tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-333662142024-03-16T14:57:53.918-04:00Thoughts On a Train"To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly."
-- Henri BergsonDick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.comBlogger762125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-88718878610234986852024-03-16T14:38:00.001-04:002024-03-16T14:57:19.761-04:00Serge Prokofiev, the Pianist with Fingers of Steel<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7dwydr14jXLxQUZBRj2gyPGzRb4GrSq3p4eqIusiYxUHGWRn71lRSJRnaZYJkX_KypLBRHUxb9I6WalXoZWkQV0Xa3p4a8DMR_wT3oaNtMHcOO3I1Te468B2i_4GtvwdkxJfPLoXgrSZu82ahFGtajVQuoYj_ADNk2nSWhMHj_jOKXrs08SeG35lhl4/s879/Prokofiev_Matisse1921.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7dwydr14jXLxQUZBRj2gyPGzRb4GrSq3p4eqIusiYxUHGWRn71lRSJRnaZYJkX_KypLBRHUxb9I6WalXoZWkQV0Xa3p4a8DMR_wT3oaNtMHcOO3I1Te468B2i_4GtvwdkxJfPLoXgrSZu82ahFGtajVQuoYj_ADNk2nSWhMHj_jOKXrs08SeG35lhl4/w146-h200/Prokofiev_Matisse1921.jpg" width="146" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prokofiev by Matisse (1921)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Aside from <i>Peter and the Wolf</i>, the "Classical Symphony," and the March from <i>The Love of Three Oranges</i>, the most frequently performed work by Serge Prokofiev would be his 3rd Piano Concerto, composed in 1921.<br />
</p><p>This weekend, since Stuart Malina and the Harrisburg Symphony are performing it at the Forum in downtown Harrisburg with "powerhouse pianist" <a href="https://www.terrencewilsonpiano.com/" target="_blank">Terrence Wilson</a>, I thought I would re-blog my post from the once-upon-a-<a href="https://harrisburgsymphonyblog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Harrisburg-Symphony-Blog</a> for a 2015 concert. </p><p>This is not Wilson's first performance with the Harrisburg Symphony. Some years ago (I haven't been able to find exactly when but I remember Ellen Hughes doing a "Desert Island Disc" interview with him at WITF before 2007) when he played (as I recall) the Liszt Piano Concerto No. 1. Here is a performance from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/live/_i1bud7gIPk?si=bD2uxp_ZjFxm9Kwg&t=3822" target="_blank">Terrence Wilson's 2022 Faculty Recital at Bard College, playing Prokofiev's Piano Sonata No. 7</a>, speaking of "fingers of steel"...</p><p>The program opens with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chamber_Dance" target="_blank">Joan Tower's "Chamber Dance</a>," premiered in 2006, "a unique work that showcases the orchestra through solos and duets." The New York Times music critic, Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim, described it as "slinky, fast-flowing and infused with a strong sense of rhythm," adding, "it's an infectious piece of orchestral writing."</p><p>The concerts begin at 7:30 on Saturday and at 3pm on Sunday, with a pre-concert talk an hour before each performance.<br /></p><p>
Here is a 1977 performance of the 3rd Piano Concerto by Martha Argerich with Andre Previn conducting the London Symphony Orchestra which has some great close-ups of the pianist's hands, for those of you who can't get enough of that from your seat on the left-side of the hall. You'll see why this is not a concerto for the faint-of-heart.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="236" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FgnE25-kvyk?rel=0" width="420"></iframe><br />
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* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * * <br />
<br />
When Sergei Prokofiev was a toddler, he watched his mother play the piano and decided he wanted to do that, too. Around the time he was 5, he brought her a piece of paper and said “Here is a Chopin Mazurka I have written for you. Play it for me.” Unable to read his notation, she started to play an actual Chopin Mazurka, but the boy insisted she play the one he composed, not <i>that</i> one. So, she began teaching the boy how to notate music so other people could play it. <br />
<br />
That's how his music lessons began. <br />
<br />
His first composition was an “Indian Galop” in F Major except there was no B-flat in it as there would normally be. He was reluctant to “tackle the black keys” of the piano, he explained; perhaps his hands couldn't reach them, yet. Or maybe he was just being different, already preferring sounds that weren't what people expected.<br />
<br />
Soon, he could play pages of Mozart and the easier Beethoven sonatas and loved improvising for the family and their guests. If his audience began to talk to each other instead of listening, young Sergei would stop abruptly and leave the room. <br />
</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vEXUZ5I7YX0/VQpMiiXcnoI/AAAAAAAAFLI/G18U2upBSqQ/s1600/Prokofie%26TheGiant.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vEXUZ5I7YX0/VQpMiiXcnoI/AAAAAAAAFLI/G18U2upBSqQ/s1600/Prokofie%26TheGiant.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prokofiev & "The Giant"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At 9, he composed an opera (for piano) called “The Giant” (<i>see photo, left</i>) and then two more, one called “On the Desert Island” and the other “The Feast in the Plague Year” which consisted mostly of an overture which he then, when the family traveled from their home in Eastern Ukraine to visit Moscow, played for Taneyev, one of the leading composers in Moscow who had studied with Tchaikovsky. <br />
<br />
In 1902, a young student of Taneyev's replaced the first composition teacher Prokofiev had – one who was too tedious with his rules – but Reinhold Gliere, during his summer visits to the family's home, found ways to inspire the 11-year-old boy who soon began composing a symphony. Finding Gliere's four-square rules and bland modulations distasteful, he also began composing piano pieces with more dissonant harmonies and unusual meters. <br />
<br />
Eventually, his mother decided to take him to St. Petersburg, the Imperial capital, where he was favorably viewed by Alexander Glazunov, one of the leading composers in Russia, then, and invited to audition for the conservatory. Following a young man “with a small beard who had with him only a single <i>romance</i> [song] in his baggage,” Prokofiev, now 13, carried in two music cases bulging with four operas, a symphony, two sonatas and a large number of piano pieces.” The head of the school, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, was impressed. <br />
<br />
Fast forward to 1921 when Prokofiev is now 30, having written, among other things, his wildly popular “Classical Symphony” and garnered a reputation as a Bad Boy of Russian Music. He was acclaimed as a pianist but found himself hampered by the possibilities of making a living in the new post-revolution Soviet Union. Rachmaninoff had become a Scandinavian refugee in 1917 before settling in America.<br />
<br />
Technically, you could say he began work on what would become his 3rd Piano Concerto in 1913, shortly after finishing the 2nd, sketching a Theme with Variations that eventually became the new concerto's middle movement. Material from a string quartet from 1917 also found its way into this slowly gestating piece. <br />
<br />
Remember that Prokofiev in 1912 was a musical rebel, performing his first two piano concertos which were dismissed with comments like “To hell with this futuristic music! The cats on the roof make better music!” He performed his own highly chromatic and dissonant piano pieces and gave the first local performances of Arnold Schoenberg's new 3 Piano Pieces, Op. 11 from 1909. <br />
<br />
But in 1917, he composed a symphony of Haydnesque clarity, even if that in itself – so unexpected – was the idea of “rebelling.” He himself called it the “Classical Symphony,” “as if Haydn were alive and composing today.” It was mostly written during those uncertain times between the February Revolution of 1917 which overthrew the Tsar and the October Revolution when the Bolsheviks overthrew the Provisional Government. During this same summer, Prokofiev began his 1st Violin Concerto. <br />
<br />
Another work he started was a “white note” quartet in which all the musical material could be played on the “white keys” of the piano (though why one would then write it for string quartet seems odd). But he put it aside, also, mostly out of boredom with his present situation during this post-Revolution period. <br />
<br />
Believing that Russia had no use for music at the time, immersed in the life-or-death struggle of its Civil War, Prokofiev applied for permission to leave his homeland for America. The Arts and Education Commissar Anatoly Lunacharsky told him, "You are a revolutionary in music, we are revolutionaries in life. We ought to work together. But if you want to go to America I shall not stand in your way.” <br />
<br />
And with that, Prokofiev boarded a train across Siberia, then boarded a ship across the Pacific to arrive in San Francisco in August, 1918. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cnNkmEnetzI/VQpLtOZcYhI/AAAAAAAAFLA/7ExPXYG5IHg/s1600/Prokofiev_Fireplace.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cnNkmEnetzI/VQpLtOZcYhI/AAAAAAAAFLA/7ExPXYG5IHg/s1600/Prokofiev_Fireplace.jpg" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prokofiev, NYC 1918</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A debut concert in New York City seemed promising and he was offered a commission for a new opera to be premiered in Chicago. This became <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Love_for_Three_Oranges" target="_blank"><i>The Love of Three Oranges</i></a> but it was already in rehearsal when the premiere was postponed following the death of the company's director. Spending all this time working on the opera meant he was not performing and therefore not earning money, so he found himself in financial difficulties. His playing was constantly being compared negatively to Rachmaninoff's more lyrical style and so, uncomfortable with life in America, Prokofiev decided to leave for Paris in 1920 where there was a large population of Russian ex-patriots.<br />
<br />
There, he met up once more with the ballet impresario Serge Diaghilev who commissioned a new ballet from him – called <i>Chout</i> or “The Buffoon.” During a holiday on the coast of Brittany, Prokofiev returned to his earlier sketches for that Theme & Variations and that “white note” quartet and came up with his Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Major, completed in July of 1921.<br />
<br />
Now, C Major is basically a “white note” key – and even though the opening melody in the clarinet is all “white notes,” it's not clearly C Major. And once the piano takes off, whatever might seem like C Major (or any other key) has so many “non-white notes” harmonizing it, was it really C Major? <br />
<br />
As he was working on the concerto, Prokofiev received a visit from the Russian poet, Konstantin Balmont, whose poetry he had set frequently in the past. After hearing the composer play through his new concerto, Balmont recorded his impressions in verse, which ended, <br />
<br />
<i>Prokofiev! Music and youth in bloom,<br />
In you, the orchestra yearned for resonant summer<br />
And the invincible Scythian strikes the tambourine of the sun.</i><br />
<br />
