Grantville Gazette-Volume XI

by Eric Flint

  It began with Markus suggesting—very forcefully—yet more changes in the story, which invariably involved more sets, actors and complicated shots. He showed them the new estimated budget for the production. Andreas couldn't believe the total. Antje was livid.

  "You mean your father is going to agree to just give us all this money?" Lukas Schneider was well-known as a shrewd businessman—and not someone inclined to be overly indulgent, proud as he was of his son's talents.

  "Er . . . no," said Markus. "But I figure we can chip in the difference."

  Antje spluttered with rage. Andreas said, in a weak voice, "Markus, I don't have any money. The allowance I get barely pays food and my share of the rent. And Antje's family aren't poor, but there's no way she can contribute what you expect to come up with."

  "Well, she'll have to. I'm willing to let you off the hook, Andy, because you've been working damn hard. But it's time for some people around here to start pulling their weight."

  That remark earned Markus "Sartorius," would-be genius of television, a hard slap across the face. She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Markus shook his head and managed a look of regret that was almost sincere.

  "Now, Andy. I need to talk to you about the part you wrote for your friend Paddy. I'm not sure his character still works."

  Andreas didn't manage quite a spectacular exit as Antje, though he was willing to bet he was just as angry. Maybe angrier. For over two weeks now, he'd hated this project more and more and wanted out, but he didn't want to let anyone down. But nothing was worth betraying Paddy. The Irishman was his best friend, like a brother to him. Damaging that relationship was something Andreas couldn't do.

  Paddy was still awake by the time Andreas got home.

  "Antje told me what happened. Thank you, lad," he said.

  "For what?" Outside of mourning his parents, he doubted he'd ever felt worse.

  "For doin' what's right. I would've understood, but I'm glad you didn't throw me over."

  Andreas managed a wry smile. "Don't flatter yourself. I just felt that prick needed someone to stand up to him." Paddy laughed. "Seriously, though. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I'll tell Herr van den Vondel."

  "Come up with something. I know you've got it in you, lad."

  "I told Markus he could do whatever he wanted with the story I gave him, as long as he put a pseudonym in place of my name in the credits."

  Paddy nodded. "It's probably for the best. But before you decide anything rash, Fräulein Becker left some things for you."

  Paddy pointed to a stack of compact discs, mostly homemade, with a scrawled note on top saying "Listen to these." Andreas looked through them: The Best of Stan Freiberg, The Goon Show, The Shadow, "War of the Worlds," and many other titles. All classics of radio, many of which had been played as programming on VOA. Andreas listened to them all, and when he woke up the next morning, he was inspired for the first time in weeks.

  * * *

  About a month after Joost van den Vondel met with Andreas Gryphius, Joost received an invitation, cosigned by Andreas and "Markus Sartorius"—presumably the young man Markus Schneider who Gryphius had been working with previously.

  Joost knew all about the split between Andreas and Markus, though Andreas had been close-lipped about what he was working on. Joost had taken time to speak with Janice Ambler and had gotten most of the story from her. She said that the "runaway production" had a long and honored history up-time, mostly in something called "the movies," though Joost was unclear on how "the movies" differed from what was called television. Nevertheless, he understood completely. He'd heard of more than one entertainment whose costs had spiraled out of control.

  Now, though, he'd see the results. Theophilus Mendes had agreed to host the presentation for Joost and a few local businessmen and potential patrons at the Sternbock. Markus would present his production, followed by Andreas and his "Grantville Radio Theater." Mayken was delighted at the prospect and decided to make an evening of it. Her new friends had told her she needed a "date night" with her husband—whatever that was.

  There was already a small crowd at the Sternbock when he and Mayken arrived. Joost knew most of the people there. They were local businessmen, mostly down-timers, and a few minor nobles. Exactly the sort of people who would be most interested in gaining prestige through art patronage. Markus Schneider, with a pretty young woman on his arm, mixed enthusiastically with the attendees. Joost recognized the girl as a local actress, one who'd been compared—unfavorably—to Els Engel. Looking around for Andreas, Joost found him standing in a corner of the coffeehouse, nervously conferring with his dwarf friend and a couple of others. Before Joost could go speak with him, it was time for the evening's program to begin.

  Markus Schneider, Markus Sartorius as he called himself, introduced his production and wheeled out a television with a small box attached to it. Inserting a cartridge into the box, he pressed a button. The television flared to life and Theophilus Mendes dimmed the lights in the coffee house.

  * * *

  Andreas had been half-anticipating and half-dreading Markus's pilot. The credits certainly looked good, touting "A Markus Sartorius Production," though Andreas had to suppress a laugh when his chosen pseudonym, "Cordwainer Bird" (he'd gotten that name from Janice Ambler), flashed on the screen.

  What followed was a train wreck, if a fascinating one. Outside of televised stage plays and a few documentary-style news pieces by Jabe McDougal and a couple of others, no one had attempted a video production on the scale Markus was aiming for. And it was clear that whatever his talents, Markus had aimed too high.

