The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  That difficult decision out of the way, he retreated to the bedroom, where a very drunk Teresa was snoring loudly and grinding her teeth. He fell into a deep, fortunately dreamless sleep.

  *

  He slept much later than planned; it was eleven thirty by the time he rose and dragged himself to the bathroom to try to soak himself into wakefulness. Nevertheless, it was past twelve thirty, several cups of coffee and half a pack of Silk Cuts before he was able to bring himself to ring Henry at his new office and arrange a dinner meeting. Henry was curious and as rude as always, but Hastings revealed nothing of his motives. Teresa and Marty were not in the house, most likely helping Franklin tie up loose sends for the tour. Basil was still lying passed out in a pile of heavily breathing limbs on the floor. Hastings checked the telephone book for the time difference between London and Medellín and found that he would have to wait several hours before attempting the call. Alvarez had, in common with many beasts of prey, looked like a man who enjoyed his rest. Hastings decided he might as well get some more sleep himself.

  When he woke again, it was four thirty, and he felt much more alive. The house was now completely empty. He put his hair back in a ponytail and searched the room for some conservative clothing. The best he could do was a pair of trousers of questionable vintage and another old tweed jacket. Wearing a white shirt belonging to Marty, he still looked a bit rumpled, but he was entering Henry’s territory, where he was likely to be stared at anyway. Being treated like an alien invader could become quite tiresome.

  Hastings locked up the house and set out for the Underground, forgetting until he was on a southbound Victoria Line train that as far as Teresa knew, Rosas was still on the loose, and no one was supposed to go around by themselves. He would catch hell for this later.

  The restaurant Henry had suggested was Chez Philippe, an upscale bistro in Bromley that catered to the business class. As he entered the plush, tastefully dim interior, Hastings quickly realized that his attempt to dress to fit in had been futile; the other patrons were dolled up to the nines in the latest business style, suits of dark cloth, pastel-colored waistcoats, and shiny fob-watches. There were, as far as he could see, only a couple of jewel-armored women dining there, and he garnered the usual bewildered stares and upturned noses as a disdainful waiter led him to Henry’s table. The man himself was, of course, the paragon of current good taste in a dirt-brown silk suit with a bright lemon-yellow waistcoat and a huge gold watch on a thick chain, which he was pretending to inspect as Hastings pulled out his chair to sit down.

  “Oh, hello, Simon,” he said, looking up over his monocle. “Must say, this is a surprise, although I suppose not an entirely unpleasant one. I recommend the duck; it’s scrumptious.” He leaned forward to pour Simon a glass of white wine. “So, to what do I owe this fraternal pleasure?” He grinned, showing bleached white teeth.

  Concealing a shudder, Simon realized with astonishment that he had not bothered to make up a story. He was not on his game at all these days. “Um … it’s business-related.”

  Henry unleashed his laugh, a loud, rich, melodious but very affected noise. “Business! Business! Ha! Thought that was a profanity to you, Simon! Have you finally run out of money, or do you need a bigger flophouse budget?”

  Simon felt himself flushing and fought down his ire. “No,” he said humbly as an idea for drawing out information from his odious sibling occurred to him. “I remembered your new situation with Kässel—”

  “Yes indeed! In fact, I’m working on some new—”

  “We’re thinking about adding corporate sponsorship to our upcoming tour,” Simon broke in hurriedly. “You know, that’s the latest thing in the music business. Del Morris and the Hi-Tops made a killing that way last summer. We were thinking, since our demographic is by far the largest consumer of Kässel’s products, that perhaps your company might be interested.” Del Morris and the Hi-Tops were definitely not cool any more and hadn’t been for some time, but it was at least a band Henry might have heard of, and their last tour for the forty-something set had indeed been sponsored by Good Fortune Cola, a United Chinese Chemical subsidiary.

  Henry tossed back his head and laughed even louder, which drew some hostile glares from neighboring tables. “You’ve got to be joking, right? I mean, don’t you even read the newspapers?”

  Simon feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?” While Henry continued to splutter, the waiter returned. Simon ordered some crêpes while the man raised a waxed eyebrow at Henry. He was relieved that his mannerless sibling was attracting more attention than himself; still, he had never hated Henry more than he did now, and he was having a great deal of trouble keeping himself under control.

  “Surely you know that our esteemed CEO, Helga Schmidt, hates rock and roll with a passion! She even tried to get some of her barmy old friends from the Reichstag to set mandatory hair-length levels, with punishment of imprisonment! She’d have my head if I suggested something like that, wouldn’t she?”

  “Oh. I see.” He pretended to be embarrassed. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Nice try, though. About time you and your commie friends got some financial sense. There’s a huge youth market out there waiting for you to exploit, isn’t there? Why, we work with some image consultants that could—”

  Simon pretended to choke on a piece of bread, feeling that a change of subject was badly in order. There was only so much talk of Henry’s business dealings that he could stand, and he had endured a lifetime’s worth already. Henry had first started swindling the neighborhood kids more than twenty years ago.