Prokofiev returned to America to give the concerto its world premiere in Chicago with Frederick Stock and the Chicago Symphony on December 16th, 1921. Then, two weeks later, he conducted the belated premiere – finally – of <i>The Love of Three Oranges</i>. <br />
<br />
Both the Piano Concerto and the opera were fairly well received but when the production was taken to New York City the following February, critical reaction to both concerto and opera proved huge disappointments to the composer. The opera was mostly met with comments like “Russian jazz with Bolshevik trimmings" and "The work is intended, one learns, to poke fun. As far as I am able to discern, it pokes fun chiefly at those who paid money for it.” At a cost of $130,000 for the production, one critic complained that that was about $43,000 per orange. It did not receive another production in America until the New York City Opera mounted it in 1949. <br />
<br />
Koussevitsky conducted the Piano Concerto in Paris in 1922, at which time it was well received and soon went on to become a staple of the repertoire, as far as modern concertos were concerned. Prokofiev, the “man with steel fingers,” performed it often and it was the only one of his concertos he recorded – with Piero Coppola in London in 1932. While it might not be the most precise performance between soloist and conductor or even the most well-balanced recording available, but still, it <i>is</i> <a href="https://youtu.be/bPHOTvCRp2Q" target="_blank">the composer playing the piano: you can hear the third movement, here</a>. <br />
<br />
One further anecdote about Prokofiev from this time-period as we sometimes wonder what it might've been like to be in a room with two of the most famous living composers of the day. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IdeE4YA1Dog/VQpKGtzDYbI/AAAAAAAAFK0/ENoynV8zZPg/s1600/DiaghilevStravinskyProkofievParis1922.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IdeE4YA1Dog/VQpKGtzDYbI/AAAAAAAAFK0/ENoynV8zZPg/s1600/DiaghilevStravinskyProkofievParis1922.jpg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When he was in Paris in 1922, Prokofiev (<i>see photo, left, with Diaghilev and Stravinsky</i>) was again meeting with the impresario Serge Diaghilev about a revival of his ballet <i>Chout</i> when Diaghilev wanted to hear <i>The Love of Three Oranges</i>. So Prokofiev proceeded to play it for him. However, Igor Stravinsky, who was also present, refused to listen to any more after the first act. <br />
<br />
When he accused Prokofiev of "wasting time composing operas," Prokofiev shot back that Stravinsky "was in no position to lay down a general artistic direction, since he [was] himself not immune to error." As Prokofiev wrote in his diary, Stravinsky "became incandescent with rage" and "we almost came to blows and were separated only with difficulty. ...[O]ur relations became strained and for several years Stravinsky's attitude toward me was critical."<br />
<br />
Eventually, Prokofiev and Stravinsky patched up their friendship, though Prokofiev was often critical of Stravinsky's neoclassical "stylization of Bach." On the other hand, Stravinsky publicly described Prokofiev as the greatest Russian composer of his day – after himself, of course.<br />
<br />
So I found it amusing, after doing <a href="http://www.express.co.uk/entertainment/music/491863/Prokofiev-and-Stravinsky-at-the-Proms" target="_blank">some on-line searching</a>, to discover Gabriel Prokofiev, the grandson of Sergei Prokofiev, was having his new <a href="https://youtu.be/Wyeh72IqK-Q?si=4VQnGQbSaRFM_fBH" target="_blank">violin concerto</a> premiered at the London Proms during the summer of 2014, conducted by Marius Stravinsky, a “cousin five times removed” of Igor Stravinsky. <br />
<br />
- Dick StrawserDick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-31285964034028360292022-12-08T08:00:00.001-05:002022-12-08T08:00:00.223-05:00987 Words About Proust's Novel and How It Grew<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
Proust died on November 18th</span><sup><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
1922, his friends came to the apartment at 44 rue Hamelin to pay
their respects. There, Jean Cocteau noticed these unfinished
manuscripts scattered around the room beside Proust's bed, how "that
pile of paper on his left was still alive, like watches ticking on
the wrists of dead soldiers." </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q50zc6OFfRsv1WmNtEyqM0W5dvNYawYKO6raneZ5Oz_StkD6D4KIaMOv2zMkAeXQbX5WBhMzF688hUyDF5PoioSPHvW8X63-XuQVsOBdB4jj_vvOjQnS3qUOQuddunlPEAfJOdXHwtfV7AqhmTPtgv3Pgk1YHvimPf7lBZedDyj0GcLzOw/s620/Proust_Bedroom_RueHamelin_PostFuneral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="620" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q50zc6OFfRsv1WmNtEyqM0W5dvNYawYKO6raneZ5Oz_StkD6D4KIaMOv2zMkAeXQbX5WBhMzF688hUyDF5PoioSPHvW8X63-XuQVsOBdB4jj_vvOjQnS3qUOQuddunlPEAfJOdXHwtfV7AqhmTPtgv3Pgk1YHvimPf7lBZedDyj0GcLzOw/s320/Proust_Bedroom_RueHamelin_PostFuneral.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proust's cork-lined bedroom at 44 rue Hamelin<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Given the way
Proust worked and given the recent state of his health, it wasn't
going to be easy sorting through this "pile of paper" to
see what remained of his supposedly finished novel. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Most readers
probably think a writer sits down, starts at the beginning, and,
sooner or later, inspiration willing, reaches the end. Then it's only
a matter of sending it off to the waiting publisher. Weren't we lucky
Proust could write "The End" to his life's work, <i>In
Search of Lost Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, months
before he died? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The author's
original manuscript, presumably, had been cleanly typed, thoroughly
proof-read, and, complete and ready to print, sent to the publisher.
Usually, a publisher's "proofs" were meant to check
spellings and make necessary corrections. Instead, Proust treated
them like one more step toward a final draft, writing copious
marginal notes and pasting in additional paragraphs. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-aIG-wIsYy38MF_zqTVE45GYbghiByO6ykVQFoxVCnimRNhhQpJJzxdyk0EDe6pIJRFgqfYlE--pj4ZKyUEGGnloSVnNxQYVRuhEnLBJtxxHNz3GdMiz7n_2yNULM-bOA8SN78RBDg12_NoEhe1QtSKXSmpPv_pvB1UAZyEx5AtFHbgVng/s320/Proust_Paperolles_Prisoner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="320" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-aIG-wIsYy38MF_zqTVE45GYbghiByO6ykVQFoxVCnimRNhhQpJJzxdyk0EDe6pIJRFgqfYlE--pj4ZKyUEGGnloSVnNxQYVRuhEnLBJtxxHNz3GdMiz7n_2yNULM-bOA8SN78RBDg12_NoEhe1QtSKXSmpPv_pvB1UAZyEx5AtFHbgVng/s1600/Proust_Paperolles_Prisoner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proofs & Paperolles: <i>The Prisoner</i>, c.1921<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Eventually this
turned into not just new pages, but new plot threads which led to
entirely new volumes to handle them; the first of these involved
meeting the love of his Narrator's life, Albertine. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Proust
had only met <a href="https://www.readingproust.com/albertin.htm" target="_blank">Alfred Agostinelli</a> shortly before completing </span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Swann's
Way</span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and their tumultuous relationship lasted barely half a year before
his new secretary left and was subsequently killed in an accident in
1914. He became, with Proust's typical alchemy, the model for
Albertine and the object of the Narrator's jealous obsessions for
future volumes. </span></span></span>Originally, it was <i>Time Lost</i>
(later <i>Swann's Way</i>), the <i>Guermantes Way</i>, and <i>Time
Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. But the "Albertine
Story" became the newly inserted second volume and grew into the
new fourth volume, </span><i>Sodom & Gomorrah</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> On
Oct 13th</span><sup><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;">,
1917, Proust received 5,000 pages of proofs. Correcting them would've
been laborious even if his eyes had been normal, but without glasses
and "without much eyesight," it became a frightful job.
Still, he refused to get spectacles. Four days later, his publisher
announced Proust's novel, formerly three books, will now become five.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But as Proust's
ever-expanding imagination proceeded to "edit" his newest
volume, <span style="font-style: normal;">within fourteen months </span><i>Sodom
& Gomorrah </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(published as
</span><i>Cities of the Plain</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> by
squeamish English translators), </span>filling in details between <i>The
Guermantes Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and the now
revised war-time setting for the final volume, </span><i>Time
Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, was first split into
two, then eventually three books. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Meanwhile,
once the War finally ended, Proust saw these post-</span><i>Swann</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
volumes into print before spending months rewriting parts of </span><i>Time
Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">initially
written simultaneously with </span><i>Swan</i><i>n's</i><i>
Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (originally entitled </span><i>Time
Lost</i>) back in 1913.
</span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> However, his health, never good and often precarious, became increasingly
worrisome. In early 1922, he wrote to friends about thoughts of
suicide, wishing he'd had some cyanide, months before he published
</span><i>Sodom & Gomorrah</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
The expanded "spin-off" of these latest proofs became
another volume, </span><i>The Prisoner, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">announced
days before his famous dinner with James Joyce. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In late-June, 1922,
Proust managed to write to his editor, "the reworkings of this
typescript where I am making additions everywhere and changing
everything, has hardly begun," One can only imagine his editor's
expression. Remember, earlier that spring he'd told his faithful
housekeeper, Céleste Albaret, "Last night, I wrote 'The End.'
Now I can die." </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> In
October, catching a cold which turned into bronchitis, he completed
</span><i>The Prisoner</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> but
started revising the next new volume, </span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
apparently not fully satisfied he'd written "The End" on
his life's work. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Consider the
chronology of these facts: Proust had written "The End" in
the Spring of 1922; in late-June, he informed his editor "the
reworking of this typescript... has hardly begun"; and now he
indicated he had made an enormous cut of, according to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Proust-Biography-Ronald-Hayman/dp/0060164387" target="_blank">Hayman</a>, some
250 pages which amounted to almost two-thirds of <i>The Fugitive</i>!
