1635: Music and Murder (54 page)

Andrea looked to Franz. The music began.

A vocalise, Giacomo remembered from the conversation with Marla when the concert program was developed, was a vocal exercise sung on an open syllable. But when Marla or Mary Simpson said "the vocalise", they referred to a work by one of the greater composers of the up-time twentieth century, a Russian named Rachmaninoff. It was titled simply
Vocalise
and was on the program tonight at Mary's personal request. In fact, it was the first piece chosen, thus determining the theme.

After two chords from the accompaniment, Andrea opened his mouth and the melody began. Within six notes of the beginning he had everyone's rapt attention. Quiet, contemplative, not quite mournful, the sound of his voice lifted quietly, ebbing and flowing.

Giacomo closed his eyes, listening to one of the two finest voices in Germany—in the known world, for that matter. Andrea's voice had always had that classic castrato silkiness, a timbre that just wasn't found in a woman's voice. Tonight, however, without words to get in the way, without the baroque ornamentation that pre-Ring of Fire music required, he was free to pour all of his art, all of his passion, all of his being into realizing a powerful melody. It was as if he was a living flute, equal to that which Marla had played early, but warm with life, fountaining song forth from his heart and soul.

To Giacomo, Andrea's pride had always been forgivable. To be able to sing with that voice—ah, what a gift.

He opened his eyes again and watched as Andrea sang, his hands before him, body and hands moving slowly as if in a dance. As Marla had done before him, the passion of the music flowed through Andrea as well. It could well have been a study for the ballet, watching the minimal movements of that tall slim figure clad in black velvet that nonetheless evoked so much in partnership with his voice.

Chills chased up and down Giacomo's spine as he listened to trills that were so fast they seemed indeed to be played on a flute. He seemed to float like an eagle, soaring higher and higher, riding currents of song until a final pinnacle was reached where for a timeless moment he seemed released from the bonds of earth.

After the barest of pauses, there was a slow descent to a final syllable that faded to infinity. Franz closed his hand—the orchestra stopped. Andrea was frozen in his final position. No one moved—it seemed that no one breathed. Giacomo watched as Andrea, timing by an internal clock, finally broke his position, which instantly triggered a massive applause from the audience.
Hoch-Adel
were on their feet, clapping as fervently as any of the burghers and guildsmen. Some of the stolid Germans were roaring as loudly as the excitable Italian standing to his right.

Andrea gave bow after bow, grinning widely. At length he stood to one side and waved to the orchestra. Franz stepped from the podium to give a bow. In turn, he gestured to his players. As one, they stood to receive their just acclaim.

Franz stepped forward once more. Joined by Andrea, they gave one more bow, then exited through the side door.

Giacomo and Girolamo dropped back into their seats.

"God and all his angels." Giacomo mopped his brow. "I am as limp as a wet rag, my friend."

"Not me, maestro," Girolamo declared. "I quiver like a bell that has just been sounded."

"Well, it is a good thing for both of us that we have reached the
Intermissio
. Perhaps we can regain our composure before they begin again."

"We had better," Girolamo intoned. "Marla has yet to sing. Mind you, I don't see how she could do better than Master Andrea. But by all that is holy, if she equals him, I will be in a state of grace for weeks."

Giacomo laughed. "I somehow doubt that the Holy Father would agree that hearing heavenly music will forgive your sins and pay your penance. Not that I disagree with your opinion of the quality."

"Well, he should. I think he would if he only heard what we will hear tonight."

"Enough! You border on sacrilege." Giacomo's smile belied his words. "If you would earn merit, go find me a glass of wine, for I am as dry and dusty as the Via Appia in high summer."

"At your command, maestro. Just see to it that you mention this to Saint Peter."

The intermission concluded just after Giacomo received his wine. Ushers walked through the throng waving gold and silver fans on high, signaling everyone to be seated.

Girolamo settled at his side with a sigh, and whispered, "When do we hear Marla sing?"

"Shhh. After the
Pastorale
. Minutes only."

