by Eric Flint
Andreas nodded. "It's not so much having to move on," he said. "It's having to explain to my stepfather that being a dramatist for radio or television is a respectable career for the son of an archdeacon and the stepson of a pastor."
"You worry a bit too much about respectability, lad." Paddy flexed the grasper he carried with him at all times for emphasis. One of the apprentices at Kudzu Werke had made it as experiment in mechanics and given it to Paddy when it proved useful in helping the dwarf grab things he couldn't reach on his own.
The plain-looking young woman sitting next to Paddy nodded her agreement. "Andreas, you did such a good job writing Unser Herr Gottfried. All my friends love it. You should write another story like that one." Martha Schacht was a friend of Paddy's. She worked as an aide at St. Veronica's School where Paddy sometimes went to tell stories to the children.
Andreas shrugged. "Thanks, Martha. I could write another play, but where will I find a patron?"
"Maybe we need to attract a patron," said Antje. "Produce something on our own and play it in front of potential sponsors. Like the Grantville Ballet did with 'Bad Bad Brillo.'"
Andreas immediately saw that this was a good idea. It wasn't as if it would cost him much in time to write a one-act play that could then be easily recorded. The problem, as he saw it, was that with a few exceptions, the nobility—at least the ones with all the money—stuck fiercely to their traditions. They might well prefer to patronize a traditional stage company. He mentioned this.
Markus smiled a bit smugly. "You're stuck in the past, Andy my friend. The plays and programs that run on VOA or the TV station all have business patrons. Advertising, the up-timers call it. I've read all about it in books that Frau Ambler loaned me. Many of the up-timers' greatest writers launched their careers this way, on shows with business patrons. Writers like Serling and Chayefsky."
Andreas was familiar with Rod Serling and Paddy Chayefsky, even if their work wasn't entirely to his taste. Watching Janice Ambler's precious recorded episodes of Playhouse 90 and The U.S. Steel Hour had been part of his education as a writer once he enrolled in the RTT program. He began to see where Markus was heading and was intrigued enough to ignore Markus's use of his hated nickname "Andy."
"What you're saying," Andreas said slowly, "is that we should film our own television play as a proposal for something like Playhouse 90. An anthology program, I believe it would be called."
"Exactly so."
"But . . . don't look at me that way, Markus Schneider!" Antje had rounded on the aspiring director, who was giving her a very dirty look. He didn't like being contradicted.
Undeterred, Antje continued: "We should consider doing a radio program instead. It would be much less expensive."
"Nonsense," Markus said. "Television is the way of the future. It's here to stay, and it won't be any problem to film a program right here in Grantville. Everything that we need is here."
"But how will you edit it?"
"Jabe McDougal hasn't had any problem editing his videos for the TV. station. I can buy his equipment or rent it."
Markus ignored Antje as she enumerated the numerous flaws in his argument, beginning with the fact that it was highly unlikely that Jabe McDougal would entrust his precious camera and computer to anyone not intimately familiar with its use. Markus was basically a good person, but Andreas knew that his classmate, son of a newly rich local merchant, sometimes thought he could leap any hurdle by paying the right person enough money. Most of the time he was right. However, Andreas doubted money would impress someone dating the daughter of a painter to two reigning kings.
Even as Andreas listened to Antje's counter-arguments for radio over television, he couldn't help but be seduced by Markus's vision. He'd wanted to write for theater ever since he could remember, after reading the great tragedies of Euripides and Aeschylus, the comedies of Aristophanes and Terence and the poetry of Seneca. And wasn't theater a visual art? The VOA reached many people, it was true, thanks to the reach of the strange lightnings that carried it and the fact that the "crystal radio sets" needed to turn the lightnings back into sound were affordable to all but the most desperately poor people. But you couldn't see the radio. Andreas loved the television and loved that it could transport him to different times and places—as any good playwright in any time could do, given the right stage.
"I'll do it, Markus. I'll write something for you to film."
* * *
Joost wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and heaved a contented sigh. The Willard Hotel was a pricy place for a business lunch—even by Grantville standards—but it was quieter than the Thuringen Gardens and it was easier to reserve a private dining room at the Willard. One only had to make a reservation weeks in advance, rather than months.
As one server cleared away plates and another poured small glasses of dessert wine, Adolf Aaler—Dolf—sat his up-time briefcase on the table and opened it, handing copies of reports to Joost and Mayken. Dolf was a young man, in his early twenties, the middle son of Joost's business partner Adalbert Aaler in the Rheinlander Silk and Fine Linen Company. Normally, Dolf's older brother Dieter would be expected to inherit the business from Adalbert, but everyone acknowledged Dolf's uncommon talent and foresight. Shy Dieter was far happier with his nose buried in a ledger than meeting with customers.
Joost could hardly believe that it had been just over a year since he and Mayken had fled Amsterdam. He remembered all too well when Rebecca Stearns and her small diplomatic party had arrived from France full of dire warnings of the impending betrayal of the Dutch Republic at the hands of Cardinal Richlieu. Unfortunately, Rebecca had only her instincts, which were not enough to convince the Dutch ruling elite of approaching disaster.
