“Let’s eat!” Tyner said. The men in the band all nodded their heads enthusiastically.
“Alright, follow me!” Mags spun and rolled out of the room. “Oh, you have to see something first!” She zipped down the hallway to the last door on the right.
The musicians joined her inside the room. They discovered hundreds of tuxedos, some hanging on mannequins, some on hangers in massive wardrobes. Mags rolled open a sliding, mirrored door to reveal dozens more hanging in a closet. “If you guys want a fresh suit for the show, you can pick out anything you want here, okay?”
Garrison inspected a black suit with a red vest hung on a mannequin. “This one is just my size! Where did you get all these, Mags?”
“Let’s just say that when Gramma Margareta wants a suit, she buys the whole tuxedo factory! We teach the girls how to tailor them, and make a little cash selling them. Take one. Take two!”
“Take Five,” said Tyner.
“Great song!” Mags happily whistled Paul Desmond’s melody. “Okay, but sandwiches first! Follow me.”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
“Gramma’s into herbs.” She showed her guests around the kitchen. She brushed her hands across bunches of rosemary, inhaling their crisp scent.
“Herbs for healing?” Coltrane asked.
“That’s right.” She enjoyed watching her hands glow, flowing effortlessly though the air, trailing little sparkles behind them. “And food, too. Look, we just made this ghee, fresh today.” She pulled the lid off a large pot sitting on an unlit burner.
“Ghee?” Jones asked.
“Clarified butter. You heat it until the cream floats, skim off the cream, and use the oil to cook.”
“It’s Krishna food,” said Coltrane.
“Ding ding ding! Right you are, sir.” Mags opened another refrigerator. “I just have to warn you. You can have anything you want, but you see this big jar of pink lemonade?”
The musicians looked over and nodded.
“Don’t drink that unless you want to trip your fucking balls off. We just made it this morning and it’s quite—electric!”
“Say what?”
“LSD. Lysergic acid diethylamide. We got the recipe from our friend in Switzerland.” Mags closed the door. “Just letting you know! We don’t want you blowing your circuits without consenting first. We believe in informed choice.”
She surveyed the shocked looks on their faces. “Ooo-kay. Moving on, we have—oh, look.” She clicked on the gas range and stuck a sausage on a fork. She held it in the fire, swaying to music only she could hear. “The gods of hunger demand sacrifices!”
“Offerings,” said Coltrane softly.
“Mhm.” Mags looked at him over the rim of her glasses. She popped the sausage, charred on the outside and still cool in the middle, into her mouth. “I can’t stand overcooked meat.” She closed her eyes, chewing slowly. The musicians watched her sway in a trance.
“Mags,” said Coltrane. “Will you pray with me? Before the concert?”
She opened her eyes to fix her gaze on him. “Mama had a favorite saying, Mr. Coltrane. ‘The only church that illumines is a burning church’.” She let it sink in. “But, I can see inside you, Mr. Coltrane. I’d be happy to pray with you.”
“It isn’t about a church, Mags. It’s about something universal.”
“And that, my dear man, is why we will pray.” She set out a couple loaves of bread and four plates. “Come. We have a library in this wing where no one will interrupt us for a bit.” She skated to the door. “Coming?”
Coltrane thought for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “Mags, may I have a glass of that lemonade first?”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
“We have a wonderful collection of your albums, here, Mr. Coltrane.” Mags led Coltrane into her gramma’s library. Much smaller than the main library of the estate, this room was Margareta’s place to enjoy quiet moments.
“Where is your gramma?”
“She had some business to attend to. I know she would have loved to meet you.”
A fireplace sat unlit, but full of candles. Two Victrola cabinets and a collection of smaller Gramophones sat by several crates of 78 rpm records. A sheet in the corner of the room covered a snooker table. Racks of pool cues alternated with shelves of books all along the walls. Coltrane realized this was the first room on the estate he had seen with no windows.
