Opus 60, No. 1
“Last Night”
Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
Opus 16, No. 1
“The Cradle Song”
Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
Opus 21, No. 5
“The Lilacs”
Sergei Rachmaninov (1873-1939)
“Air de Lia”
from L'Enfant Prodique
Claude Debussy (1862-1918)
Vocalise
Sergei Rachmaninov (1873-1939)
Mme. Llysette duBoise, Soprano
Mme. Terese Stewart, Piano
The Black Mesa Quartet was first, and they led off with Quartetto I, a later composition from Janá´cek, the Czechoslovakian composer who fled to Britain around the turn of the century when it had become all too clear that Czech nationalists, particularly artistic ones, were going to be the first to be wiped out under the increasingly more stringent Austrian control over its provinces, a control that had later turned into a total political assimilation of Czechoslovakia.
Their second, and final number, was a Beethoven string quartet, the one in F Minor.
The crowd obviously preferred the Janá´cek to the more traditional Beethoven piece, as did I, although I suspected Columbian audiences would have preferred Beethoven.
During the brief intermission, while they changed the stage and rolled out the piano, the hum and buzz of conversation drifted through the theatre. Unlike in theatres in either Deseret or Columbia, or even in Quebec, New France, or Austria, I hadn't the faintest idea of what that humming buzz might represent.
“The ambassador tells me that you've been quite busy,” offered Drummond Kent.
“Somewhat busy. In this business, it's hard to tell if you've made any progress at all. Environmental techniques and technologies aren't exactly on the topof anyone's priority list, unless there's an environmental disaster at hand.”
“There is that.” Kent stretched slightly, his eyes flicking to the back of the box, but both Commander Madley and Colonel Sudwerth had slipped away at the beginning of the intermission. “Then, there is the matter of your past affiliations. That lends a certain air of mystery to your presence. I'm not entirely unperceptive, and it appears as though Colonel Sudwerth has shown a great interest in you, as opposed to your beautiful and most talented wife.”
I nodded. “I'm sure that's because he can't figure out how a former military pilot ended up a spokesman for the environment. The colonel would be happy to pulverize the environment on behalf of Columbia, but I'm not sure he has quite grasped the idea that cleaning up polluted rivers can sometimes avoid conflicts in places where we'd rather not fight—or have others fighting.”
“The Dnepyr situation?”
“Something like that.”
“Will it work?”
I laughed. “It's worth trying. If it doesn't, I'm sure someone will think about returning to military pulverization techniques.”
The lights flickered, twice, and the door at the back of the box opened. Hamilton Tavoian, Colonel Sudwerth, and Commander Madley returned. I had to wonder why Piet Darwaard wasn't there, unless there was a policy that one senior staff member had to remain in the embassy.
When Robert Thies appeared on the stage below, several minutes later, he smiled his shy boyish smile, and then went to work.
Like Llysette, he'd clearly tailored his program to the audience, beginning with Prokofiev's Sonata No. 3 in A Minor. The Russians recognized it and clapped heartily when he finished. He concluded with Rachmaninov's Three Preludes . . . and got an even heartier round of applause that took a long time dying away.
Then there was another intermission, and about that time, my palms began to get sweaty. I tried not to fidget in the chair, while keeping a polite smile on my face.
Llysette swept into the middle of stage, wearing a long shimmering gown, the bodice and skirt a silvered green, topped by a short black and silver sequinned jacket. She'd decided on that when she had learned just how cold that tall stage was, even despite the heat of the lights. Terese wore black and quietly seated herself at the piano.
The Rimsky-Korsakov Nightingale was the first song, and Llysette did it in Russian. I thought she was wonderful. There was the sort of silence that was between surprise and awe for a moment after she finished, before the applause came, then died away, almost as if they all wanted to hear more.