  After a feigned recovery, he made a play for information. “So, have you ever met this Schmidt? Ever been to the mysterious headquarters?”

  Henry nodded. “Augsburg? Yes. For my final of five interviews, I mean. Not to the castle, though. Hardly anyone ever gets in there. Never comes out, just stays up there listening to her Mozart records all day long or something. The company’s really run day-to-day by the VP, Himmler. Word is that the old hag is completely barmy. Had my interview in the main office building.”

  “Are they close together, these buildings?”

  Henry frowned. “Why?”

  “I was just thinking that a modern office complex and a medieval castle can’t be a very attractive combination.”

  “Always the bloody aesthete, eh, you little poofter? Actually, the castle is on top of a hill, pretty far from the rest of the complex. Big lawn around it. Looks really menacing and artsy-fartsy, not to my taste. More to yours, eh? No, they’d never throw in their lot with the likes of you, and I can’t say I blame them.” Henry shifted his weight to a more comfortable position, and his face took on a condescendingly sage expression. “Now, since you’re here, I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you, haven’t I?”

  “About what?” Hastings was sure his own face must be scarlet with suppressed violence.

  “Think it’s time you straightened out a bit. You’ve had your fun, but you’re giving the family a bad name. You’re tainting my own reputation by association. And that’s all Dad needs too, in addition the rest of his problems. I’m getting tired of telling people who inquire that my brother’s a hippie muso with no career and no prospects.”

  “You’re ashamed? You’re ashamed of me? Dad almost has a heart attack every time he talks to you. You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Hastings could hear his voice rising, but he knew his self-control and patience had vanished for good where Henry was concerned. “You don’t believe in drugs, but you work for the largest drug-maker in the world—”

  “They’re called recreational pharmaceuticals, and it’s just an administrative position. I don’t care what—”

  “That’s just it. You don’t give a damn about anything but yourself, your fucking career, and your fucking image. You don’t care about Dad at all. Mum and Dad raised us to care more about what happens to people. People like you are the reason most of the world lives in misery. You’re complete fucking ru
bbish!”

  Henry sighed. “I’ve heard all this shit before from your fellow juvenile bleeding hearts, Simon. Your ideals and hostility won’t get you very far, and being pissed off at successful people like me won’t either, will it? If the average man had my work ethic, he’d be better off. Lives in misery? What’s the big fuss? Someone has to. We can’t all be well-off. Life is about hard work to get places. That’s what Dad taught us. And if we all got there, how would a man enjoy his success compared with others? Do you want us to end up like Dad, working in a bloody factory? Look at me! Look at where I am now. Where will you be in ten years? Living in a bloody cardboard box with the rest of those who expect society to provide them with something for nothing, I daresay. As if I’ll help you out then! Lazy tosser.”

  This fight, in one form or another, had been repeated during their youth a thousand times.

  Simon stared coldly across the table at his brother, his food still untouched. Then he stood up and took a few banknotes from his pocket. “Here’s what I think, Henry. I think you should stay away from our family altogether. Dad doesn’t need you or want your help. And you won’t be hearing from me again, either. Just because we’re blood-related doesn’t mean we owe each other anything. Not even courtesy. You’re just not the kind of person I want to know.”

  “Suit yourself, you little prick. You don’t deserve to spend time in decent company anyway.” Henry turned his eyes down to his duck and did not look up again as Simon strode from the restaurant, much to the staff’s relief.

  As he walked to the Underground, he was surprised to find that he felt very little regret at this final, irreversible parting of ways. He only wished that his brother had not turned out be such a horrible person. Since he had, what was there to do? Henry’s Krupp-Benz stood glittering under the streetlights in a row of similar luxury autos, the perfect symbol of stylized wealth, and he was tempted briefly to run his keys down the side, but he decided not to relinquish even the slightest bit of the moral edge he possessed over his self-serving, ignorant brother.

  They never set eyes on one another again during the remainder of Simon Hastings’ short life.

  From the annual report and official

  press release of KässelPharma GmbH

  (English-language edition), released May 1968

  KässelPharma, the world’s premier manufacturer of recreational pharmaceuticals, as well as traditional therapeutics, anti-radiation defenses, and front-line medical technologies, is pleased to announce our highest ever annual gain, including a fourth-quarter profit that has eclipsed all known records for a multinational of our size. This good news is not the result of luck, but rather, we believe, of a combination of product quality and customer service unparalleled in ours or any industry.

  Under the leadership of our Chief Executive Officer, Helga Schmidt, and our long-serving board of directors, KässelPharma has achieved a competitive edge and an international standing that is a source of pride and a symbol of modern prosperity to all Germans, and we wish to state our renewed commitment to our retailers and consumers that we will continue to endeavor to put out the best quality and safest recreationals on the market today. And all of our products are, naturally, guaranteed 100% nonaddictive.