“Your gramma is really into billiards, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yes. Great-gramma sort of gave up piracy after Gramma was born. They settled here in France. Gramma picked up a pool cue and, well, the rest is history.” Mags gestured towards a pair of plush red chairs on a large rug by the fireplace. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you. And please, call me John.” He took off his shoes to sit cross-legged on a big blue pillow on the rug.
“John.” She unlaced her roller skates and pulled them off. Bands of black and rainbows extended all the way to the tips of her toes. She wiggled them and said, “How fun are these?”
“Mags, do you believe in a higher power?”
“Who else would we be praying to?” She knelt beside him on one of the pillows. “Can we say it silently?”
He nodded yes and closed his eyes. “Our father, who art in heaven,” he began silently. “Om namah Shivayah. Om Shakti sri para adi Shakthi. Hallowed be thy name.”
Coltrane asked for strength for his bandmates for the three days of concerts ahead of them. He gave thanks for the opportunity to bring his music to so many people. He gave thanks for his strange new friend. He said a blessing, quietly, for all the women of the estate, and asked for guidance. “Not my will be done. But thine. Forever. Amen.”
Coltrane repeated his mantras. Without his realizing it, time slipped away from him. He forgot he was even saying them. White light formed a sphere around his body. In the silence, he could hear the universe singing.
Then he realized it was Mags.
“I know,” she sang softly. “I know. Yes, Gramma wanted me to tell you that.” She laughed. “How she thought you didn’t know was beyond me. But I promised.”
“Mags?” he whispered.
She gripped his hand. “John. It’s my great-gramma, Magdalena.”
He did not open his eyes. He had no need. In the blackness before him, he clearly saw the figure of the woman whose marble statue he had admired earlier. She smiled at him, but fiercely, like a big cat surveying her domain. “I see her, Mags.”
“You do?” She squeezed his hand tighter. “Great-gramma,” she said, “this is my new friend John. He and his friends are going to play for us tonight. Can you stay and hear them?”
The ghostly woman shook her head. She drew in the air with her finger. She traced a sine wave in the air, three troughs and three peaks. It floated in the air before her, glowing a pale blue light. She traced a second sine wave in the air with her other hand. It glowed pale red, suspended in the air.
Mags watched with rapt attention. Her great-gramma gestured like a conductor. The sine waves moved towards each other. As they overlapped, they broke into shades of purples and waves of more complex shapes. Then they vanished.
“What does it mean?” Coltrane asked softly. “It looks like sound?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered “Great-gramma?”
Magdalena held up her hands and drew a heart in the space before her. It glowed red in the black expanse. “I love you too,” whispered Mags. The figure faded slowly from sight.
They sat in silence for a moment then opened their eyes. Mags’ cheeks were wet. “There’s so much I wanted to say to her!”
“It’s okay. I got the feeling she already knows.”
She laughed and wiped away her tears. “You are so right.” She sniffed. “It’s just that I like to tell her anyway.”
He put his arm around her and hugged her gently. “Tonight, Mags.”
“Yes?”
“Tonight, we will play something special for your great-gramma. Some
thing we’ve never played for anyone before.”
A wide smile illuminated her face. She threw her arms around the startled saxophonist. “John! You are the sweetest man on Earth! Thank you so much for coming tonight.” She kissed his cheek.
Standing, she offered her hand. He took it and pulled himself up beside her. “This is a special night, John.”
“Yes, yes it is.” He chanted slowly, “Aum. Aum. Aaauuummm.”
Mags joined him. The vibrations emanated from them in ripples, in soothing waves. How long they chanted, neither of them could later say.
★ ○•♥•○ ★
“Citizens of La Plaza Margareta,” Celina addressed the crowd. “Tonight we have the pleasure of presenting to you the leading band in the new sound of modern music, a band that has virtually redefined the word ‘jazz’. Won’t you please join me in welcoming…” Celina waved her arm, and a gentle spotlight fell on the band. “The John Coltrane Quartet.”