Tchaikovsky's “None But the Lonely Heart” was one she'd learned in France, and she did it in French, but the next one, “Last Night,” another Tchaikovsky song, was in Russian, and the applause showed that the Russians did like that touch. “The Cradle Song” was in French, followed by Rachmaninov's “Lilacs” in Russian, and then the Debussy aria in French.
With each song, the applause built, until, after the Rachmaninov Vocalise, the crowd started to stand. The whole effect, with all the tiers of the theatre, was deafening, and it didn't fade away until Llysette gestured to Terese for an encore.
The encore was a Columbian piece, Gershwin's “ Summertime.” But they even clapped and stamped their feet for that.
As the stage darkened, and the clapping finally died away, Drummond Kent looked at me. “I'd heard. I had no idea.”
“There's no one like her,” I said. But then, even as my eyes burned in gladness for her, I could never say why. “No one.”
Finally, I stood and followed Kent out of the box and down a corridor that had apparently already emptied.
Colonel Sudwerth and Commander Madley flanked the doors to the reception room, along with Tavoian, effectively acting as door keepers.
Once inside, I looked around the reception room, but I didn't see Llysette. In fact, as functionaries in black and white and in formal uniforms of various colors and cuts and women in elaborate dresses began to drift into the room, the only performer I saw was Robert Thies.
“I really enjoyed your pieces,” I told Thies, “especially the last prelude.”
“I'm glad I played before her.” He shook his head. “No one could have followed her. I'd heard she was wonderful, but . . .”
“Words don't describe it,” I finished.
“There she is,” he said.
As I turned, I could feel an enormous smile cross my face and fill me as I looked at her, and for a moment, we were the only two people in the increasingly crowded room. Her smile answered mine, and I stepped forward and hugged her. “There aren't words. You were wonderful, and more.”
“It was good.”
The very understatement of her words emphasized just how good she had been.
Thies bowed. “I've never heard better. Not anywhere.”
“You are most kind.”
“I'm not kind. I'm truthful. I can't tell you how glad I am that I played before you sang.”
At that point, Ambassador Hagel and his wife moved through the crowd toward us. “Magnificent. Just magnificent.” He was beaming from ear to ear, as well he might, since the concert would certainly reflect well on him.
Drummond Kent was also beaming, and while they congratulated Llysette, I slipped away to get her a glass of wine, and edged through the crowd to bring it back to her.
“Merci, mon cher,” she murmured between thanking and responding to well-wishers.
Something caught my eye, and I turned. Despite the formal black and white, and the red decoration with the silver starburst, I recognized the man who stood at the end of the table that held various gourmet items neither Llysette nor I had had time to sample.
He nodded.
I returned the nod, but had to wait for almost ten minutes while Llysette dealt with well-wishers. In the meantime, Terese had drifted into sight from somewhere, and she and Robert Thies were talking animatedly. I hadn't seen the Black Mesa Quartet.
When there was a break, I touched her arm. “Llysette, I'd like you to meet someone.”
“Mais oui, mon cher.” She turned.
I bowed to the man, smiling broadly. “I'm Johan Eschbach, and this is my wife, Llyset
te.”
“Dietre Fontaine, at your service.” He bowed to me, and then more deeply to Llysette. “Your singing continues to enchant the world, mademoiselle.”
The last name Dietre was using was different, but that wasn't a problem. “Dietre and I have run across each other a number of times over the past years. He always shows up in surprising places.” I turned to Dietre. “What are you doing these days?”
“I've been detailed to the New French embassy to offer my expertise in energy matters . . . and others.”
“I have to offer my thanks for your last venture in that area.”
“I am glad all turned out well.” He nodded to Llysette. “Your singing was without peer, and I am most glad to have been able to hear you once more in person. You are far better than the disk from the Salt Palace would indicate, and now the Russians will know that.”
“We sang what we hoped they would like.”
“They did—most clearly. It is a pity that you were required to leave France and go to Columbia. Some of us had so hoped you could have gone to New France.” Dietre smiled. “As Johan knows, I am an elitist at heart.”