  The sets looked horrible, the sound was uneven and the editing was clumsy. Andreas had resolutely avoided seeking any news of the production, trying to distance himself as far from it as possible. He'd heard rumors, though, that the sets had been rushed, and when Jabe McDougal had declined to sell, or even rent, his digital camcorder and editing software, Markus had had to make do with other equipment. Finding video cameras wasn't a problem. There were a number of them that, though obsolete at the time of the Ring of Fire, still worked perfectly well. The editing rig was the real problem. Markus had had to improvise a video editing setup, and the results showed. When the pilot television episode finished a half an hour after it started, there was polite applause.

  Now it was their turn. Antje set the small radio with the CD deck on a table and plugged it in. Andreas indicated to Theophilus to keep the lights dim. Paddy stepped up and, with a neat sleight-of-hand trick, produced a phosphorus stick between his fingers. He struck it. The flare and flame seemed bright in the dim light.

  "O for a muse of fire," began the Irish actor in his rich voice, reciting Shakespeare's (or the Earl of Oxford's, if one preferred) appeal to the power of imagination that began Henry V.

  "Think when we talk of horses, that you see them printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; for 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, carry them here and there; jumping o'er times, turning the accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass." Paddy bowed, and Antje hit "play" on the CD player.

  What they'd produced certainly wasn't Shakespeare. When Andreas and Antje were desperate for an idea they could produce quickly but still do well, it was Martha Schacht who suggested continuing the story of the movie Metropolis. Fritz Lang's silent opus was a popular movie on WVOA, both because it was a German production and because its themes of class struggle and noblesse oblige played well in the seventeenth century. Less than a day later, Andreas had produced a draft for a fifteen-minute radio script continuing the story of Joh Frederson and his lady love, the saintly Maria, in the vast city of Metropolis. They kept it simple, and Paddy did almost all the voices. Antje worked on the editing until nearly the last minute, but they were all satisfied with the result.

  Their audience was satisfied, too. Andreas and his fledgling radio theater company received very warm and enthusiastic applause. Enough of the businessmen prese
nt were interested in sponsoring the Metropolis series that he was confident it would launch, assuming Voice of America agreed to air it.

  Only after the crowd began breaking up did Joost come up to him, shaking his hand and giving him a friendly clap on the back. He shook Paddy's hand as well.

  "Well done, young Herr Gryphius, well done indeed. I understand why people love television, but you and your actors painted a real picture with just words and sounds. I would be honored to be patron of your company—if you would be my head writer."

  If Andreas managed to stammer out his agreement, he couldn't remember it. He must have because Joost look pleased and shook his hand again.

  "It seems you have advertising sponsors for your Metropolis series," Joost continued. "But I would also want a program exclusively presented by Rheinlander Silk and Fine Linen. Perhaps it could be one of these 'anthology programs' Frau Ambler told me of. And of course, we will have to find a better name for this company."

  "As patron, Herr van den Vondel, the honor of naming the company is yours."

  "Yes it is, husband," Mayken said. Andreas and Paddy watched as she thought for a moment. "I rather like the sound of 'The Firemuse Radio Dramatic Company' myself."

  That did sound good, thought Andreas. Speech still hadn't returned to him, though, and all he could do was nod.

  "Excellent." Joost beamed. "We should get the first episode of both shows on the air as quickly as we can. Do you have any ideas for the debut of the Rheinlander Silk Hour?"

  Speech at last returned. He'd been thinking about this very thing quite a bit.

  "Herr van den Vondel, there is an up-time farce that would probably be quite suitable. A young nobleman and a Moorish vagabond find their stations in life interchanged through the offices of two capricious and malign princes. The two men gain revenge against the evil princes in a most humorous way."

  "Sounds interesting, Herr Gryphius. Let us discuss it further. I've been thinking of a play about the fallen angel Lucifer. Perhaps it might be best to start with lighter fare."

  They talked for hours into the night. The first thing they agreed on was that the debut episode of The Rheinlander Silk and Fine Linen Hour would need a catchier title than "Trading Places." Frau van den Vondel had an excellent title suggestion, and production soon began on the anthology show's first episode: "Die Gluecksritter."

  Bathing With Coal

  Written by Russ Rittgers

  Fall, 1633

  "Barnabas Kitchner! Wake up! It's Tuesday morning and you have to buy wood for the bathhouse fire."

  The thirty-eight year-old man rolled over in bed and opened one eye. His wife, Margarete Lutsch, was already dressed and standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

  Tuesday. People bathed on Saturday and Tuesday in this town of a thousand souls. Saturdays were regimented about who bathed and when. Mothers with young children bathed first. Then old women. Then teenage girls and single women. Single and old men, and then married couples. But today was Tuesday and in this town that meant first come, first served, no separation of ages or sexes. Each day had a completely different social atmosphere which served the community.

  The early risers wanted a warm bath, no matter what the season. The late bathers, especially in summer, didn't mind cool water as long as it was halfway clean.

