John Rackham

by We The Venusians

  "Staff!" he growled. "Because it rains, they are late. Because it rains, I have customers more than usual, and early. Did they think of that? No, I tell you. Does anybody think, nowadays? Same answer. Just like that clown up there," he jerked a huge shoulder at the lute-player. " 'Let me try a tune or two on your lute, Luigi?" he says. A tune! Men had forgotten how to play a lute before he was born. Before I was bom, even. Does it worry him? No. 'This is just a different kind of guitar,' he says."

  "But that's true, after all, isn't it?"

  "Sure it's true," Luigi Gabrielli shrugged. "But he can't play music on a guitar, either. Nobody plays music, any more. They make just background noises, to go with whatever they want to do."

  Anthony did not smile, the way other people did when Luigi Gabrielli poured his ridicule on modern tastes. He

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  listened, and sympathized. Gabrielli had been, long long ago, a genuine musician, in a real orchestra. Out of his memories, when he could be persuaded to dip into them, Anthony had had many a clue to old masterworks he would never, otherwise, have heard of.

  "Was there every any music written for lute?" he wondered, and Luigi shrugged again, gestured with his cup.

  "Who knows? It was the only popular instrument, up until sixteen fifty. Then it went out, and our kind of musical notation came in, so if there ever was any lute music written down, who could read it, now, eh? Never mind. You let me take your jacket and dry it. That clown up there will give up, soon. Then you play something for me, eh?"

  "All right," Anthony shed his wet garment, held it out.

  "Listen!" Luigi took the jacket, but his eyes were on the stage. "You hear?" The lute-player had found a melodic line, and was trying to follow it. "That. Go and show that dolt what he is murdering, would you?"

  Anthony mounted the two steps to the rostrum, all his cringing nerves gone, now. This was the one territory in which he was master. He tapped the lute-player on a shoulder, and winced at the resultant jangle.

  "Come," he said, simply, and led the way back and round a ply-board flat to where a grand piano crouched in the gloom. It was a genuine Steinway that Gabrielli had rescued from a junk room, years before. Now it was in perfect tune and condition, glossy with the loving care Anthony had lavished on it. He sat, settling himself comfortably. The lute-player stared, curiously, and came near enough to touch the glowing woodwork.

  "One of the old cabinet jobs," he said. "Pretty good shape, too. I wonder old Luigi doesn't flog it to a museum, and get a portable. Must be worth a bit, to a dealer."

  "It's worth more, as a piano. Listen." He laid his right hand on the keyboard. "This is what you were trying to play," and he sketched the melodic line. The lute-player cocked his head.

  "You ain't got the beat, chum."

  "There is no beat!" Anthony said, sharply. "Beat is for savages, for the unconscious mind. That music you were beating to death was originally created by Verdi, in eigh-

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  teen fifty, as part of an opera, a story to music. Properly, it calls for a full orchestra."

  Tou got one of those, too?" the lute-player demanded, scornfully. "What are you, mister, some kind of nut?"

  "At least I'm not so crazy as to try to play an instrument four hundred years old that I don't know anything about. I know there are no more orchestras in the world. But there are pianos, and one of the greatest piano-players who ever lived wrote a transcription of that opera piece. The opera was called Rigoletto, the pianist was Franz Liszt, and this is the way he wrote it." Anthony put his hands on the keyboard again, sparing a moment to think himself into the mood, to assume the identity of that fabulous, eccentric, flamboyant and cynical old Hungarian genius.

  Then he began, meticulously trapping the lilting sounds, the interwoven voices, the competing harmonies, filtering them through his flying fingers. He felt, as Liszt must have felt, an utter absorption in sound, the power to build, mould and control a structure that was at once delicate yet strong, with all the parts fitting together. He built up, he broke a-part and scattered recklessly, he caught again and reassembled with dexterous skill, then brought the whole thing to a crashing climax. The following silence seemed thick, saturated with remembered sound.

  "Magnificent, Anthonyl Just magnificent!" Luigi had come to stand a few feet away and behind, his fat old face aglow with memories.

  "Clever stuff," the lute-player shrugged, "but it'll never catch on. It's muddly. Half a dozen tunes all mixed up together. Who wants that?"