Another man in formal dress—with a blue ribbon and sunburst of some sort—appeared beside Dietre.
“This is Marshal Gorofsky,” Dietre offered. “Of the Russian Imperial Air Corps.”
“For now, at long last, you are popular in Columbia, mademoiselle. You would always have been acclaimed and rewarded in Russia,” Gorofsky said after bowing.
I raised my eyebrows. Gorofsky had something in mind.
“You are most kind,” Llysette replied.
“The great problem that the arts have always faced in countries where the populace has too great a say in their funding is that what is funded must reflect popular taste, and, as we in Russia know all too well, popular taste is seldom excellent. Here, we show them what is excellent, and they are grateful.”
That was well said, and mostly true, even if aristocratically pompous. “Do you think that is true only in the arts, Marshal?”
“It is more obvious in arts, I submit, Minister Eschbach. Popularity is an element in any system, even the most autocratic and regimented, because it is so much easier to count heads or hands than to evaluate excellence.”
“Perhaps we should have some tea or a drink someday and discuss that and solve the problems of the world.”
“It has many. Where does one begin?” Gorofsky laughed. “Perhaps we should, when we have a long afternoon.” He bowed to Llysette. “You were magnificent. I hope you will return, perhaps in the time of the white nights, so that you may see Russia at its brightest as well, and so that we may hear you once more.”
Llysette inclined her head.
“And you, Minister Eschbach, I understand you now teach.”
“The economics, technical basis, and politics of the environmental and natural resources,” I admitted.
“Ah . . . you have considerable expertise there. But it is a pity you could not also teach the same with regard to military science. You were a most distinguished pilot, and someone should teach those who will lead that excellence in the military cannot be based on technology alone, no matter how advanced and how fantastic. Nor can it be based merely on economics or body counts.” He laughed. “I wander. Perhaps we should have that drink or tea someday and compare stories.”
“I'd look forward to that.”
The marshal slipped away, past two men in formal dress I'd never seen before.
“Until later, Johan.” Dietre offered a French hug. I almost didn't feel the envelope slipped inside my jacket until after he had stepped away. “Take care of your wife. None of us would wish to lose her.”
“Thank you. I will.”
With a brisk nod, he stepped away, and I turned toward Llysette. “He is very taken with your singing. He was also at the Salt Palace concert.”
Colonel Sudwerth, carrying a clear drink of some sort, untouched, appeared, with his jovial smile in place. “You move in interesting circles, Minister Eschbach. Did you know that man—he calls himself Fontaine now—is the head of New French espionage in St. Petersburg?”
Behind him, Commander Madley watched, holding a drink of his own, also untouched.
“I can't say that I did.” That was true enough. I laughed. “We only talked about the concert, but I appreciate the warning, and I'll certainly be on my guard if I run across him again.”
“Try to be on your guard before you run into him. He's an especially nasty type, I've been told.”
I knew that already, but I just smiled. “I'll be very careful.”
Sudwerth gave me a perfunctory nod and headed toward someone in a Russian uniform. I don't think I'd ever seen a place where so many men wore uniforms.
Abruptly, Drummond Kent appeared at my elbow, accompanied by Hamilton Tavoian.
“You are both invited to meet the tzar and tzarina . . . they will see you in their box.”
So we followed Deputy Minister Kent and a pair of tall guards in uniforms to the doorway to the imperial box, guarded by yet another set of guards.
Tzar Alexander IV was tall, a good two or three inches taller than I was, but balding. He stood on one side of the box, flanked by the icy-blonde tzarina. “Please . . .” He gestured, and we stepped forward, but I lagged a bit so that Llysette was the one in front. It was her night and her concert.
“You are not Russian, but you sang those songs like a Russian and an angel, and that is why all in the theatre wept.” The tzar offered Llysette a warm smile. “Always, you will be welcome in St. Petersburg and Russia.”