Franz returned to the podium and took his bow. The orchestra began the performance of the
Pastorale
from
Messiah
, by Georg Friederich Händel. An international program indeed, Giacomo thought, with works by an Englishman, a Russian and two Germans having been played, and works from a Frenchman and a German of Jewish descent yet to be heard. Hmmm, no Italian. How had that slipped by him? He'd have to have words with Franz about that, he thought with a smile, before returning his attention to the music.

The Händel piece was almost soothing. It came from a time not too far in advance of their own, and by now should sound familiar to the audience, as it had received two other performances in the last ten months. It opened with a very formal stately theme, almost a processional, which came to a moment of pause, then entered into a fugal section that had a joyful feel to it. The various string sections passed themes back and forth with a verve and élan that was . . . refreshing, Giacomo decided. All too soon, the
Pastorale
was completed. There was reasonable applause from the audience, after which Franz left the room again.

Giacomo waited, knowing what to expect but still scarcely daring to breathe. Finally, Franz reentered from the side door, his wife Marla on his arm. The applause began the moment she was seen, and crested as he handed her off to stand before the audience alone. She bowed again, smiled that illuminating smile of hers, then stood expectantly. Giacomo sat immediately, going so far as to lay a hand on Girolamo's arm to encourage him to sit also. The remaining audience caught on. Within moments the room was almost as still as a mausoleum. Marla looked to Franz. He caught the regal nod, and began.

It was Andrea's idea, actually. After agreeing to perform the
Vocalise
, he had insisted that Marla should sing also. Giacomo put it down to the master teacher being protective of his stellar student. Of course, when that student was as popular as Marla, not including her might have caused a riot. Passionate music lovers had done stranger things, he had learned from the history of the future.

But it was also Andrea who suggested what she should sing, something a little on the radical side. He recalled an up-time orchestral piece that evoked in him some of the same feelings as the Rachmaninoff, insisting that Thomas Schwartzberg arrange it as a vocalise. And then he drilled her on it, over and over and over again, until she reached even his standard of acceptability.

The low strings began their pizzicato plucking of strings. After two measures the beautiful melody of Gabriel Fauré's
Pavane
was heard in the room. Marla's golden voice was almost sirenesque in how it reached out and enticed everyone to follow her in what was truly a dance. Lilting, soaring, at times leaping, everyone danced with her—orchestra, patrons, guildsmen, burghers and all. As she swayed on the stage, they swayed with her—as her voice rose and fell, they would sit taller or relax. More than a few of them, from what Giacomo could observe, would unconsciously move their hands slightly in imitation of her arm movements.

It wasn't a long work; it soon began to slow. It was as if the dancers were dropping out one by one, leaving Marla and only a few attendants to complete it. Gracefully, gracefully, she sang the final phrases, holding tones out for what seemed like an impossibly long time, to the last few notes—the last steps of the dance, as it were.

Hers was not the bravura performance that Master Andrea had delivered, Giacomo decided as he stood and applauded with everyone else. But her warmth, her style, her grace had involved everyone in the room in a way that made them feel a part of the music. Andrea had performed; Marla had given them a gift of love.

Giacomo quit analyzing and shouted "Brava! Brava!" along with Girolamo. He beat his hands together until they hurt.

The final work on the program was almost an anticlimax:
The Hebrides
overture, by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a new work for the orchestra. Of course, as new as the orchestra was, almost everything was a new work for them, Giacomo admitted.

It was a lyrical work, in some ways, working the string sections very melodically, especially the low strings. He closed his eyes again to listen. Images of the sea were evoked. He remembered trips to the shore in Italy, watching the waves rolling in without ceasing, sun glinting from the blue water.

The following section was laden with brass and was more tumultuous, as if a brief storm had blown across the sea. The storm was indeed brief, and the music returned to the lyrical mode.