<span style="font-style: normal;">It should be noted the frequently
quoted <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Search_of_Lost_Time#Initial_publication" target="_blank">Wikipedia entry</a> called </span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
"the most editorially vexed volume", and stated without
verification the cut consisted of 150 pages: both were subsequently
ignored by posthumous editions. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Proust had a new
manuscript typed up, retitled <i>Albertine disparue,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
having already promised his publisher he would have "more books
to offer you," apparently whole new volumes [plural!] between
</span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Time
Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He also mentioned he
considered the Death of Albertine and the whole process of forgetting
her some of his finest writing. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> While Proust
didn't break his volumes down into internal chapters <i>per se</i>,
Hayman indicated this cut began on p.648 of the proofs after "the
first chapter" and ended at p.898 with "the Venice
Episode." This includes memories of "a sweetly innocent
Albertine" and conversations with her friend Andrée
about his suspicions of Albertine's lesbian affairs; how the Duchesse
de Guermantes' attitude towards Swann had changed since his death;
how Gilberte, Swann's daughter, helped the Narrator "get over"
Albertine; and the discovery of his old friend Robert de Saint-Loup's
homosexuality.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Now, if it's true
Proust regarded this part of Albertine's Story as some of his best
writing, would he logically have merely discarded it to present his
publisher with a shorter, more salable book? How much of it would
have become fuel for one of these new volumes, not merely fragments
inserted into <i>Time Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?
Yes, in August he'd joked how “short books sell better,” but that
would've been the first time in eight years he apparently cared about
sparing his publisher from longer and continuously longer books! </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Each
time I read through </span><i>Time Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and think of this massive cut, I wonder what part of the Narrator's
story was left to tell? There are large gaps of time during the War
when the Narrator is absent from Paris, times he spent in a
sanatorium: perhaps this volume would've been called </span><i>The
Invalid</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">- Dick Strawser</span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-53188052865859849122022-12-01T08:00:00.048-05:002022-12-01T11:17:19.283-05:00The Salieri Effect: The Final Installment<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTS27PH0F07u7MdOY0JLo0HbZXxu26HWZMSsmls4zLrx04OQkw8Hmih7CQcMAd78vrfg9vgw57ttY9Th8miT1KAnQ1xvHM08AYxEgnzyXaAx2efrSumJ4T1DkHLBDtzh7novh59JQ7le6LDzzaLLcC0z4tTb3NC222zMkeI8c09Ljtbn3VQ/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTS27PH0F07u7MdOY0JLo0HbZXxu26HWZMSsmls4zLrx04OQkw8Hmih7CQcMAd78vrfg9vgw57ttY9Th8miT1KAnQ1xvHM08AYxEgnzyXaAx2efrSumJ4T1DkHLBDtzh7novh59JQ7le6LDzzaLLcC0z4tTb3NC222zMkeI8c09Ljtbn3VQ/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>In <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-42.html" target="_blank">the previous installment</a>, things are quickly wrapping up for this absolutely last installment of</i> <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/07/the-salieri-effect-introduction.html" target="_blank">The Salieri Effect</a>:<i> first of all, Tom Purdue experiences another weird break-in at his cabin in Swanville, Maine (another visit from Wormwood?); Cameron has managed to survive a wild jeep-ride in the IMP agents' escape from the Basilikon Lab's fire and collapse; Rose Philips, mild-mannered piano teacher of Sanza, Missouri, comes clean about her past after Dr. Kerr comes to (speaking of surviving); and new developments about those mysterious mini-drones give the IMP pause. </i><br /></span></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br /></span></span>
</p><p align="CENTER" style="widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
31</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Laurence
Bridges' career as a has-been had, so far, lasted considerably longer
than his career as a famous, highly respected, and once sought-after
director which, truth be told, had lasted barely a few seasons. His
publicity photo, recently retired after a career of nearly twenty
years, attested to the days when fame brought certain expectations.
Young actresses might be expected to fall for his charms which, at
30, were considerably more than they were at 60. And a successful
director could promise fame which a washed-up one could not. He'd
hoped to avoid a scandal after one more failed seduction, hoping it,
too, could be hushed up like the others. That seemed to be a
recurrent thread in his career, these frequent seductions. In most
cases, young actresses, even Angela Tiepolo, Dorking's Constanze,
simply put up with him and chalked it up to experience. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Of
course, his natural defense fell back on the “my-word-against-yours”
and “you-fucking-assaulted-<i>me</i>-you-crazy-bitch” variety,
except Vector walked in on them quite sure that director's hand was
working its way around that young actress' left breast, before Toni's
right knee came firmly in contact with Bridge's left testicle. Plus
Toni was also 16 and therefore, legally, under-aged. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then,
too, a witness stepped forward as soon as Vector arrived: the
theater's costume designer, Taylor Velcreaux, the mousy woman quietly
working at her desk in the far corner and who, unnoticed, overheard
everything. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> So,
given the circumstances and the witnesses, and given the fact the
theater's board president was a friend of Burnson Allan's, Bridges
wasn't going to be allowed to merely resign for “reasons of
health.” He wasn't about to be allowed to simply disappear so
everyone could pretend it never happened, that boys were just boys.
No, this time, there would be a trial, complete with witnesses and
apparently several complainants because, within 24 hours, Angela
Tiepolo was in contact with five actress-friends who'd also been
assaulted by Director Bridges. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> And
since they can now prove an assault on a minor, a charge of
“attempted statutory rape” was a definite possibility. The
constant parade of actresses now coming forward from behind the scrim
meant no one would likely ever hire Laurence Bridges again even if he
didn't spend the rest of his life in jail. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,
yeah, I just want to thank Cameron and Sidney for showing me that
self-defense move,” Toni said, “even though at the time I had
wondered why I would ever need such a thing. It came in handy and I'm
grateful, for once, for their 'phys-ed classes,' so much more
realistic than playing, like, softball...” (That had always been
one of Toni's major peeves with her American education, “enforced
phys-ed” with team sports trying to turn girls into future
athletes. “I'm not a girl,” she'd complained, “I'm a
<i>musician</i>!”) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Her
phone call on Friday had come as a surprise, but she wanted to share
the news with us before all the shit hit the fans and Cameron and I
heard about it second-hand. “If my folks told you, they'd just say
'well, there was this backstage kerfuffle, so the show's off,' and
that's that.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> For
our news, I decided there was no reason to mention what we'd been up
to – well, I did some time-traveling and nearly got killed by a
transphobic composer; Cameron got caught up in some international
terrorist group's intrigue and...” – yeah, no. Plus I wanted to
save all the developments about <i>L'Affair Trazmo</i> for later.
There were still “details” to finish up – what “details”
<i>can</i> be finished up – but soon we would resume our <i>vacatio
interruptus</i> (which, I realized too late, may not have been the
most appropriate phraseology). </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Meanwhile,
Burnson decided to remain in Venice – he was, LauraLynn said,
reluctant to admit he'd enjoy it more if it weren't so lonely – but
only on condition they would come back and rejoin him. Then, probably
by the time June rolled around, they could return home to Surrey in
time to avoid the summer sirocco. “And Mr. Newhouse,” Toni
explained, “said we could stay at the villa. Since he'll go visit
friends in Greece and Provençe, the palazzo and the villa would both
be empty the whole summer, anyway.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> She
added, parenthetically, he usually invited some musicologist-friends
from Denmark to spend the summer but both he and his partner were
teaching some graduate seminars in Stockholm, so they can't arrive
until maybe late-July. “Just think, my folks could have the palazzo
to themselves – and we could spend the summer composing under the
villa's zephyrs.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> We
laughed but I'd caught the inference she didn't want to refer to
James' villa by its real name, Villa Venticelli: she'd had enough of
Peter Shaffer's <i>venticelli</i> to last her a few years. So in her
honor, Cameron and I agreed to rename it (temporarily) the Villa
Zefirini, and hoped it wouldn't offend anyone. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> James
had diplomatically declined Burnson's invitation to repay his
hospitality with a visit to Phlaumix Court sometime later in the
fall. “Unfortunately, 'England fails to agree with my lawyers',”
Toni quipped, imitating him perfectly. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
hesitated about any commitments to compose. We'd talked about Rose
Philips and what it must've taken her to realize she lacked the
talent and commitment it took to achieve the level she wanted. But
he'd give it “a go” since it would be good discipline for the
mind and a trial for the soul. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> We
agreed we'd each try to compose something – Toni already had a
piece in mind (“of course,” Cameron said and rolled his eyes).
Whatever we'd finish, we'd read through it in a private performance. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Maybe I could ask
Tom to host a little house concert at his place in the fall, Toni, if
you can come over to visit. It might give him a little creative
incentive, too.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
wondered if he'd be well enough to travel to Italy this summer and
join us.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It
wouldn't hurt to ask!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Leaving
Orient, IA, behind had not been a difficult decision to make once the
inevitable paperwork with Sheriff Diddon was complete and the coldest
of cold cases about Phillips Hawthorne's disappearance was
successfully closed. We needed to get back to Maine and visit with
Tom a bit, then arrange for our return trip to Venice. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Alice
Hubbard had stayed behind in Sanza to look after her friend Rose.