  And oh, dear God, did they have clean water. The large reservoir for the baths had to be refilled at least three times every Saturday. Trip after trip, hauling water a hundred yards from their river near the Elbe, back and forth. The small consolation was that he didn't have to personally haul it all. The bad news was that his helpers, Lucas and Peter, lived with their parents and had to be lightly shepherded. Everyone in town had some kind of a useful job, including those who were not as smart or clever as others. Bigger towns and cities had pumps but using Lucas and Peter to haul water was far cheaper and gave them regular employment.

  "But it's not even daylight yet! Nobody's going to be at the bathhouse." His feeble protest fell on deaf ears. As usual.

  "Get up! You know Augustin Ramminger will be there even before the water is hot enough for you to finish filling the bathing tank. Now get moving!"

  Yes, he did know. Augustin had been Barnabas' rival for Margarete's hand ten years earlier. Not infrequently Barnabas asked himself what Augustin would have done in his situation and decided that was why he was now Margarete's husband.

  Barnabas had been footloose and fancy free sixteen years ago, the third son of a Lutheran pastor who had no inclination to follow in his father's footsteps or scholastic ambitions beyond his city's gymnasium. So he was without regular gainful employment when he arrived in town. Margarete was good-looking and full-bodied, the daughter of the only bathhouse operator in town. When Barnabas was hired by her father to service its water and fires, he thought himself incredibly lucky. Not only would he have regular employment but he would be in contact with the object of his affections on a daily basis.

  One thing led to another and her father—being wise enough not to object—agreed to their marriage ten years ago. The only surviving child of Papa Lutsch, Margarete inherited the bathhouse along with the family home three years later. And in arguments never let him forget where the source of his livelihood originated.

  Barnabas sat up in the bed, sighed and scratched his head. There was only the slightest hint of light outside their window.

  * * *

  "Good morning, Barnabas. I've already set aside your usual order of wood." Titus Erlingen pointed towards a stacked pile. He gave a sigh. "But I'm going to have to charge you more. Because of all the construction in Magdeburg, prices for wood, even firewood such as I provide, are going sky-high."

  "How much higher?" Barnabas twisted a lock of his graying hair. Margarete was going to give him fits if it was much above what it had been last Saturday morning. Her father had taught her how to manage the bathhouse and one of those skills was bookkeeping.

  Titus grimaced. "Ten percent higher today than it was the other day. Heaven only knows when the prices will come down again."

  "Ten percent! That's robbery, pure and simple! Why don't you just get out your knife and slit my purse?"

  The wood-seller raised his eyebrows in innocence and shrugged. "You know I wouldn't charge you that much if I didn't have to. As it is, I'm barely covering my own costs. I'm having to go farther and farther afield to find firewood, so much of it having been burnt or otherwise destroyed by the imperial forces or the Swedish army. Every stick of this firewood had to be purchased from its owner, or from a villages' allocations."

  Barnabas had no idea of where Titus acquired his firewood but had his own suspicions. For one thing Titus was here every Tuesday and Saturday morning, which meant he couldn't have gone that far, not out and back with his lone horse pulling the cart. For another, Titus was simply too well-fleshed. Barnabas suspected that Titus knew of an abandoned farming village and just gathered it himself without payment.

  That said, in the fifteen years Barnabas had been buying, Titus never charged more than his competition.

  He tried not to moan. "Five percent. I have to be able to tell my wife that I didn't pay the price you first quoted."

  Titus shook his head. "Nine percent. Because we've been dealing with each other so long."

  Barnabas hesitated. He might be able to get Titus down to seven but he doubted it. Titus looked entirely too unhappy even quoting the nine percent.

  "Eight percent, all dry wood and you have a deal."

  "Done. You can check each piece yourself."

  * * *

  Barnabas always split some of the new wood into kindling after he filled the stone heating tank. It also gave him something to do while he thought about how to tell Margarete about the price increase.

  "Will I have to wait long?" Augustin asked, leaning at the open doorway, a towel over his shoulder. The still unmarried Augustin had done well in the past dozen years. He'd gone from being Barnabas' equal, a gymnasium graduate, t
o something of a dandy, working as the town's bookkeeper. Barnabas didn't envy him his position or money. He didn't hate Augustin either, but there was no love lost, mostly because he still flirted with Margarete. All Barnabas knew was that there'd never been any gossip with real substance.

  Barnabas opened the stopcock on the side of the heating tank and tested the water. "Fifteen minutes, no more."

  "Quite all right. I'll just go back to the entrance and talk with your lovely wife." He turned gracefully and walked back towards the front of the bathhouse where Margarete would be waiting at the entrance for early bathers. She enjoyed his company entirely too much. Barnabas growled, thinking about it.

  Years ago he would have seethed with indignation for an hour, but now he simply returned to his work.

  The bathhouse wasn't large as such things go. Not halfway comparable to the one in the city he came from. No, this bathing tank was only a dozen feet across with room for no more than several bathers at the outer rim. On Saturdays there would be a line of waiting bathers, but on Tuesdays most of his hot water didn't go into the bathing tank.