The concert hall filled with thunderous applause. More than one hundred and fifty women and girls had joined the party. The hard-working young women who had stared so silently at the musicians earlier now greeted them loudly.
A small serving bar in one of the back corners stocked water and refreshments. The lemonade, Mags had told Coltrane, was off-limits to anyone under sixteen, but the party was open to all. Two women sat conversing near the bar, each breastfeeding a child. A few girls lounged on the couches flanking the bar.
But near the stage, the women had donned psychedelic clothing, everything from go-go outfits to bathing suits. One wore a cosmonaut helmet. One wore nothing but day-glow paint. All of them cheered loudly for the band.
Garrison began bowing a single bass note long before the applause faded away. Coltrane stepped forward. He held the tenor to his mouth and blew a drone in unison with Garrison’s bowing.
Trane’s cheeks puffed. Sweat broke out on his brow. Seconds stretched into a minute, then two, without a single break in the note. He breathed in through his nose, forcing air over the reed at the same time. Jones began a series of light rolls on the cymbals, louder, then softer, then louder.
The women stood transfixed by the drone. Some of them swayed, lifting their hands towards the ceiling. Then, without a pause, Trane played the melody to Afro Blue at a smoldering pace over the drone. Once, twice, and then with a sharp crack of the snare drum by Jones, the band launched into the tune with a vengeance.
A cheer rose from the audience. The women danced wildly. Trane stepped back as Tyner took the first chorus. Tyner looked at the dancing crowd and smiled. His fingers flew over the keys in a blur. His left hand relentlessly pounded a cluster of bass notes. His right hand told stories.
Celina joined Mags in the middle of the dance floor. Their bodies swayed together to the driving swing beat. They had danced together for more than twenty-five years now. Coming up as dancers during World War Two, they learned to stick together. Though they could not be in a safer place at the moment, having each other’s back had become second nature.
Mags swung her hips. She pumped her hands in the air. Celina, she thought, my dear Celina. She closed her eyes to let the music wash over her. So free, she thought.
Each instrument became a color. The notes broke up the colors into kaleidoscopic shapes. The cymbals shimmered. The bass undulated. The piano poured like a waterfall, carving gullies in the ever-changing patterns.
Trane began his choruses with a wail. He sustained its tension then shattered it. A stream of arpeggios cascaded from the bell of his horn. Faster and faster he ran through them, altering them, twisting them out of shape, turning them inside out.
With his eyes closed, Trane bent forward, hunching over his horn. His fingers clicked the keys faster than the eyes could follow. Then, he locked onto a single note and made it scream.
It shimmered with overtones. Trane heard the overtones as if someone else was playing them, and he only stood witness to the event. All around him, the overtones broke into chords, chords he had never heard before.
“Yes!” Whistles and calls rose from the group. “Go! Go! Go!”
Trane returned to his arpeggios. Only this time, he over-blew all of them. Celina heard the sound of a baby crying. She heard stars being born. She heard every bird on earth singing at once. She flung her head wildly, tossing her mane this way and that. She heard lions roaring.
Then the melody came back crisp and clear, and the band brought the tune to a thundering close. The women clapped and cheered.
Trane wiped his brow and adjusted his mouthpiece. He approached the edge of the stage.
“Thank you,” he said. As the wave of applause faded, he repeated, “Thank you.” He introduced the band, one by one, to fresh rounds of cheering. “Tonight we’d like to play for you something we never played in concert before. We’ve been waiting for just the right moment to play it. And that moment is now, here, with all of you. We hope you like it.”
He stepped back from the edge. In a glimmering wash of cymbals, he played the opening melody to Acknowledgment.
Mags opened her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling of the concert hall, but she didn’t see any of it. Instead she saw a void. A pair of lights appeared, swaying to the music. One of the lights sent out a pulse. Concentric circles, like ripples, spread out beyond Mags’ field of vision. Steady, steady, in time with the music.