Later, after we left, Rose would come up to Orient and stay with the
Hubbards for a few weeks of R-&-R. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rose
told the sheriff about Old Gene, that “delightful old vagrant”
Trazmo gave his clothes to (that's not quite how I remembered it, not
sure who was in which parallel universe at the time). Buck Masterman
remembered the “rascally codger” who'd disappeared himself around
that time, so Orient's latest victim now officially died “by
misadventure.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> To
Cameron and I, boarding the plane in Omaha for Portland, everything
appeared to resolve neatly, all officially dotted and crossed, except
for the poor folks over at GACC who were now stuck with a nearly
complete program that wasn't worth airing now that their
sensationalized suppositions had unceremoniously been pulled out from
under them. The late Phillips Hawthorne Sr. didn't have to deal with
the scandal over his son's disappearance and his son – or rather,
Rose Philips – need only contend with the temporary flurry over
Dexter Shoad's death. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> And
for a few days, the news had been full of Dexter Shoad. The reporters
lacked a lot of substantial information, given the sudden demise of
the music school where he'd studied until recently, but the increase
in hits on the video of his <i>Absence & Return</i> had
skyrocketed exponentially over the past few days. Would would-be
composer Dexter Shoad, killed while attempting to murder two people
in a sleepy little town in Northwest Missouri, become famous because
of his music or because of the circumstances of his demise?<span><i>
</i></span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
facts of that death – that he hadn't planned to commit murder, that
it all happened spontaneously out of his emotional responses –
meant nothing to anybody's awareness that in fact he <span style="font-style: normal;">hadn't</span>
murdered anyone. For some, it begged Pushkin's question, posed about
Salieri – “are genius and crime irreconcilable?” – even if
Dexter Shoad was no genius? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Directly
or indirectly, Tom had now spent half his life under the shadow of
Trazmo's Disappearance, and while a lot of what happened or didn't
happen in his life may not be immediately caused by the case itself,
its impact had long loomed over him, a volcano on the verge of
erupting at any moment. So what, now finally resolved, it's another
murder – or alleged murder – where he's found “not guilty”
and it's “sorry, our mistake”? Meeting Rose Philips wasn't about
to make amends for past events and disasters. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
she also said, clearly she had nothing to do with it directly, had no
idea it had been going on. She assumed it'd disappear once the media
lost interest, if it hadn't been for her father, the real culprit in
this. She did apologize that that bitter old man had, unfortunately,
lived too long.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rose
Philips was a far cry from the arrogant bastard who'd plagued Tom
across the past three decades, but understandably Tom felt no need to
confront these memories or meet her under any circumstances. Even if
she'd say she was sorry for what he'd been through, I wondered what's
the point of an apology, anyway. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> One
good thing was Tom had heard his Big Tune again, facing up to it
courtesy of Trazmo and Dexter Shoad, and thought it wasn't half-bad.
“Maybe I can still do something with that...?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
word got around SHMRG's headquarters pretty quickly that Lucifer
Darke was, in more ways than one, “out of the office.” Portia
Gates, former receptionist turned personal secretary, had witnessed
the IMP raid – how could she stop them? – and watched helplessly
as her boss was led away in handcuffs, the first of many big changes.
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Several
executive staff also noticed the parade: CFO Peter Andrew Wolfe,
whistling something from a piece by Prokofiev, decided it was time,
metaphorically, to change his spots. Director of Marketing Horace
Toccata nearly exploded. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Within
minutes, Toccata submitted his resignation to “Whomever's Left to
Be Concerned” with a cc:Portia Gates and everyone on the board.
Responsible for a faulty product like the z'Art software, he
immediately cleared out his office and disappeared down the elevator,
where he'd met various IMP agents in the lobby who took him into
custody. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
day ended with an All-Staff e-mail from the Board President,
Christopher Babbilla, which explained Lucifer Darke has left the
company “to pursue other interests” and that tomorrow morning,
the new CEO would convene an emergency board meeting to implement
additional changes. There followed a list of executives laid off in
order to cut costs. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> A
few minutes later, a press release went out to announce SHMRG's new
CEO, though he wasn't exactly “new,” was he? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “N.
Ron Steele will return to his former post as CEO, effective
immediately.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
another flurry of resignations, the final day of the work-week began
with a sparsely populated office and Portia Gates nervously seated at
her desk, wondering if she would be, most likely, replaced by Holly
Burton and either reassigned or fired out-right. She'd served the
company well for many years; perhaps they'd consider that kindly.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Portia
hadn't seen Mr. Steele arrive but was later informed he's already in
the Board Room, ready to begin the meeting. Complete with notepad and
pen, she entered the room, intercepted by Holly Burton.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Holly
thanked her for bringing in her notepad and pen; then, smiling,
informed her the company no longer required her services.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Steele,
delighted he no longer needed the wheelchair, admired this gold ring
on his left hand – something new and precious – pointing out to
Holly what he called “this mysterious encryption” around its
garish stone. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ignoring
the downcast Ms. Gates and her boxes of personal things (she'd
discovered she'd already been locked out of her computer – were
there any files, she wondered, they might discover there connected to
Mr. Darke's downfall which could prove troublesome for her?),
Savannah Roller walked through the office, head high, and entered the
board room. Beside her was a nerdy young man, myopic, slightly
overweight, barely an adult himself, grossly uncomfortable in a suit
and tie. She'd been told this was Steele's new head of Cyber
Security, Kenneth Hackett.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
that, Ms. Roller stepped back as Holly took up her old familiar
position at the head of the board table beside the CEO's chair, ready
to take notes as this momentous meeting unfolded. Ms. Roller
ceremoniously opened the door, scanned the waiting room – nobody
knew who <i>she</i> was – and nodded for them to enter. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Some
of the board members, as they filed in, nodded and smiled at Steele,
welcoming him back for old times' sake. Others looked a bit wan,
unsure about potential retributions for their “alleged”
disloyalty. Steele stood by the doorway, his hands at his side, stern
and magisterial, while Savannah Roller, supremely confident, stood
alongside him. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> To
some, Steele smiled and nodded as they passed; to others, he lifted
his chin, an imperious gesture with marked disapproval. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “If
I held out my hand,” he wondered, “will they kiss my ring?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> IMP
technicians had scrubbed through Lucifer Darke's computer and found
enough incriminating e-mails to bring any number of charges against
him across a wide array from corporate malfeasance to the murders of
“inconvenient witnesses,” plus several related to the hundreds of
deaths of would-be composers resulting from known malfunctions in
SHMRG's Artificial Creativity software, “z'Art.” It was this last
one Capt. Ritard had specifically looked for – did they rush the
program into production knowing there was this technical glitch that
could kill people? The others came as a surprise. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
“odors of Denmark” as Ritard expressed it (he always loved his
Shakespeare) wafted from some of these other e-mails, though. Why
would Darke keep so many of them, dating back so many years, when
years'-worth of other messages had been deleted? “It was almost as
if he'd left them there to taunt us – unless...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
IMP long suspected Steele had been involved in the death of Robertson
Sullivan whose opera, <i>Faust, Inc.</i>, threatened to expose,
supposedly, an earlier crime of Steele's, the death of his secretary
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Pansy Grunwald</span>. The thing
was, the earliest e-mail which had implicated Darke in ordering
Pansy's death (“another accident”) predated his arrival at SHRMG.
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
here was a more recent one, previously unknown, another Steele
underling who “knew too much” and had to be silenced, dating from
the transition between Steele and Darke – but who was Amanda
Hackett? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Wasn't
it odd, Ritard thought, seated at his favorite table in the Thai
Palace's back corner, all these murders they'd long figured Steele
had planned were all ordered by Lucifer Darke – his once-loyal
henchman. Finding all these e-mails – wasn't that just too
convenient, too neat – too... obvious? How – no, <i>who</i> would
want to frame Darke? And now Streicher's failure to catch Steele at
the Allegro Conservatory yet again left the IMP the proverbial one
step behind. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
morning's word from Bond proved equally confusing, some learnèd
council of scholars (academic survivalists, apparently) with no clear
indication Steele or SHMRG were behind it. What did this have to do
with him? But that's the chatter, some plot to subvert the Casaubon
Society's codification of “all human knowledge.” Why? Was SHMRG
branching out?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “The
curtain,” Ritard said, “has yet to fall on <i>this</i>
investigation, Mr. Steele.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
32</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
summer passed quickly, but also, fortunately, uneventfully, lazy days
and lazier nights devoted to long talks and lots of composing.
LauraLynn and Burnson stayed at James' palazzo until mid-June when
they returned to Phlaumix Court, while the three of us, Toni, Cameron
and I, joined by Tom, stayed at the Villa “Zefirini” until
late-August. Tom had recuperated wonderfully in the sun and sweet
breezes of the Berici Hills and, with his mind finally relieved of
all its Trazmo trappings, his creativity almost immediately began to
re-blossom and flourish.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> While
Tom wasn't particularly comfortable running around Legnago on our
one-day pilgrimage to Salieri's hometown, Toni managed to free
herself from the burdens of her experience with <i>Amadeus</i>,
especially her brief brush with stardom. Nephew Carlo, apparently, no
longer worked at the library; surprisingly, there were no records of
any letters written by Benedetto Speranzani. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Our
days were filled composing, and at night we worked on realizing our
sketches or just unwound with some good conversation. While Toni was
already well into her dream-inspired Septet, the rest of us agreed to
write pieces for cello and piano, Tom and I both working on
full-fledged sonatas which we very nearly finished. Cameron, partly
distracted by Sam Senn's arrival for a two-week holiday, tried his
hand at a short, song-like nocturne. We agreed to have the parts done
for a read-through at Tom's place by mid-October. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom's
large but usually empty cabin was full once again, and with several
new friends around his spirits brightened even more. On the first
weekend of October, Toni and her folks arrived from England
(surprisingly <i>sans</i> entourage), eager for the peak of
Leaf-Peeping Season; and Sam arrived on a break from Chicago two days
later. While Sam drove “the Brits” around to admire the scenery
(so different from Venice), Cameron drove the rest of us into Bangor
to work with the Dimsdale College musicians hired for the house
concert. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Through
some of Tom's old-time Faber connections, we discovered William
Howell, a freshman our last year there, was now Dean of Fine Arts at
Dimsdale who graciously arranged for some faculty members and a group
of students to be available for us. Tom and I decided we could both
manage my sonata and Cameron's piece.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Our
“concert” was set for Sunday the 16<sup>th</sup> which allowed us
four rehearsals at the college, given the faculty members'
availability. The cellist and the pianist, a married couple, were
local and more accessible; the oboist (who doubled on the English
Horn) came in from Portland and was only in town on Tuesdays and
Wednesdays. The violinist, the Bangor Symphony's assistant
concertmaster, assured us the students were “top-notch.” I
figured he'd assign a student for a 16-year-old's composition, but
after seeing the score, he agreed to play it himself.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Originally,
I wanted to use all students but there were no English horn players
at the school except for the teacher. Plus, the workload for the
cellist and pianist required more commitment than the typical
student's schedule might be able to accommodate. Overall, things went
extremely well and we were encouraged from the very start.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> The
word apparently got around about this odd “house concert” they'd
been hired for, an informal private performance including two new
pieces and some anonymous late-19th</span></span></span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><span style="font-style: normal;">
Century cello sonata they were going crazy trying to figure out who
could've written it; so Dean Howell and the chairman asked to sit in
on the next rehearsal. They were quite enthusiastic about our
“project” and wanted to discuss perhaps performing them – world
premieres! – at a public concert during the school's Spring
Semester. Tom realized he should invite them to the concert. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Beyond
Toni's parents and Sam, we had no other automatic guests, so,
performers aside, we decided to invite nine more in all: the
Department Chairman, Dean Howell and their wives, plus the school's
five undergraduate composition students (two of them young women).
