.
An oval-faced woman was waiting in the lower hall outside the lecture room, neither pacing nor totally composed but worrying her lower lip. A smile of relief crossed her face as she stepped forward. Her long blue skirt nearly swept the floor, but I could see that she wore stylish boots that matched the belt that was mostly covered by the short suit jacket. Her cream blouse was silklike.
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