  We would also like to take this opportunity to announce our excitement at the expansion of our British plant and offices, in order to better serve our customers within the British Empire. A search is currently on for a dynamic executive staff member to aid in spearheading our growth into the next decade and beyond.

  Heinz Schlossel,

  Head of Public Relations

  Twent y-three

  When he arrived home, Hastings decided it would be best not to waste any more time dwelling on the overdue demise of his family unit and snuck into his bedroom to make the unfortunately necessary telephone call. The others were in the kitchen, loudly preparing their own dinners. He had not touched his food at the curtailed meal with Henry, and his stomach was growling like an angry skinhead, but Hastings knew he wouldn’t be able to settle down properly or rest up for the next day’s departure until he’d heard what Alvarez would say.

  The ring on the line was faint and the connection crackled and echoed, but the call was picked up by a male secretary who at first refused to put through the call to Alvarez’s office. But when Hastings told him angrily that the call involved a tip that could break one of the Cartels’ biggest rivals, the man reluctantly connected him.

  Alvarez’s silky, sinuous voice cut through the static, sounding even more sinister in the trans-Atlantic echo. “Mr. Simon Hastings! What a pleasant surprise to hear from you this fine afternoon. Do you have some news for me about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Rosas?”

  “Yes,” Hastings said flatly. “I killed him.”

  “Ah-ha! Smashing, is that not what you Brits say? I knew he would turn up, and you’d have the stomach for it. Did you enjoy it? You see, it was not very hard, was it? How did the gun fare? The international arms trade is another area we are anxious to exploit, but hand-held sonic weaponry is something of a new field. Hard to concentrate the killing power into a small package.”

  Hastings sensed that Alvarez was trying to bait him, so he decided not to give the director of “security” an answer concerning the weapon’s performance; besides, a long-distance call was not cheap, and he was not about to waste his money on exchanging pleasantries with a crime boss. “Look, Alvarez, do you want to know what I’m phoning about or not?”

  “Mmm, you are still a testy one, I see. By the way, I hear you have a new record. My daughter is quite anxious to obtain a copy. She reads the Musick Maker, you know.”

  “I’ll send you an autographed one.” It wasn’t the kid’s fault, and if Alvarez was to be of any assistance, Hastings had better stop being quite so surly.

  “Really? That would be so kind. Now—” The voice became abruptly harder and more businesslike. “Your information.”

  “I know who was paying Rosas.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Good, Mr. Hastings, good. Always make sure you obtain the required information before finishing off your subject. You really ought to come and work for me.”

  Hastings ignored this. “It was Helga Schmidt of KässelPharma. I’m not totally clear on it; it may just be her own initiative, without any knowledge of anyone else in the company.”

  A much longer silence.“What?” The voice was almost a whisper.

  “You heard me. Or so he said. We don’t know for certain, of course.”

  There was a loud thump from the other end of the line and the sound of scattering papers. Alvarez cut loose with a string of Spanish curses. “I should have known. That bitch! That cunning Teutonic swine. Hiring my operative to kill a bunch of hippies and trying to pin the blame on us and our products! This is exactly her style. If your police forces had not been too lazy to make the obvious connection into which she was thrusting their noses, our public relations department might have had a shit storm on its hands today. This is dirty, dirty business.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” The reaction had been most gratifying, listening to one unscrupulous ultra-capitalist angrily denouncing another as dirty. A most delightful irony.

  “What am I going to do about it? I will tell you! I am going to bring that dog and her company to their knees, that is what I’m going to do.”

  “How?”

  Alvarez sighed. “I need time to come up with a strategy. Even I, Hastings, cannot devise a foolproof scheme on the spot. I will contact you when I know what can be done to remove this blight from the Earth. You may be of assistance again.”

  “I’m going to be on tour in Europe for a month or so. Very hard to reach.” The last thing he wanted was to be drawn further into the Cartel’s web of organized crime; if he was going to attempt anything, it would be on his own.

  “Oh, do not be concerned with that. We will find you. And do not tell anyone about this. I tell you this because you have helped create a
conflict between two of the largest powers in the world, and my intention is that only one of us will survive. You are involved, whether you like it or not.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “Ha! Very good. But tell even your mother nothing.” Alvarez’s insincere good humor had suddenly returned. “Well, I will not keep you. You have done the right thing in bringing me this information, and I believe that vengeance for your comrades will be satisfied. Goodbye.”

  Hastings hung up gladly. He sincerely hoped he’d never have the opportunity to speak to Ricardo Alvarez ever again.

  *

  The rest of the evening went by quickly. After they had admonished him sternly for his disappearance, Marty and Teresa informed him that all of the arrangements for the tour were finalized (no thanks to him), and the van had been packed. They were to meet with the others at 6:00 a.m. to start the journey to France.

  Hastings had become a bit excited about the prospect of the tour, especially now that they seemed to be out of immediate danger; it would take Schmidt time to realize that her operative was no more.