Tom definitely had a full house and we were glad they had car-pooled.
It may have gone beyond the sense of a private performance but it
gave us the awareness of a real audience. Another rehearsal might've
been helpful, but generally it was a highly productive experience. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Maybe
I'd bitten off more than I could chew, technically, with my own
sonata – it was years since I'd last done any performing as a
cellist – but it was an informal “try-out” and my own piece, so
there was also less pressure. Ultimately, we all acquitted ourselves
fairly well and Tom played with considerable assurance. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
was the most nervous of us, despite the encouragement we'd given him.
His was really a lovely, thought-out, well-balanced piece, and I
hoped it would encourage him not to give up composition entirely.
Tom's sonata, or what he'd completed, made a very strong impression
and the dean asked if they wouldn't mind repeating it. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Naturally,
Toni's Septet stole the show, and even I was amazed, since I'd worked
with her these past two years, at the progress she'd made. Not
surprisingly, several asked to hear the finale again. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
“Mystery Sonata” – most figured it was by some forgotten friend
of Brahms – was considered good, no previously unknown masterpiece
but a solid piece of craftsmanship and quite original in spots,
worthy of performance. “Very dramatic,” someone said, “too
dramatic for a mere academic”; also “technically proficient and
too well-crafted to be by some amateur.” Imagine the looks on their
faces when, after the applause, I told them the composer, who'd once
lived in this house and wrote it at this piano, was a housewife named
Emaline Norton Hyde! </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
no information about the “encore” – any mystery heightened only
by the tone of my introduction – jaws dropped afterward when I
announced the manuscript of this strange bit of Scriabinesque
atonality was dated 1892. (Dean Howell whispered “im<i>poss</i>ible!”)
Then I told them this was “Minotaur's Gate,” and its composer,
Jeckelson Hyde, was Emaline Norton's husband.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> I
glanced at Tom and smiled as this revelation drifted over the
audience, pleased to have pulled this off so secretively. There were,
of course, lots of facts still to be unearthed about this mysterious
Mr. Hyde that would require further research. And then I caught sight
of a man seated not far behind Tom. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Not
one of the guests from the college, I hadn't seen him earlier.
Slender, dressed in dark, old-fashioned clothing, dark hair and
mustache, he was a person who immediately struck me as vaguely
familiar.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> I
was reminded of another guest who'd milled about another reception
somewhere, sometime – some<i>place</i> else – whom I couldn't
quite recall because there'd been no reason to notice him except he
was someone so striking.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> In
the midst of explaining how Tom found the manuscripts in a closet
upstairs, I hadn't realized how long I'd paused. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
man smiled, touched his index finger to his mustache, nodded. I saw
the flash of a ring </span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>– </span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>the ring I'd seen flash by me in the library at
Harvard? How could that be? One of the students I'd met at Sanders
Theater, one who'd studied with John Knowles Paine and later married
Emaline Norton... </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
that was 1886, courtesy of the Kapellmeister. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> His
name was Jeckelson Hyde. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
was once his house; he's listening to music he'd once written here. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Looking
around, I'd lost him: obviously, my imagination... </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
were a lot of small conferences going on at the reception, the
composition students talking with Tom and Toni, mostly, but Brasilio
Bacchiano, the cellist, told me how they're all keen on playing the
entire program – including my sonata and Cameron's Nocturne, “if
you wouldn't mind” (<i>mind</i>?) – with Toni's Septet during the
Spring Semester. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
looked quite comfortable, like she enjoyed talking to the chairman,
and LauraLynn and Burnson looked every bit the proud parents.
Success, I thought, was always a slippery slope: were they ready for
it? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
knew she should think about it but she immediately agreed to leave
the score and parts with them; maybe she could fly over for the
performance, if it'd be okay with her teacher.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
great,” the chairman said. “Who's your teacher?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You
were just talking to him,” she said, “over there,” pointing at
me. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Bill
Howell spent a lot of time cornered there with Tom but I doubted
reminiscences about Faber were the main topic. It turned out the Dean
had told him how their composition teacher quit suddenly
(better-paying job out in the Midwest) and they needed to find an
interim replacement. Would Tom, he asked, be interested? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You've
already met your students, they're all here, and they're unanimous
about my asking you,” he added, “so it's your decision.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
knew he should think about it but he said yes almost immediately. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sam
left the next day for Chicago where he'll be involved in another IMP
investigation for a few weeks before he's transferred to the New York
division, assigned to Ritard's team on Bond's recommendation. With
some time off between Thanksgiving and the New Year, he'll spend it
visiting with us (well, mostly Cameron) in Doylestown. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> I'd
often wondered when would be a good and safe time to expose Toni and
her music to the public, to officially begin her career, especially
after the cautionary tale of Phillips Hawthorne, Ex-Prodigy. She's
developing necessary self-confidence and maturity, plus a technical
and stylistic consistency: without it stifling her, she might be
ready now. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
and I made plans to leave Swanville the next weekend; it was time to
go, the future pleasant, hopefully uneventful. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Yes,”
I thought, heading home to Conan Drive, “what could possibly go
wrong?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>THE
END</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; widows: 1;">
</p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">= = = = = = =</span></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;"><span><i>to be continued, eventually... whenever I complete the third volume of the Tom Purdue Trilogy, </i>The Sisyphian Rhapsody. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; widows: 1;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; widows: 1;"><br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-71424897661665986332022-11-29T08:00:00.045-05:002022-12-01T09:54:53.151-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #42<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUPcT8D1upfqnNVGUm0SZhYSpPBqY8AT5modAQl5lQudhswYPlJBk0_A0RMw-8jtwLSqjTCT2WxUTkRxKvHthDVs1bwlkRjsQ_Of04JT0JUTRcV13EnzvaQpJ922dx07nDtoIimaFOP7mvV9aBmgwA9lIh1wgFzxSBKw-31Dub1CmiCWz_A/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUPcT8D1upfqnNVGUm0SZhYSpPBqY8AT5modAQl5lQudhswYPlJBk0_A0RMw-8jtwLSqjTCT2WxUTkRxKvHthDVs1bwlkRjsQ_Of04JT0JUTRcV13EnzvaQpJ922dx07nDtoIimaFOP7mvV9aBmgwA9lIh1wgFzxSBKw-31Dub1CmiCWz_A/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A busy chapter, <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-41.html" target="_blank">that previous installment</a>: one of the internet's more insidious bloggers, Sid Wreckstra, sets out to ruin Dr. T. Richard Kerr, courtesy of Arcangelo Collegnano's faking of his e-mail about a stolen letter originally sent to Lorenzo daPonte back in 1816; and just when things could conceivably still get worse as the Basilikon Lab appears on the verge of collapse (physically, if not financially), who should show up but Osiris' newest employee, the massive security director, Shango. The IMP's not sure what kind of information they're getting from the freshly arrested Dr. Charles Dawson, caught trying to escape the building during the raid, but Agent Calliope-Jane makes a discovery that might help rescue Bond and the other agents still trapped inside. Will she be able to get them out before the rest of the building implodes?</i><br /><span><span>
</span></span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>= = = = = = =<br /></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><b>CHAPTER
30</b></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Tom
heard the noise distinctly, waking up from a late-afternoon nap. Mrs.
Danvers wouldn't be here this late; she's not scheduled till
tomorrow. If Terry and Cameron had come back, they would've called
first. No, his first thought – well, third thought – was it must
be Wormwood, back for the box, and he was somewhere downstairs. He
reached for his phone but it had no signal, and tiptoed around,
searching for anything handy to serve as a weapon better than his
cane which he figured would send the wrong signal. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> If
he made enough noise getting out of bed, perhaps the intruder would
hear it and leave. Or, alerted there was someone in the house, maybe
the guy would just run upstairs after him.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
sounded like a scuffle. Who else was there? Someone else attacked
Wormwood? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “No
– stop!” The voice was male, vaguely familiar. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Tom
made it half-way down the steps. It was an odd sight: a young man,
short, overweight and decidedly alone, flailed his arms in the air as
if fending off a flock of mosquitoes. He was dressed all in black
(which, Tom noted, attracted mosquitoes except it wasn't Mosquito
Season yet), and wore a balaclava. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
he saw Tom, the man – apparently not Wormwood, given Mrs. Danvers'
detailed description – pulled out a pistol. Tom raised his cane –
not much of a struggle – and waited for the crack of gunfire. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> None
came. This masked fellow collapsed to his knees, hands clutched over
his ears. Then another man – a <i>third</i> Wormwood? – charged
through the door, shouting “IMP – drop the gun!” Which the
second Wormwood did.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
agent quickly introduced himself as Virgil Fitzwilliam. “I'd been
assigned to watch your house – and a good thing, too, apparently.”