  "Nobody, now," Luigi sighed. "Put my lute back where you got it, mister. You can't do any good with it." He turned to Anthony, hunching his shoulders in an apologetic gesture. Beyond him, across the empty stage, came Gregory Hartford, leading a girl by the elbow.

  "Hi, Luigi! Hi, Tone. Reckoned I'd find you here. Can't leave it alone, can you? This is Martha Merrill. Martha, meet Luigi, who owns this joint. And Tony Taylor. He plays."

  Anthony mumbled something, half-rose and sat again, all his defenses in full strength, at once. The girl was medium tall, her hair dark bronze, with metallic glints, her eyes shrouded behind tinted glasses, her teeth brilliandy white

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  against swarthy skin. Her dress, in white elasto-sparkle, daz-r zled his eyes as it hugged her generous curves. By any standards, this girl was beautiful.

  "I hope you can play my kind of music, Mr. Taylor," she said, and her voice was strong, too, with just the suspicion of vowel flattening. From Australia, Hartford had said.

  "I can try," he muttered, and Hartford laughed, snapped his fingers in emphasis.

  "You name it, sweetie, and he'll play it. I guarantee you."

  Anthony wanted to hit him. Casting a sullen look sideways, he saw Luigi, who creased his fat face in wry sympathy, shrugged and went away. Miss Merrill laid down her bag on an empty carton nearby, put on an uncertain smile, and said, "Do you know this?"

  Anthony listened to what she hummed, and his eyes opened wide. His fingers felt for the right pitch, sounded a chord or two, and she stopped. Her smile blazed, suddenly.

  "You do know it!"

  "Yes. By Schubert ... To Music' Wait. I'll start it properly for you." He thought a moment, then nodded to himself, touched out the simple but arresting introduction. She came in right on cue,

  "Du holde Kunst, in tvieviel grauen Stunden . . ." she sang, with not a trace of effort, but the whole room was suddenly full of sound. Anthony felt a glow. He had read about and heard of voices like "bells," and had always thought the term an exaggeration. Now he knew it was less than the truth. This was magic, a rich full sound that Wagner would have loved. He kept his contribution tender, delicate, well under hers, appreciating that she was playing her voice like an instrument. As it came to an end, he was too moved to comment at all. Hartford filled the gap.

  "What'd I tell you, Tone? Is she a nightingale, or not?"

  "Miss Merrill . . ." he fumbled for words, looking up at her, "I never knew singing could be like that. So much ... 1"

  "Such a voice!" Luigi had come back, and the glow on his fat face gave Anthony a sudden twinge of jealousy. He'd been the only one to bring that kind of fire, before. Now this strange girl with the bell-voice had done it. But the unworthy thought was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Luigi was almost in tears. "Such a voice," he said, again. "Such a waste. Who wants it, now?"

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  "But I don't understand," Miss Merrill's smile wavered. "What's wrong, if you like my singing so much?" Luigi shrugged, a great upheaval of his heavy shoulders.

  "I cannot pay you, not what you are worth. And nobody else will pay you anything at all. And you must eat. We all must eat."

  "You pay Tony ten," Hartford challenged, suspiciously, "and one for me. What's to stop you paying Martha here the same, eh?" He put a hand on her arm, possessively. "Ten for her, one for me, or I take her away, Luigi."

  "Take her away then. But where? Tell me, where?"

  "There are other dives. Better ones than this."
<
br />   "And they pay, for real music? Do they?"

  "Well . . ." Hartford hesitated, "Not yet, they don't. But they will, when they hear Martha. Man, she's the greatest, if you like that kind of thing. And plenty do!" Anthony, his gaze shuttling from one to the other, caught an odd note in Hartford's voice.

  "You mean you didn't like it?" he demanded of his agent, wide-eyed.

  "Oh, it's good. Just like your stuff, Tone. Anybody can tell there's class, there. But it's cold, you know what I mean. No zing to it. Still, I can try somewhere else. Come on, Martha honey. I'm sorry, I thought for sure this would be a good place."

  "Just a minute," Luigi spread his hands, and smiled. "Let's not to rush too fast, eh? Be my guests, all of you. We eat, and I talk a bit, and you will see why it's no good trying to sell that kind of a voice, not any more. Ay me, that I should say such a thing, but it is true. Come, what will you have, so long as it comes from a plastican?"

