1635: Music and Murder (24 page)

"You've got a new piece of music in your folders. Or it's new to some of you. I think we played it a couple of years ago, so most of you probably remember it. Anyway, pull it out, because Mr. Sylwester here is going to take the baton in a minute and direct it."

"Mr. Wendell," called a voice from the tuba section over the excited whispers.

"What?"

"You didn't say what piece it was."

Amid the smothered giggles and snickers from the other kids, Marcus smiled. "Okay, Dane, you got me that time. Get out
A Civil War Medley
."

Paper rustled all over the room as Marcus stepped from the podium and motioned Franz over. The older man offered the baton across his left forearm as if he were surrendering a sword. Franz accepted it with no small amount of trepidation. Leaning forward a little, Marcus murmured, "They're good kids, and they won't mess with you. Just give them a good downbeat and keep the patterns going, no matter what. Go straight through it one time, we'll compare notes quickly, then you can work with them some."

Mouth dry enough to resemble a desert, Franz nodded again. The podium looked about five feet tall in front of him, but he managed to raise a foot and step up on it. He placed his copy of the score on the music stand, and adjusted it to his height. Fussing with the score, he placed it just so, then slowly opened the cover to the first page of music. He knew he was avoiding looking at the band members, out of simple fear deferring the moment when he would have to begin. It was the thought of Marla behind him that caused Franz to straighten up, throw his shoulders back, and raise his head to look at the . . . musicians. They might be only children, teenagers, but they were musicians, and he owed them his best. They sat quietly, instruments on laps, waiting on him.

Franz raised his hands, baton gripped in his right, and poised at the top of their movement. Instruments were raised all over the room. "Four beats," he said, after the manner of Marcus. The tip of the baton moved through three slight beats and raised high. As he brought it down, the music began.

Focused as he was on just getting the pattern started, the crash of music startled Franz so that he almost lost control. Marcus had given him the book on conducting and the score to the piece right after they returned to Grantville. He had read the book from cover to cover, calling on Marla to translate where he wanted to make sure he understood. Each picture and diagram was scrutinized to the point that Marla had laughed that he was wearing the ink off of the pages. From her own experience as a student conductor for Marcus, she was able to guide him in developing the patterns and the common practices of conducting. And then he practiced . . . over and over and over he practiced, to the point he thought his arm was going to fall off. But during all of his practice, he was hearing the music in his head, which by its nature is a quiet exercise. To actually hear the music, to hear the crash of cymbals, the roll of the drums and the crisp sounds of the trumpets nearly blew him off of the podium.

The first song in the medley possessed the odd name of
Marching Through Georgia
. It was a sprightly song, one that could have been played at a dance, Franz thought. His pattern was quick and brisk, in keeping with the
allegro
tempo marking. He managed to remember to turn the pages as those points were reached. The song passed quickly. Almost before he knew it the modulation to the second song was upon him.

Making his patterns broader and slower, he negotiated the change to
When Johnny Comes Marching Home
. He was gratified that the students had slowed in keeping with his changes. The new tempo was
andante
, and his pattern was in accordance with that instruction. Again, looking around, he was pleased to see the students—no, the musicians—were intent on their music, somehow keeping one eye on the pages and one eye on him. He sped up the pattern just a little, and the ease with which they matched his change fed him such exhilaration that he almost laughed.

The second transition was upon him, and again Franz led the band through another modulation to
The Battle Hymn of the Republic
, speeding the tempo up to match the
alla marcia
marking. This was his favorite of the three songs, and he poured himself into it. In the second verse, the
legato
rendition, he motioned to the clarinets to play softer, and they responded! In the third verse, the finale, he switched to a deliberate pattern. When the trumpets weren't strong enough to suit him, he forcefully beckoned to them to play louder. And they responded! Energized, he led them through the final chorus, slowing the tempo because of the
ritard
, to the great concluding series of chords alternating with cymbal crashes, to the final chord with its crescendo, held at length, and finally released with the final crash of cymbals.