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
Fitzwilliam tore the guy's mask off, it was Mrs. Danvers'
good-for-nothing nephew, Lanny Danvers, who began to whine how “the
place is full of invisible music.” And yet Tom couldn't hear a
thing. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> What
was it Lanny mumbled as Fitzwilliam hauled him away in handcuffs –
“the wrong cousin got the house”? There's another cousin? Did
Lanny work for someone who thought <i>he</i> should've inherited the
cabin instead? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> And
was Lanny really the intruder Tom had been calling Wormwood? “You'd
think Mrs. Danvers would recognize her own nephew. Unless...”
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Deputy
Dett watched as the jeep screamed out of the warehouse, laughing
because the thing reminded him of a clown car – nine people got off
of it once Calliope-Jane brought it to a halt – but then he saw the
roof of the warehouse start to cave in along with much of the ground
behind it. Once he noticed what was left of the jeep as it barely
cleared the smaller warehouse, almost rolling on its passenger-side
tires, he assumed, given everybody's horrified expressions, this was
definitely no laughing matter. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
State Police put in their appearance, the Intrepid Hook & Ladder
Company from Greenfield joined the local firefighters to put out the
blaze, but another hour went by before it was “under control.”
Even then, the Fire Chief allowed only a few agents access to the
ruins, once he'd passed out some hard hats. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> After
Cameron relocated his heart and stomach, definitely the wildest ride
he'd ever had in his life (“memo to self: don't take any road trips
with Calliope-Jane in the future”), he checked his phone. Three
messages from Terry explained they needed to get to some place in
Missouri to check out a surprising new lead. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
last one ended “I'm in Sanza, MO, about ready to meet Rose Philips.
Call me if you're not too busy...” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> On
that note, Cameron decided it'll wait until he'd unwound a bit more. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “No,
that one's dead. This one's in shock – he'll come out of it.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
voice, masculine and not exactly warm but efficient and appropriately
fact-based, moved off as I swam back to the surface. It was overcast
deep down wherever I was but the good news, ostensibly, was I was
still alive, whatever had happened. All I remembered was the
full-orchestra crescendo leading to the explosive percussion attack,
a high sustained dissonance in the flutes and violins before
everything collapsed into a low chord in the brass and strings. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
woman I heard – that would be Alice Hubbard, my driver – talked
to a man who began to sound like a policeman; and the first voice I'd
become aware of must have been one of the paramedics who'd arrived on
the scene. The one who's dead, who'd been trying to kill me: who was
he? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
I went to sit up, my body wasn't up to the effort, so I slumped back
down on the floor. The other paramedic, a young woman, came over and
gently straightened my legs out, checking to see if anything was
broken. It would be amazing if there wasn't. Everything sure hurt
like hell... “Ouch!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
policeman said, “according to his driver's license, the dead man's
Dexter Shoad.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Dexter
Shoad? Why'd he try to kill <i>me</i>?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Or
for that matter, why would he have tried to kill Rose Philips...?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">
After a short while, the woman I'd hoped to meet and discuss what I
thought might be “a few loose ends” had come to as well, and the
policeman, a reassuring old-fashioned soon-to-retire Irishman named
Malachi Mulligan, suggested it might not go “far amiss” to have
the hospital check out two “old codgers like yourselves.” The
paramedics agreed if we could rest a while on the couch in her music
room, we'd be okay for now. A doctor who lived “down the road”
would come check on us soon. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> After
some brief conversation, I asked if she knew who Phillips Hawthorne
was. “Does the nickname 'Trazmo' mean anything to you?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> We
sat beside the piano in silence as the paramedics removed Dexter's
body.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rose<span style="font-style: normal;">
sat up, sighed, and squared her shoulders. “I knew this time would
come eventually. I'm surprised it's taken this long.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
began slowly, taking a long sip of the tea Alice brought in. “I
knew him once, a long time ago. He was this brilliant young musician,
a genius-in-waiting, they told him, a prodigy. Not a bad pianist but
he wanted to become a composer and his first works were startlingly
promising for his age. He got the best teachers, his father –
proud, wealthy, and arrogant – hired the best musicians to play his
pieces; some said he paid to have someone write them for him, but
that wasn't true. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Maybe
you're talented, with some potential for success; or maybe you're
gifted with a better than average imagination, more innate skills.
Then there's this huge gap between being gifted and being a genuine
prodigy. The trouble is, everybody wants their talented kid to become
the Next Mozart, so everyone starts marketing him as a prodigy.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
he got older, she continued, it became more difficult for Hawthorne
to compose, no longer coming so easily for him, but there were
expectations (“everybody had their own expectations, they all told
him”). And pretty soon, unable to compose anything at all, he fell
back on just writing the same pieces over and over. That's when he
realized maybe he's not a “prodigy,” maybe he's just gifted. But
then he wondered if, deep down, he really had the kind of talent it
took to support such a gift. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “He
had learned the rules of the game but the game wasn't fun any more:
it was too much like work. If it wasn't fun, why bang yourself
against the wall until you're all bruised and bloody? You can quit a
job... So,” she said, taking a deep breath, “he decided he would
walk away.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Some
of it, she said, was hard, like what to do next; some wasn't –
“like leaving his bastard of a father and all that money behind.”
It took years to work out the details. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “He
saved some money he kept in a secret account, actually quite a bit of
it, eventually, but he knew how to lie, to play a part – that was
Trazmo's role, his nasty alter-ego. This transition from Trazmo the
Prodigy to the mature realization of Phillips Hawthorne would become
his masterpiece! The question was when... </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Then
one year, Hawthorne went to one of those artist colonies – it's
somewhere in Iowa.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “At
White Hill,” I said, “right.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “There
were these four older composers, and Hawthorne had to be Trazmo, the
arrogant brat who put on this braggadocious front, but he found
himself envious of them, their ease and sense of security. They'd sit
around the music room, playing some of their pieces for each other –
Hawthorne wasn't included, they never included him – but he'd
written them all down in a notebook, I'm not sure why. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “That's
one thing I have of Phillips Hawthorne's, that notebook. It's there,
in the bench. Dexter told me he'd found it. He thought those themes –
ideas – were mine, and decided he'd use them in this piece of his
as a tribute to me – but they weren't mine, and he became angry...
– well, yes, about Hawthorne... </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Anyway,
what else could he do but compose? He was a good-enough pianist to be
a composer, but not good enough to become a concert performer
(practicing took too much time away from composing). Maybe teach
piano in a small town where nobody knew who he was? Where there
wouldn't be that kind of pressure?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “You
seem to know quite a lot about him – Phillips Hawthorne...”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
nodded.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Yes,
you could put it like that. We sort of grew up together. You see, I
used to <i>be</i> Phillips Hawthorne.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rose
Philips continued with <i>her</i> story. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “I've
known since I was about 13 that I wasn't really a boy – I mean,
psychologically, the old 'woman-trapped-in-a-man's-body' thing except
it seemed much more complex than that. I created Rose Philips long
before I thought I'd make 'the transition,' just a female
cross-dressing persona – but that wasn't enough. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “About
a year after Trazmo disappeared, I went to Wisconsin for the
operation, so I told people here I'm taking a 'sabbatical' to visit a
sister in Connecticut who needed help dealing with cancer.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
decision to face that, to go through with all that surgery, had been
even more momentous than leaving Trazmo behind. There were many
adjustments and it took time to get used to everything, but in the
end, the results were “exhilarating.” For once in this lifetime,
Rose Philips admitted, she was now officially happy. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Surprisingly,
Dexter fell in love with me. Then when he realized I was 'trans,'
became disgusted, thinking that made him 'queer.' I don't think he
meant to hurt me, he just pushed me, like, to get out of his sight,
but I lost my balance and fell – probably hit my head on the piano
bench. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “That's
apparently when <i>you</i> showed up and he must've panicked. Alice
said he had tried to strangle you?” Rose seemed incredulous.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “He
wasn't 'trying'...” My neck still showed the marks from his
make-shift garrotte. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Yes,
well... fortunately Alice was here, then.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Fortunately,
Alice had a gun and is an expert shot,” I added, “but I'm sorry
he died.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “You
would've been sorrier if <i>you'd</i> died, don't you think?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Officer
Mulligan of Sanza's finest came in, knocked quietly, and wanted to
know if we're ready to make our statements, now. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Would
you give us a few more minutes, please, Malachi? We're almost done.
Oh, Alice, how're you doing, dear? You both must be terribly rattled
by all this. Can I get you more tea?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rose
made an attempt to stand up but leaned against the piano for support.
“I'm sorry, I'm still a bit woozy.” Sitting back down, she
admitted hardly a day went by she didn't think back on that past
life, about “what if.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “But
at what cost? No, I don't miss Trazmo – not in the least.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “I'd
watched everybody else get back on that bus once the roads were
opened and said good-bye to Trazmo, Boy Wonder. I seriously didn't
think anybody would ever miss him – I knew I wouldn't! But I had no
idea what'd happen next, that they'd think I'd been murdered or
Thomas Purdue would be a suspect! </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “There
was this boarding house about five blocks from the motel – Mrs.
Hubbard's...”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Alice's
Mom? So – what... you know each other?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “We
kept in touch but no,” Rose explained, “she didn't know my
secrets. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">
“Anyway, I rented a
room for about a month; then, once spring rolled around, I took a bus
and headed south. And there was this pretty little house for sale
next to this pleasant little park with a bandstand, and I thought,
'what a nice spot to start over.' So I got off the bus.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> I
called Sheriff Diddon, told her where I was, and what, briefly, had
happened, just steam-rolling through the basic facts before I
introduced Rose Philips and put her on speaker to conclude the tale.