As he rode the waves of sound, Giacomo mused. The wind players were continuing to improve, he noted. Marcus Wendell, the Grantville band director, had estimated it would take a year for down-time musicians to grow proficient with the new and changed wind instruments: the metal transversal flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones—all new forms. Oboes and bassoons, vastly different than their ancestors. The valves available for the trumpets and their cousins, the very different mouthpieces. Yes, it had taken every bit of twelve months for the players to first learn their instruments, and then to learn to play together. But the result . . . oh, the result was well worth Giacomo's wait and their travail.

To hear this music in a hall, with the ambience and the harmonics unfettered, that was bliss. To hear the players proving that they could measure up to standard of the up-time music was emboldening. And to see young Franz—Giacomo blithely ignored the very slight difference in their ages—a down-timer himself, leading them in their work with style, grace and panache was a confirmation. Now, now he knew for certain that the music he was beginning to hear in his head would be realized.

The music began to grow in intensity, drawing Giacomo from his thoughts. The final section began to echo the themes and treatments of the storm. The rush to the finale was on.

The orchestra arrived at a grand chord . . . and then Herr Mendelssohn played his little joke. Just as everyone was prepared for the piece to end, the clarinet restated the opening theme—surprise!—making the audience think that there was more to come, just before it died away.

The moment of silence that followed had an air of uncertainty, of "are they really done with it," but finally the applause began. Giacomo was smiling as he began clapping his hands. The more he considered the composer's little prank, the funnier it became, until he started laughing. Noticing that Girolamo was looking at him with a quizzical expression, he shook his head.

After Franz had shaken his hair back and taken his bows, and after the orchestra had taken their bow, voices began to be heard calling from the audience.

"
Die Sänger!
"

"The singers!"

"
I cantanti!
" came from burly Girolamo at Giacomo's side.

The calls grew both in volume and in frequency, until after a few moments there was a constant roar above the applause. Franz held both hands up in surrender. Smiling, he beckoned to the side door.

The room erupted as Marla entered, followed by Andrea and Hermann, who was carrying . . . a chair? Now Giacomo was truly intrigued.

The two singers arrived in the center, joined hands and took a bow. Andrea then held up his hands and motioned for everyone to hush and be seated, while Marla beckoned to Franz to come join them. He did so with a very bemused expression on his face.

"Thank you for coming tonight," Marla said to the audience. "We had hoped you would enjoy our offerings enough to ask for an encore." Laughter sounded all around the room. "And indeed, we have one planned. However, there has been a slight change in the plan." More laughter as Franz's expression went from bemused to surprised to suspicious in that many moments.

"Today is my husband's birthday." Applause. "He has reached the advanced age of twenty-seven." Laughter and applause. "And so, with the connivance . . . I mean the
cooperation
of our friends . . . " Marla turned and waved at the orchestra, who waved back. "I have a song I would like to sing for Franz."

She tugged on Franz's arm. For a brief moment he resisted, a mutinous expression on his face, but only for a moment. Then he smiled—a bit forced, Giacomo judged, but graceful nonetheless—and suffered himself to be led to the chair that Hermann had placed at the front of the audience.

Marla returned to the center, and clasped her hands in front of her. "The song I'm about to sing is from the future, but it isn't one of the grand works that you typically hear from me. Nor, for those of you who come by The Green Horse tavern on certain nights, is it one of the Irish songs I sing with my friends.

"For all that, it is a classic in its own way. I offer it to you, but I sing it to my husband.
Unchained Melody.
"

Marla bowed her head for a moment. Giacomo was impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. When she raised it again and looked at Franz, Hermann began the introduction. After four measures of quiet piano, Marla began to sing.

Unlike the previous vocal pieces, this one had lyrics in English. Giacomo had heard Marla practicing this song several days before. The lyrics weren't what he would consider immortal poetry, but when mated with the music . . . ah, they became truly memorable.

Quiet, oh so quiet Marla's voice, but it filled the room as she sang to her love, her darling, as she sang about hungering for him. Giacomo knew without looking that everyone could hear, that everyone had once again been enraptured by the young woman's talent. But now, now there was something—a tone, a timbre, an emotion—something that he had never heard in her voice before. The low notes positively throbbed.