Franz dropped his arms, dazed for a moment that it was ended. He looked over to where Marcus was standing against the wall, and saw him smiling, giving him the thumbs-up signal that in Grantville meant 'you done good.' Relaxing, he stepped down from the podium and met Marcus to hear his comments and suggestions.

****

During the conference, Carissimi leaned over to Marla. "This is one of the things I marvel at, this conductor. Never would it have occurred to me that there was a different way than having the continuo player, the harpsichordist, lead the performance. But to watch Master Wendell, and now Franz, I see a better way, a way for one man to be to an ensemble as a violinist is to the violin. Does it work that way? Does the skill and the talent of the conductor make as much difference to the orchestra or band as the skill and talent of the musicians?"

"Perhaps more so," Marla whispered back.

Carissimi sat back. "This bears thinking upon."

****

Franz stepped back up on the podium, noting in the back of his mind that what had seemed so high an obstacle less than a quarter-hour ago was now only a step. Keeping in mind the things that Marcus and he had discussed, he raised his hands to begin rehearsing the piece, the work of taking each section and hammering it until it was as near perfect as the musicians could produce.

At the end of the hour, after the final run-through of the piece, Franz reluctantly put the baton back down on the director's stand, and faced the band once more. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me learn to be a conductor, a
dirigent
we will call it in German, to learn with you." Giving them a slight bow, he clapped to them and for them.

"Let's hear it for Mr. S," came the irrepressible voice from the tubas, and the students stood and clapped for Franz, with cheers and whistles from all over and a cymbal crash from the drums. His face felt flushed, and he stepped from the podium and gave them the full bow, the one he would give to an audience that applauded for him.

Just then the final bell rang, and the band dissolved into the bustle of putting away of music and instruments. Many of the students spoke to him as they left. Finally, the room was empty.

Marcus came over to shake hands with him. Franz tried to return the baton to him, but Marcus said, "Keep it, Franz. You'll need it, and I have another." Smiling, he waved to the others and left.

Cradling the baton, Franz slowly turned and walked over to Marla and Maestro Carissimi. Marla looked at his shining face, his gleaming eyes, the grin that threatened to split his face and the way he almost danced as he moved toward them. She smiled in return. "Well?"

Franz turned and looked at the empty chairs for a moment, drinking in the moment. When he faced them again, he said quietly, "It was as if I had the wings of Icarus, only, unlike Icarus, I reached the glory of the sun."

Grantville
Saturday morning, January 7, 1634

The door in front of Franz opened to reveal the face of his friend Thomas Schwarzberg. ""Come in, my friend, come in." Thomas gestured Franz to a chair on one side of his work table. "And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He sat down on the chair on the other side.

"To this." Franz handed him a sheet of paper with a list on it. Thomas took it, and raised his eyebrows at the contents.

"I take it these are the works you want notated from CDs for Frau Mary's concert?"

"Aye. In addition to those five, I have asked Maestro Carissimi to provide something, as well. He said that he would try, but that it might not be very long."

"Hmm. J. S. Bach's
Concerto No. 3 in G Major
. Is that not one of the so-called
Brandenburg Concerti
?"

"Yes." Franz smiled. "But perhaps in this time that is not the most fortuitous of names. Shall we re-christen it, then?"

A slow smile crossed Thomas' face. "I like that thought, Franz. I must admit to liking it muchly. So, have you somewhat in mind to rename it?"

"Perhaps. In truth, one or two."

"And?"

"I thought first of naming it 'Magdeburg' after the city where it will first be played in our time." Franz quirked an eyebrow.

His friend nodded, pulling at his chin. "'Twould be a good fit, I think. Brandenburg, Magdeburg . . . it rolls off the tongue in much the same way. But what was the other?"

"Vasa."

Thomas' eyes opened wide, and his chin dropped. Franz enjoyed the look of amazement, before the laughter began. The deep bass voice of his friend resounded in the room, his hilarity echoing from the walls. Finally, it dwindled away to mere chuckles while he wiped his eyes.