Needless to say, as it unfolded, Diddon was suitably amazed,
eventually dumbfounded: this was not the outcome anyone even remotely
anticipated. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Well,
Doctor, pending the investigation's official verification, looks like
your friend Purdue will no longer be a suspect in the murder <i>or</i>
disappearance of Phillips Hawthorne. But you should know what's going
on <i>here</i>...” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Nobody
knew exactly how many died between the gunfight, the fire, and the
building's collapse, beyond two IMP agents unaccounted for. Sam knew
Bond was reliving Shendo's death, too, and their own narrow escape.
But there had been no sign of Osiris, her main objective, beyond the
charred remains of his highly distinguishable wheelchair – again. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
bigger question for Sam was what happened to the hundreds of drones?
They should've failed once the smoke contaminated the sensors, no
longer able to receive signals, and just dropped like dead flies. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
couldn't get it out of his mind, that moment when he realized the
drones might have become self-aware. If everybody's dead except for
him and Dawson, then who'd be left to control them? Then, too,
where'd they go? They knew enough to hide. Can they increase the size
of the swarm? Could they... reproduce?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Back
in the lab's burned-out shell, Sam found what little was left of his
work area, but at least the small safe in one of his storage cabinets
was intact and he could open it. His back-up remote control device
still worked. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Look,
Agent Mbira,” he said, holding it up. “This by-passes the main
servers...” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> But
once he got into the program, it took so long to get past all the
encryption codes, everything ground to a halt as soon as he finally
clicked on the “Abort” Command.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Frozen?”
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mbira
looked at him and they both frowned. If he can't shut the program
down – unless he <i>did</i> shut it down but that caused it to
freeze...? Unless another controller somehow overrode his command? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Or
did the drones...,” Mbira said, looking at him skeptically, afraid
to suggest it, “countermand it themselves? Maybe out of
self-defense?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
didn't bode well if the Mobots could still carry out their own
directives, if he can't even shut them down. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> But
it was time to take a break. It'd been a busy-enough day. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Fortunately
at that point, his phone rang. It was Cameron, on his way down to
Missouri, but they'd talk more, later. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Yeah,
looks like I'll be filling out lots of paperwork for awhile, anyway.
So,” Sam said, turning away from the others, “you know a decent
place in this town to go grab that drink?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/12/the-salieri-effect-final-installment.html" target="_blank">to be concluded</a>...</i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-2725800188609059612022-11-24T08:00:00.147-05:002022-11-24T08:00:00.210-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #41<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNR94ORoXDWLRIniFZQYJKClyEvWFNj32ROKJK7JUTEp6CExMWrSFurC7Og_ZXf2Hh57NDbioSQNIFchK24WvGMhn_MkY3kWyUu5erIA1fK39aXMhdpakZLb98r3mUGQ37y8dUm1rjiSFJ9QHeyyt62krM86-A-WahBLspK1GcPhEaAbWeZQ/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNR94ORoXDWLRIniFZQYJKClyEvWFNj32ROKJK7JUTEp6CExMWrSFurC7Og_ZXf2Hh57NDbioSQNIFchK24WvGMhn_MkY3kWyUu5erIA1fK39aXMhdpakZLb98r3mUGQ37y8dUm1rjiSFJ9QHeyyt62krM86-A-WahBLspK1GcPhEaAbWeZQ/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Dr. Kerr's miscalculation with his e-mail about the stolen daPonte Letter, warning it could soon show up for sale on the Black Market, prompted Arcangelo Collegnano to do something about this meddlesome would-be musicologist. It always amused him how easily you could create "fake news" on the Internet, easily capable of sabotaging a reputation or destroying an otherwise useless career. <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-40.html" target="_blank">The previous installment</a> also followed the increasingly dangerous path of Cameron and his IMP friends and especially the bad news for al-Zebani and presumably for the Aficionati's mastermind, Osiris. Was this going to be the end of their terrorist plot to overtake the World of Classical Music?
</span></span></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><i>And something to be thankful for: after this, there are only two more installments! "The End," as the old doomsday prophet was fond of saying, "is Near!"</i><br />
</span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>= = = = = = =<br /></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
29</b></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Somewhere
in a small windowless room – one always assumed it was a small room
– somewhere in Europe – one usually assumed it was Europe,
specifically Western Europe in this case – a blogger opened his
e-mail. At least, one assumed it was a man – one typically would –
but even Arcangelo Collegnano wasn't entirely sure of that, really. </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>It
could've been an airy room overlooking the C<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">ôt</span>e
d'Azur which didn't strike him as likely; it could've been a young
woman as easily as an irritable old man above some backstreet in
Glasgow.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Come
to think of it, if pressed on the matter, Collegnano wasn't sure of
very much, in this case: who knew, trying to figure out who some of
these bloggers were behind their masks? Even those with actual photos
in their profiles who went by real-sounding names, were you ever
really sure who they were? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Now,
with a name like Sid Wreckstra, there were assumptions to be made,
regardless of how much information was made available: yes, it was
probably a man (a woman would spell it Sydney, right?) and he was
most likely English, maybe American. There were inflections in the
syntax one assumed was British, the spelling aside. Collegnano
assumed – it was awkward for a musicologist of his caliber to
“assume” anything – he's also a fan of Henry James who, he
reminded himself, wasn't technically an English writer but an
American one. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
should someone cross-examine him as a writer for “The
Musicologist's Digest,” were he challenged by a colleague with a
different point of view (most everybody had a differing point of view
about something), how would Collegnano defend his argument the
blogger was an American ex-pat who'd lived in London but subsequently
retired to Paris? If someone with a knowledge of linguistics or one
who'd done a detailed pathological study of speech patterns in
different languages, what if they detected, say, a Russian who'd
spoken English fluently since childhood? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
didn't matter that most of those who never read “The Musicologist's
Digest,” which included the great majority of people, would ever
care about such quibbles because “quibbling” was what
musicologists called “job security.” It's what people like
Collegnano thrived on and one of the main reasons he considered
himself a fan of Sid Wreckstra's. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> As
the self-styled “Musical Muck-Raker,” Wreckstra, weighing in on
topics of interest only to scholars, tried bringing the rarefied
erudition once found only in the Letters section of “The Digest”
into the public eye; more often he skewered self-important performers
and composers, especially opera directors of the “Relativist”
School, and pompous, over-the-top experts and critics. Favorite
targets were critics for major newspapers and websites who knew too
much about music, plus those lesser entities who made it abundantly
clear they knew absolutely nothing beyond what they'd read on
Wikipedia. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
since newspapers had long “rumbled off into the Stegosaurian Sunset
(periodically speaking),” there were few critics left beyond a
handful of bloggers who spent most of their bandwidth trying to
disembowel each other. This led scholars like Collegnano, recognizing Wreckstra's breadth of knowledge, to imagine he was a famous
musicologist moonlighting in pop culture. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Particularly
susceptible to Wreckstra's attacks were those with introductions to
concerts – say, featuring Schubert's Symphony No. 8 in B minor – who
perpetuated bogus mythologies explaining why it was unfinished: it's
because Schubert died (“well, yes, but not in any chronologically
tangential way”); or because he felt it was perfectly complete in
two movements (“not exactly...”). </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> As
for his critiquing new recordings, another dwindling field, getting a
decent review from Wreckstra was the Tepid Kiss of Death. Much better
to go down in flames with something outrageous one could blurb. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> No
sooner had he heard the <i>ping</i> of new e-mail being delivered at
the end of a long and uneventful day, a bored Sid Wreckstra checked
his in-box and saw a vaguely familiar name. It wasn't difficult for
Wreckstra to find himself “bored,” in fact it happened several
times a day, several days a week. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
had already posted two scathing articles about orchestras announcing
their new seasons: one ridiculing programs featuring 97% dead white
guys, and how others, programming 25% works by living composers, had
“abandoned their base.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Not
knowing what he'd write about for his next post – the past weeks
were fitting into an all too predictable pattern – that name piqued
his interest and broadened his options, so he pounced on it with
rejuvenated curiosity and intense antipathetical malice. Wreckstra
was nothing if not a Character Assassin of the highest Ninja order. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Yes,
the name rang a few bells: Dr. Richard Kerr's collection of “music
appreciation” essays subtitled “Behind the Scenes with
Biographies of Famous Compositions” which he'd reviewed as “more
like music <i>de</i>preciation, tales told by an idiot for the naïve
and unimaginative.” What now? What surprises would <i>this</i>
e-mail foretell? Perhaps his problem was solved? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Did
Dr. Kerr have a new book and he's looking for a blurb? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Surprise!
More of “a long overdue cry of deplorable desperation.” Why, even
before opening it, his response began to write itself.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
he looked over the extensive routing list – he found himself amidst
some of the greatest names in the musicological business – Wreckstra knew he had to prove himself with one of his “finest”
efforts. And he knew he must be the first to respond, publishing this
“breaking news” to the immediate world of the internet. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
thought he'd begin with “the smug, self-satisfied attempt of a
would-be know-it-all eager to draw some slight modicum of even the
most fleeting attention to himself, the dying gasps of a menopausal
musicologist.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Technically,
if he needed to be honest, he figured Kerr was beyond the Age of
Menopause, but it had a nice ring to it, plus there were a few
literary points for the alliteration. Plus, once he'd taken a look at
the attached photo, he left out one of his loudest LOLs in recent
months. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Never
a religious or even a spiritual man, Wreckstra still sent up a brief
thank you to whatever deity was in charge of the Universe this day
and proceeded to craft his newest post. There was so much material
here – “truly a god-send, whichever god chose to send it</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>”</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> – he
hardly knew where to begin. </span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> To
go back to “the beginning” involved too much exposition: he
needed to start with a direct punch, grab their attention. Just start
writing, he reminded himself, it was just a draft – <i>improvisando
assai</i>.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It's
not like he needed to make anything up. There was such a wealth of
insanity in this e-mail, the question was “which bit is bound to
prove the most significant, the greatest grab?” As usual, he'll
figure out where to “start” later; the thing is, for now, just
strike while the inspiration is flaming. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Regardless
where the photo had originated, the text of the e-mail was definitely
Kerr's attempt to claim credit for some discovery. But of what? A
letter supposedly by Salieri in which he threatens to kill Mozart?