Llysette bowed. “Merci, votre majesté.”
“No . . . we owe you thanks, and we always will.” He looked at me and smiled, an expression somewhere between bemusement and courtesy. “Your wife sings like an angel, but I understand you're like the seraph who protects her.”
“I do what I can, your majesty.” I suspected he deserved some more exalted title, but since no one had briefed me on that, I couldn't offer it. I doubt anyone really expected we would meet the tzar personally, or, if they did, they wanted me to botch it. “Wouldn't any loving and devoted husband?”
He laughed. “Minister Eschbach, you amuse me. Would that you were Russian, but we can do little enough of that in these days.”
“I'm glad to have brought you that amusement, your majesty.” I inclined my head slightly, a head upon which he wished to bestow some honor or which he wished to remove, or both.
“In these days, the profession of autocracy is fraught with danger. We can, of course, be more forthcoming in culture than in commerce and government.” He turned and murmured a few words to the icy figure of the tzarina.
She smiled, and the momentary warmth was almost like frost shattering off a statue in brilliant sunlight.
The effect vanished almost immediately when the tzar returned his gaze to Llysette and asked, “You will be here several more days, will you not, Mademoiselle duBoise?”
“Oui, votre majesté.”
“Would you consider giving a short private concert for our family, some close friends, and relatives, in the concert hall in the Winter Palace . . . perhaps, this Saturday night?”
“Delighted, we would be.” Llysette bowed her head just slightly.
“Excellent! The children and many others will hear what they should have heard tonight.” The tzar smiled patronizingly. “I understand that you cannot do an entirely new program, but if you could add one or two songs we did not hear . . .”
“We will do what we can.” Llysette offered a true diva's curtsy, mixed with a warm smile.
“Then we will see you on Saturday night. I will send a note.”
There must be something about royalty and tzars and the like, because we could sense, without a word, that the audience was over.
We followed Minister Kent back to the reception area, but it was already almost empty except for embassy people. After reclaiming our heavy coats, we walked back down the stairs and out
to the limousine. I gathered that the other performers had already left.
Perhaps fifteen students had waited outside, huddled inside coats, under a clear sky, with a biting wind out of the north. As they saw Llysette, they inched forward, and one called something.
“They'd like your autograph,” Commander Madley translated.
“I will sign.”
So we all stood in a circle behind her.
“If you would tell me their names . . .” Llysette smiled.
Although she was shivering under the heavy coat in the night chill, Llysette patiently wrote down the transliterated names and signed programs for close to twenty young people.
When she was done, as we turned toward the limousine, I saw a patch of faint white by one of the stage doors. Several of the departing students stopped and pointed as well.
“Can you hear what they said?” I asked the commander.
“I couldn't hear it all, sir. Something about the ghost of a singer.”
“Pauvre femme,” Llysette said in a low voice before we climbed into the limousine for a quiet tripback to our quarters in the embassy.
I didn't even put a hand near the pocket where Dietre's envelope rested, not until we were back in our quarters, and I took off my jacket and laid everything in it on the highboy. After hanging the jacket upI unsealed the envelope.
There were only three sheets of paper there.
The first was a slightly yellowed newspaper clipping—from the Times of London, dated January 17, 1994—nearly two years ago.
St. Petersburg (BNI). “Heavy bombers will be dinosaurs,” claimed the Russian Minister of War Putyatin last week. Putyatin also stated that Russia could not afford to build useless heavy bombers that would soon be “ obsolete,” but would concentrate on “the weapons of the future.” Many interpreted that to mean that the Perun rocket was being developed as a prototype of a multiple warhead delivery system. . . .
This morning it was revealed that Putyatin had died suddenly of an undisclosed illness in St. Petersburg. Details were not available. . . .
This is not the first time that a high minister has died unexpectedly after revealing information that might be considered harmful to Russian interests. . . .
Ghost of the White Nights Page 27