"Oh, Franz. It is too good! Oh, the thought of that story becoming commonly known . . . how the concerti were named
Brandenburg
in the up-time, but that they will now be known as
Vasa
in honor of the great king. How that will twist in the bowels of Elector George William! Would that I could be a mouse in the chamber when he hears of it!" Off he went, laughing again, with Franz chuckling in spite of himself.

Wiping his eyes, Thomas picked up the list again. His voice was somewhat uneven when he said, "So are there any other delights like the first in the list?"

Franz shook his head. "No. The Pachelbel
Canon in D
and the Albinoni
Adagio
will be comfortable to the ears of the patrons. And when you do the
Adagio
, if you will, voice it for all strings; two choirs of strings if you must."

Thomas nodded, and read down the list, humming a little. "Yes, yes, I remember the
Adagio
from Marla's teaching. Oh, my!" Thomas was looking at the last two works on the list. "You do believe in a challenge, my friend."

Franz smiled. "Can you think of two other 'modern' works that would speak to Frau Mary's patrons more than those?" Thomas slowly shook his head. "We will learn them. I will put the Barber work in the midst of the program, and the Vaughan Williams work at the end. And we will triumph, triumph indeed."

Cocking his head to one side, Thomas looked Franz in the eye for a long moment, then laid the list on the desk. "We named you to do this, so we will follow where you lead. 'Tis challenging, but challenge makes for excitement and interest. So, with these five and one from the maestro, you have six. Enough for a night's entertainment that Frau Mary can well be pleased by."

Franz reached inside his jacket. "And one more." He handed Thomas a piece of printed music. "This I have borrowed from the library of the choir of the Methodist church. I need the piano score voiced for strings, please, oh greatest of all scribblers."

Reading through the work, Thomas began to smile. "Oh, indeed. I see your intent. 'Twould be beautiful, indeed. Oh, yes."

Turning serious, Franz said, "Can you do this—all of it—by the first day of April?"

"Eleven, almost twelve weeks from now? Yes. With Master Wendell recently making known to me the printer who prints his blank staff pages so that I no longer have to draw my own staves, then yes, I can do it. Mind you, we will probably still be scribbling out some of the individual parts when the first rehearsal begins, but we have all done that before."

"I count on you, my friend." Franz buttoned up his jacket. "I leave for Mainz on Monday, so I leave this in your hands. Trusting you, I shall not worry."

"It will be done."

They clasped hands, then Franz was gone.

"Hmm," Thomas said. "I believe I shall need some more pencils."

Grantville
Saturday evening, January 7, 1634

Isaac Fremdling—after almost six years away from his people, it was how he thought of himself now—waited in the shadows of the back corner of the synagogue as everyone left after the service that concluded
Shabbat
. He stirred as the rabbi and the president walked up the room from the
Aron Kodesh
, the ark containing the holy scrolls, toward the doors. The
shamash
, or caretaker, was still on the
bima
platform, fussing about something.

"
Shavuah tov,
Reb Yitzhak." Startled at hearing his Hebrew name, Isaac turned to his right, facing a man walking toward him. The lamplight revealed him to be Don Francisco Nasi.

"And a good week to you, Reb Pinchas." Isaac immediately bowed toward the man who just might be the most important Jew in Europe—certainly the most influential—and in turn called him by his Hebrew name.

"Come, walk with me a while, of your kindness." Don Francisco linked his arm through Isaac's and guided him down the steps to the street. "It has been good to see you in the congregation these past few weeks. Have you found our Sephardic practices much different from those you grew up with?"

Mind reeling from the shock of having this man, a member of the famed Abrabanel family and the
mano sinistra
—the left hand—of Prime Minister Stearns, not just talking to him, but searching him out for a time of one-to-one conversation, Isaac mustered wits enough to say, "Some things are different, sir—the music is perhaps not as melodious, the Hebrew spoken is a little sharper—but the important things are the same."

"Hmm, yes, we can say something very like that about our history as God's Chosen People, can we not? Some things are different, some things change, but the important things remain the same."