  At the table, forking a mass of tomato-flavoured strings of paste, Anthony was puzzled, and said so.

  "You know your own business best, Luigi," he said, "but I still can't see why you won't hire Miss Merrill."

  She sat opposite him, enigmatic in her dark glasses, paying attention to her plate. She had taken off the cape of her dress, and he saw that her arms, her shoulders and neck, and upper swells of her bosom, all were silky-smooth and glowingly tanned. Made in Australia, and very nice, but it wouldn't last long in the coming London winter.

  "You were stupid at school, I think." Luigi said, kindly.

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  "All right, I can't tell you about a piano, either. It's fair. But listen. You too, Greg. We are all friends, why should I lie? This place"—he cast a hand around the dimness—"you think I like it dark, this way? No. But more light costs more money. And I have no more."

  "Oh no I" Hartford sneered. "Don't try that story. This place is a small mint. You can't tell me different, either. There's a million little eateries like this, in London, and they all coin the stuff. Don't I know? Don't I sell them gimmicks?"

  Luigi smiled, wryly, gestured with a fork. "Look around. Do you see a multi-vision screen? Do you see glow-ads? Do you hear music?"

  "That's up to you, isn't it? You could have 'em, if you wanted."

  "I have ten tables. I have two staff, one cook, one waitress. And no license. Why? Because, if I put in just two more tables, the law says I must have a license. Then I must have two more staff. I must have multi-vision. It's the law."

  "But you get a commission!" Hartford argued, excitedly. "They pay you for that!"

  "Sure! And than I get glow-ads, with music, and they pay me for that, too. And I'm rich, like you said. But then I can't have my kind of music any more. Tony, here, couldn't play my piano for me, not in such a noise. You see? So I have only ten tables. I am private. I don't have to have multi-vision and glow-ads. And I don't make much money, either. But I like it this way. I make just enough to be able to afford to pay Tony ten solars to come and play my piano for me three times a week."

  "I didn't know," Anthony was distressed as understanding came to him. "You should have said, Luigi. I would have come for nothing, just to play. It's the only piano . .

  "My ten percent!" Hartford interrupted. "And what would you live on, Tone? National Income hardly pays for rent and grub."

  "Mr. Luigi!" Miss Merrill cut into the dispute abruptly. "Why doesn't anybody want real music, any more? It was just like this in Australia, too. Multi-vision everywhere. Pops and commers, jingles and jives, but nobody had any time for the kind of stuff I like. Why not? What's wrong with it?"

  "That's a big question, my dear, much bigger than you

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  know, and I don't know all the answer. But I do know most of it. You would like some coffee?" She nodded and smiled and he made signals. "There is a part of it, the coffee," he said. "They can't make instant tea. To make a good cup of tea you must do several things just so, and then wait. Who wants to wait, any more? Who can be bothered to leam how to do a thing right, even to making tea in a pot?"

  "No sugar for me," she waved her hand to stop him as he reached for a bowl of plastic-wrapped lumps.

  "You and Tony both. That makes you alike, and different. Everybody else likes sugar, likes sweet stuff. Nothing bitter, or difficult ... or clever, either." He pulled out a packet to offer to her and she smiled again.

  "No cigarettes, either," she said. "I don't smoke, don't drink, and don't touch sugar." Anthony felt a strange chill. He pushed it away at once, knowing it to be ridiculous, but it came back. Surely there were millions of people who didn't smoke, or drink, or take sugar. And many of them with that superb bronze tan. And her eyes were probably green, under the glasses.

  "We can go back a long time," Luigi sipped at his cup, made a face and put it down. "To the middle of the last century, if you like. Nineteen-fifty, nineteen-sixty, about then. Talent had begun to die. Nobody knew. It was not a spectacular disease, but a creeping thing, like old age. I have gone to the books, just because I am curious. Music, because I know it best, I can give you details. But it was the same for all creative talent. Sculpture, maybe? Polluted by cheap plastic copies of everything good. The creative sculptors? They struggled, tortured themselves and their materials, wire, glass, paper, anything, to find some new way, some new technique. It was precisely the same with painting. Cheap and perfect copies, so who wants originals? Make them different, new, spectacular, but how? Who will pay, when movies and television saturate the mind with rubbish?"