Then, the second light sent out waves, too. Where they met the first set, a strange pattern formed. “They cancel each other out,” Mags whispered. She found Celina’s hand in hers and squeezed. “And there, they make each other stronger.”
Trane sang, “A love supreme. A love supreme.”
Celina sang, too. “A love supreme. A love supreme.”
The women of La Plaza Margareta picked up the chant. Together, they sang, “A love supreme. A love supreme.”
Suddenly, Mags realized what her great-grandmother was trying to tell her. Two sets of waves. When one was at a peak and one at a trough, they cancelled each other out. Two coinciding peaks made each other even stronger. And, in all the places where both were in-between, they created a gloriously complex pattern. This pattern was neither the first wave nor the second, but something entirely unique.
Mags focused her mind on the lights. She concentrated on making them pulse at different speeds. By manipulating one or both, she could dial in different interference patterns. She lost herself in the patterns until she felt like she was flying. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I don’t weigh anything at all.”
She imagined she rose into the air, higher than the concert hall, high above the estate. The stars came into view. A tear rolled down her cheek. “You,” she said. “You and me. Together.”
She touched the nearest constellation with her fingertips. “Mine.”
“Mags. Mags?”
“Celina! I got it!” She threw her arms around her friend. “I finally got it.”
“Well, don’t give it to me!” Celina laughed.
“No, silly. Not that.” Mags whispered, “Gravity.” She kissed Celina’s cheek. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, you little wagtail!”
“Don’t start, convict!”
The two of them danced in the center of the gathering. All around them, the women of La Plaza Margareta danced with joy. How long the concert lasted, no one could ever quite recall, though several of the girls would later swear Mags’ feet did not touch the ground again for the rest of the night.
EPILOGUE: SUPREME
Patches purred lazily in Mags’ lap. She flicked the tip of her tail. Mags scratched around her ears.
“So I don’t get it,” said Tarzi. “What do these shimmering hallucinations have to do with gravity?”
“Imagine rain falling on a puddle. Think of the ripples it makes. One drop at a time is easy enough to imagine. It just makes concentric circles. But think how quickly it gets complex when more drops start hitting the surface.”
“Okay, I can see that.”
/>
“That’s an interference pattern. Now imagine gravity as a wave form.”
“Isn’t gravity caused by mass?”
“Now you are asking the important questions!” Mags took off her tinted glasses and rubbed one of the lenses with her skirt. “That night, I realized if we could create two independent sources of polarized gravitational waves, we could dial in their waveforms and determine the interference pattern. By adjusting the waveforms, we can pick any gravity we want, expressed as the strength of the resulting interference pattern.”
She placed her glasses back on. “That much of the theoretical problem was easy. The hard part was working out how to generate these waves without using a massive object. Otherwise, our GravGens would have to be the size of a planet to produce that much gravitational force on a ship, or in a warehouse, or a mining operation.”
“So, how did you manage that?”
A green light flashed on the console. “We have to save that story for another day. The cargo ship we’ve been waiting for is moving into position.”
“Time to rock and roll!” Tarzi said. “But what happened to Coltrane and the guys?”
“What a wonderful man he was. He and Alice had a son the very next month, and they sent us such a beautiful photo of them together. You know, two days after our party, at the festival, the quartet gave their only public performance of A Love Supreme. The only one the history books remember anyway. But we know it was really the second. You should check out the recording from the festival. For a long time, no one had anything but a partial recording. We got them sorted, though.”
Tarzi got up, checked his laser pistol, and sat down beside her at the console. “You still haven’t told me why your name isn’t on the GravGens. I mean, everybody knows the company that makes them is—”
“Fine! I’ll tell you after we ‘liberate’ this cargo. Now get ready for action.”
She watched with glee as her prey came into view. It was true, she thought. She had lost the patent rights to the GravGens years ago, much of Gramma’s fortune had been lost, and here she was now: ripping off warehouses and cargo ships to make a buck. It reminded her more than a little of 1944.
Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition Page 14