Joost had been among the very few who had taken Mrs. Stearns' warning seriously. He hadn't known Balthazar Abrabanel personally, but it was impossible to be a person of any standing Amsterdam and not know the Jewish doctor's reputation. And Joost also knew Balthazar's daughter had inherited her father's intellectual gifts in full measure. If she warned of French betrayal, it wasn't merely to advance her country's anti-French agenda, and Joost would not wait for a signed declaration of war from Richlieu before believing her. Overriding Mayken's objections, he packed up what he could of his family's silk business, liquidated the rest for whatever he could get and left Amsterdam at the first opportunity.
Krefeld, in County Moers, was the logical refuge for them. The van den Vondels were Mennonites, and several Mennonite families had already found refuge there. A hasty letter sent ahead of them paved the way for a partnership with Adalbert Aaler. Adalbert had been just another linen weaver when a small group of fellow Mennonites came to him seeking refuge. They were experienced weavers of silk and velvet, and Adalbert saw the chance to not only do a good deed, but also to be the only person dealing in silk in the area.
Unfortunately, because Adalbert could not match the quality or quantity of silks from Venice and the East, his business balanced on a knife's edge of survival. He had just enough local custom to keep him in business. Joost's capital was a welcome infusion, but it didn't solve the business's basic problem. Joost wanted a solid return on his investment, and Adalbert wanted to leave a prosperous business to his sons and grandchildren.
Ultimately, it was Dolf who found a way out, at a meeting Adalbert had called shortly after Joost bought into the business. Krefeld had its own Committee of Correspondence, which maintained a discreet presence in the shadow of the Archbishop of Cologne, the town's nominal ruler. The local Mennonite community, thanks to Mike Stearns' willingness to grant their co-religionists asylum, dominated the Krefeld-Uerdingen CoC and the local committee worked as hard at distributing the practical business knowledge the up-timers had brought with them as it did their new political philosophies.
"The up-timers have a saying for our situation," Dolf said. "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."
"What's a lemon?" asked Adalbert.
"An exotic fruit with a so
ur taste," Dolf replied. "But it can be made into lemonade, a very tasty drink many of the up-timers favor. The basic point is that with the right thinking, something that's a weakness can be turned into a strength. Our weakness is that our silk, while very durable, isn't of the quality favored by the wealthy and the nobility for their clothes—unless their fortunes have fallen—and we would hardly want to advertise that fact."
"So what do you suggest?" At the time Joost hadn't been able to see where Dolf was heading.
The young man tossed a bound folio into the middle of the table. Adalbert picked it up and began to thumb through it.
"This folio was specially prepared for me by my friends in the Grantville Committee of Correspondence. The industries and knowledge the up-timers have brought with them require silk for a multitude of uses. Let the Adel preen about in their Venetian silks and pay outrageously for the privilege. We will sell silk for insulation, armaments and motors. Industry. We can establish ourselves in this market and then let everyone else try to catch up with us!"
Dolf's arguments had carried the day, and he turned out to be entirely correct. As Joost saw as he looked over the latest sales figures, he was well on his way to becoming independently wealthy. He nodded approvingly.
"We're making even more money than I thought we would this trip. It definitely justifies opening a permanent office here, even if there weren't other concerns." Dolf nodded to Mayken. "It will be good to have you here to represent us full-time, Joost, and the space with the apartments over it was a real find. And this is even with your continued soft-heartedness where the Grantville Ballet Company is concerned."
Joost chuckled. "Dolf, the day you admit that outfitting the Ballet Company has more than paid for itself is the day I begin to wonder about your sanity." Joost, over the mild objections of the Aaler family, had insisted on supplying Bitty Matowski's ballet company with silk for its costumes at cost, something that had helped build local good will and had fostered contacts with local notables—many of whom were investors in the sorts of industries Rheinlander Silk served. "What about that other matter I'd asked you to look into?"
"Ah, yes, young Herr Gryphius." Dolph slid a scrap of paper over to Joost with an address on it. "The young man's room doesn't have a telephone. I'm also told he frequents the Sternbock Coffee House."
"Very good. Thank you, Dolf. For everything."
It was a couple of weeks before Joost could follow up on contacting young Gryphius. Meetings with clients, taking orders and personally delivering an order of silk to Bitty Matowski occupied his time. Finally, though, he managed to have a few hours free on a weekday afternoon.
He found Andreas by himself in a corner table at the Sternbock Coffeehouse, lost in thought, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper and empty demitasses. The young man was red-eyed and jittery; clearly, he'd been working hard and sleeping little.
And he was lost in thought. Young Gryphius didn't even hear Joost walk up to him and was very surprised to see the Dutchman standing in front of him.
"Herr Greif?" Joost decided to address the young man by his birth name rather than his nom de plume.