  "Rubbish?" Hartford objected. Luigi shrugged again.

  "How would you know any different? For a hundred years, now, it has been like this. With music, as I know. Recordings and broadcasts . . . and poverty-stricken orchestras. La Scala, Milan; The Metropolitan, in America; the

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  Festival Hall, here in London; in Germany ... all over Europe, it was the same. Not one major orchestra could live without subsidy from a government, and when a government is the patron of the arts, the arts die. That always happens. And it died, this time, for good. Because there came Telstar, and then total planetary hook-ups, and all the communications ran together into one lump, for efficiency. Efficiency! Pah!" He picked up his cup again, to rinse a bad taste from his mouth.

  "Efficiency means 'I want it now, without having to wait.' Who wants to spend years working, to leam the rules, the discipline? Who wants discipline, anyway? I tell you"—he leaned across to stare at Miss Merrill—"the great ones, like Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart, Wagner . . . they were just channels for music that was real, bigger than them, alive. That is what the discipline is for, to get the 'me' out of the way. I know. I was once a pianist, not so good as Tony, here, but good. Then a violinist. Then a conductor with fine orchestra. But I was too late in my life. The minds are all closed, now. There are no channels left. Now it is all 'me' ... it is all gimmicks and expressing one's feelings, and release. It stinks!"

  "I don't think I quite understand all that," Miss Merrill said, hesitantly. "I know people today don't seem to take the trouble the old ones used to do, but, if you study the old ones, they had a tough time, didn't they?"

  "When you sing . . . what is it, you or the music?" Luigi demanded, and she hesitated again. "Which is more important?" he insisted.

  "The music, of course."

  "Of course!" he threw up his hands. "There you are! Who else, if not Tony, here, would say that, today? Ask Greg. No, let me ask him. What is more important than you, Greg ... to you?"

  "That's a nit question," Hartford snapped, his synthetic grin failing him for the moment. "How can anything be more important than me, to me, hey? You never could talk sense, Luigi."

  "Not your kind of sense, no." Luigi smiled, suddenly, dismissing the whole argument. "Never mind. Miss Merrill, I cannot pay you. I wish I could. I'm sorry. Will you do me a big favor, and sing for me, just once more?"

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  "Ill sing for my supper," she said, smiling, "if he can play it. Or maybe somet
hing you have in mind, if I know it?"

  "Something, yes I" the old man sat back in his chair, eyes half-shut. "You know, when the Soviets came out into the Western world, became partners with everybody else, they talked a lot about quality, and culture. But who can argue with the masses? Offer them the good and the difficult, and they will take the cheap and the easy. There is something wrong with Man. He can talk about good, but it is always too difficult for him to do, even when it seems easy. You said you didn't understand me, Miss Merrill. I think you will understand this, though. I would like you to sing, for me, The Last Rose of Summer.' You know it? Good. And then you come back here and sit by me and listen, while Anthony plays something so different. Both good . . . one good-by-itself, the other good-for-showing-off. Anthony, you know what I mean? From the Transcendental Studies of Liszt . . . Mazeppa. . . ?"

  Anthony understood perfectly what the old man was getting at, but his attention was caught by Miss Merrill's odd actions. She had taken a sugar-lump from the bowl and peeled it of its wrapper. Now, delicately, she raised it to her tongue for a brief touch, shuddered, put it down, and took a quick mouthful of coffee.

  "Shall we go over to the piano, now?" he asked, getting up. She sat a moment, shuddered again, and then got to her feet.

  "I'm ready. One extra-special performance, coming up," she said, and he was struck by the new vibrancy in her voice and manner. He could "feel" her by his side as they mounted the two shallow steps and crossed the empty rostrum, through a cone of smoke-filled light, to the ply-board flat which hid the piano.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, as she reached for and leaned on the upright batten.

  "I'm just fine!" she beamed, clutching the panel. "Give me a note, and I'll show you." He shook his head, won-deringly, went to the piano, touched a soft chord, ran through the introduction, and, from his right shoulder, back there, he heard her begin. With her first strong sweet note, he forgot any problems he had ever had. Almost in awe, he nursed out the harmonies to underlie and augment the