Andreas stood up in a hurry, scattering paper and knocking over an ink bottle—fortunately empty. "Yes. Sorry. I'm afraid you have me at a loss, Herr . . ."
"Vondel. Joost van den Vondel."
"Of course. From Rheinlander Silks, right? You make good costumes, Herr van den Vondel. Very durable material, Frau Matowski says."
Joost nodded, pleased. "You've had occasion to work with the ballet company, then?"
"Not much. I've passed on interesting-looking librettos from time to time, but not much more."
"In any event, Herr Greif, it's not regarding librettos or silk costumes. I wished to talk about your writing. It's quite good, and I feel I may be able to offer you some small opportunity to hone your craft and further your career."
Andreas shuffled the papers spread out in front of him, tapping them together in a neat pile. He began laughing hysterically for a minute or two, then looked at van den Vondel. Joost wondered if his writer was taking leave of his senses. After a minute, Andreas wiped his eyes.
"I apologize. My father and stepfather often said that God has a sense of humor. I think this proves it." Andreas signaled a young man acting as waiter for the establishment.
"Do you care for coffee, Herr van den Vondel? Or perhaps pastry? Frau Mendes is a most talented pastry maker."
* * *
If Andreas could count how much sleep he'd gotten over the last week or so, he suspected he could count the hours on one hand. Maybe two, but he was certain he wouldn't need to take off his shoes and socks.
Markus Schneider—Sartorius, these days—was a very good director of photography, probably the best, when it came to using up-time video equipment. He'd always been fond of sketching, and when the Schneider family came into money, they arranged for Markus to take lessons in painting. His talent in that area would not be great enough to allow him to be more than a skilled hobbyist, but it taught him how compose scenes so they would fit into a frame. Behind the lens of a camera, the mediocre would-be painter became a genius DP.
Unfortunately, Markus knew this, and it fed his considerable ego. Andreas had been utterly unable to convince his director to leave the writing to him. Andreas had had a pleasant little one-act comedy, modeled on the work of his beloved Terence, that he'd been working on. It would have been ideal for their "pilot," as Antje called it. Simple story, small cast, and it would take—at most—only two or three simple sets.
Alas, "simple" had no place in Markus's grand vision. At first the changes Markus suggested made sense, along with some ideas Antje contributed. Antje's ideas continued to make sense, but at some point Markus had . . . what was that phrase one of his up-time classmates used? "Jumped the shark," that was it. Andreas was still not entirely clear about the origins of that phrase and had only a vague idea of what a shark was, but it felt correct to his writer's instincts. In the beginning, he'd rather liked this little piece, trifle though it was, but the more drafts he produced, the more he hated it. He couldn't even remember what it was he'd liked about this piece in the first place. He'd walk away from this project if he could, but too many people were depending on him. He had his duty.
The interruption by Herr van den Vondel was most welcome. After introducing himself, the Dutchman wasted little time in getting to the point.
"I heard the play you wrote on the radio, Herr Greif," van den Vondel said. "It was quite good. You have much potential, I believe."
"I thank you, mein Herr. I know your company's reputation as a supporter of the arts."
The Dutchman chuckled. "God has blessed me with two gifts, young sir. He has blessed me with a modest talent for business and a talent for writing. Which may be as modest as my talents in business, but my desire to write poetry and drama is far greater than the desire to succeed in business."
Andreas thought about this for a moment. "How do you reconcile those two desires?"
"With the knowledge that business success funds my artistic endeavors. Which is why you find me here today, young sir."
Van den Vondel accepted tea and baklava from Arcadios Mendes and continued. "I am relocating to Grantville, partly to better represent Rheinlander Silk's many interests here, but mostly to pursue patronage of the arts. I find I have the resources to fund a small drama company, and the . . . I believe the up-timers call it 'mass media' . . . offers great opportunities to present work to a very wide audience indeed. I am told by my business contacts here that this technology will only spread further in the coming years, and I find that the first to grasp a new opportunity may capitalize best upon it, even in the face of inevitable competition. In any event, Herr Greif, I believe I would like to engage your services as a writer, and I seek your counsel as to how to proceed."
Andreas knew an opening when he saw one. He told Herr van den Vondel of the video production he was working on with Markus, Antje and a few others fro
m the high school RTT program. Van den Vondel even commiserated with him over the endless rewrites.
"It's not that bad," Andreas said, though he didn't sound convincing even to himself. "So far Markus's father has been willing to fund us."
Two bells tolled out across Grantville. The up-timers had had to accommodate themselves to laxer standards of time-keeping than they'd been used to, but bells still rang out on the hour during the daytime. Joost looked up in surprise and a little alarm. He handed Andreas a card.
"I'm afraid I must take my leave, as I have business this afternoon. Please contact me when your video production is complete. I would be most eager to see it. I have the feeling the two of us will be able to help each other a great deal."
* * *
With every meeting of the main creative team, Andreas, Markus and Antje's planned television pilot spiraled out of control. Matters came to a head just a few nights after Andreas met Joost van den Vondel.