“Seriously? Hasn't Salieri suffered enough,” Wreckstra wrote,
“without that ancient canard? Must we still contend with these
age-old shibboleths? No one, <i>Amadeus</i> aside, still believes in
that long-debunked myth, and this so-called letter will hardly open a
225-year-old cold case.” Yet, he felt the line, “I'm coming for
you, dude,” was seriously meme-worthy. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It's
clear to anyone who'll read this” – he debated whether to include
the complete text or quote its most salient bits – “this sad
wreck of a man seeks to create some late-in-life notoriety in an
attempt to dupe the scholarly world with his 'discovery' at the end
of his long, on-going failure of a career. Is it possible,” he continued, “</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>anyone
would buy </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>he'd unearthed something like this in,
of all places, a suburb of Philadelphia? Or is it intended as a
parody of the old 'Look-What-I-Found-in-Grandma's-Attic' fairy
tale?” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
needed to include a link to his review of Kerr's bunglesome essays
just to remind his readers before wrapping up. “Whatever he thinks
of himself, surely the community-at-large now regards him as nothing
more than an embarrassment to the world of Classical Music to be put
out of our misery, once and for all.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Seriously,
he wondered, “how stupid must Kerr think we are? Just because he
knows nothing about the 18th Century Venetian dialect
Salieri spoke, writing to another 18th Century Venetian
like Lorenzo daPonte, Kerr assumes neither would these experts of
18th Century music. He didn't even try to imitate
Salieri's handwriting which is very well documented.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> What
more can be said about lines where Salieri, once he'd threatened to
kill Mozart, intended to frame daPonte, even warned him literally to
“get the fuck out of Dodge? One can only laugh!” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> In
a few more minutes, he'd skimmed over it – he was notoriously
accurate in his first drafts and rarely ever needed to make
corrections; besides, speed was of the essence, here: definitely
“<i>BREAKING NEWS</i>!” – then hit <i>POST</i> and out it went.
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Done!”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was now only a matter of time. He sat back to wait. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> In
Vienna, as Collegnano sat back with his evening's ritual of
postprandial cognac and music – tonight, it's the final act of
Mozart's <i>La Clemenza di Tito</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
– he</span> heard the daintiest ping from his laptop. There was a
reply – actually, a “reply-all” – from Sid Wreckstra, his
first response, which included a Facebook link to Wreckstra's blog. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rather
than interrupt the music, he chose to wait until the opera's
conclusion, despite flurries of additional pings, undoubtedly more
responses. When Collegnano checked Facebook later, Wreckstra's post
had 1,597 likes and 610 shares. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Once
the fan crashed and the floor started to give out, Sam and Cameron
made a mad dash for the large gateway that had opened up beyond them
and not a moment too soon. Bond and Gurdie pulled them across the
threshold just as the gate began to close as suddenly as it had
opened. While they caught their breath, Bond did another quick
nose-count, everyone except Calliope-Jane accounted for. She'd seen
her on the balcony, taking aim at Piltdown over the railing. How did
she get up there? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
hadn't she seen at least the top of her afro – awfully hard to hide
with <i>that</i> giving your position away – just before Osiris and
that villain-<i>du-jour</i> of his showed up on the balcony? Had she
found a place to hide and wait for an opportunity to take them both
out? What happened to her? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
situation, she knew, was grim, as she stood there in the dim light
(by the way, where did this light come from?). Everyone looked
exhausted, lying there or propped up against the wall. This wasn't
the first time this idea had occurred to her, she admitted: maybe she
<i>was</i> getting too old for this. It also occurred to her, it's
good Dr. Kerr wasn't on this one: he was definitely getting too old
for this! Whatever'd happened to Calliope-Jane, she must get her team
– and Cameron – out safely. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Who
knew how much time they had left before the whole building collapsed.
Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light as she assessed the space
they were in, more than just another tunnel. (“Why did it have to
be a tunnel...?”). It was quite wide with a tall, apparently arched
ceiling, maybe 21-feet high? She could make out light fixtures but
that wasn't the light source. Were there windows across the top caked
with dirt? Maybe they weren't that far underground. Piles of dirt and
stone were everywhere. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “How
long since this particular tunnel was last used,” she asked Agent
Senn. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
looked around, lifting himself up off the floor. “Don't know –
maybe back when it was still the old Ratchett factory.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
don't think so,” Cameron said, pacing around the floor. “Much of
this dirt is loose and the tracks seem fresh.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Hey,
Cameron,” Sam said, “isn't that the lab coat Haradov gave you?
Does it still have his ID badge on it?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
checked the lapels and found it, still attached to the left side.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Excellent!
Maybe it'll get us through some security gates on our way out. This
should lead to one of those warehouses.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
and Bond had both seen them from the “crime scene” where the
earlier body had been found. Shendo figured that's probably how Kerr
got in and then proceeded to “muck this up royally.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
how'd he manage that unless he had an ID badge,” Sam asked.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
just shrugged his shoulders. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Bond
said Kerr was nothing if not resourceful. “That's not important:
how do we get <i>out</i>?” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “This
tunnel probably originates at the central lab area and must've been
used to transport waste to the warehouse dump sites.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “When
I tossed out the remains of the spent drones earlier,” Mbira
mentioned, “I noticed there were two trashcans marked with a
biohazard symbol. What kind of waste are we talking about here, Sam?”
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Nobody
ever told me when I'd ask. I was told to stop asking. Maybe we should
stay away from the walls...” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Shendo
and Gurdie had leaned against the walls to catch their breath but
immediately stood up and stepped into the center.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,”
Gurdie wondered, “that fan filtered off biohazardous material and
released it outside?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
that bit of news, the IMP team, led by Sam Senn and Shendo, with Bond
bringing up the rear, guns drawn and all eyes peeled, walked as
quickly as possible through the tunnel. Sam's flashlight found an old
metal sign on another metal door blocking their path, faded yellow
paint with chipped black letters: </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Protective
Gear Must Be Worn Beyond This Point.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Underneath,
a grinning skull and cross-bones left little to imagine about the
message.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
and Sam looked around for something that could read an ID Badge. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Hmm,”
Sam grunted, “it makes sense this'd be operated by a remote in the
truck's cab, so nobody would get out and expose themselves by opening
it manually.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Shendo
pounded on the door.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,”
Cameron mumbled, “you're saying we're screwed?” Sam chose not to
say anything.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Shendo,
seriously – you think someone's gonna answer the door?” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> In
the eerie silence that followed, Bond wasn't sure whether she heard
it first or felt it, vibrating through her boots. Was it the sound of
footsteps, something walking toward them – something very big?</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Shendo
took a quick few steps back, the look on his face one of shock: what,
exactly, had he awakened?</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Shit...”
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
was soon replaced by a series of slow, steady, and decidedly ominous
poundings as if some very large and probably prehistoric creature
started knocking on the other side.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “This
does <i>not</i> sound good...”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
one last, loud reverberant knock – Cameron thought it was more of a
kick – the gate slowly began to swing inward. The most obvious of
commands required no interpretation. Bond joined the others as they
scurried off to hide behind the rubble. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> All
they heard was the slow creaking of hinges and an aching sigh. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
doors gradually opened onto a narrow pool, an eerie bluish light
beyond the darkness that barely illuminated the tunnel's
continuation. Sam, closest to the gate, saw nothing but a blank
infinity – a void. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
came the shock of recognition – the figure of a man (presumably)
stepped into the light and pushed the doors open only a slight
fraction further, but not enough anyone could get past him. Black as
ebony, skin polished and gleaming, he was immense, bare-chested, and
wore only camo shorts and black military boots.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Shango!
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dr.
Charles Dawson, a bumbling, blonde-haired scientist at the best of
times, looked more deflated than usual, now hand-cuffed between two
agents of the International Music Police, each one holding a gun on
him. He'd been caught running from the building shortly after the IMP
forces had arrived and engaged Basilikon security in the lobby. He
whined how he'd tried to get away from the lab director Ifrit
al-Zebani's clutches, how he wanted nothing more to do with the old
man's project, something about Osiris and his killer drones.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sheriff
Diddon decided to ignore the IMP agents and asked Dawson, “what
project – and what do you mean, it's a lab? According to
information in our files, Basilikon is a technical data storage
facility.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Technically,
that's what it is,” he explained, “but it's only a front. It's
really an engineering laboratory to develop killer drone-bots.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “And
you expect us to believe that?” The sheriff stood, striking a
favorite pose with a wide stance and arms akimbo. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Actually,
ma'am,” said another of the IMP agents nearby, “that's already
been proven.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Captain
Sal Feggio of the IMP's Chicago Division stepped forward after
talking to Agent Calliope-Jane Lautenwerckque of the St. Louis
Division. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “This
agent tells me she's witnessed these killer drone-bots first-hand
before she escaped from the building. And we must now get back in
there to rescue Chief Inspector Bond and her team – and quickly!”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Feggio
had been unable to reach Bond after he'd received an urgent warning
from Capt. Ritard she might need back-up for this rather hastily
arranged mission which, he'd discovered, had rapidly deteriorated.
Alerted to the situation's potential severity from Sammy Senn, their
undercover agent, he mobilized a response unit and landed as quickly
as possible. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “We
don't know about Chief Inspector Bond's mission or why things
escalated here, but given what Agent Lautenwerckque, here, just told
me, it's done more than that already. Six lives are now in danger.”
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Feggio
took over the interrogation of Dr. Dawson who began singing like a
well-trained canary with evidence against his former employers, in
addition to numerous passwords to various data files, particularly
the building's schematics. They could also use his ID badge to access
any security keypad to enter the building through the warehouses
behind them. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
and one more thing,” Dawson brought up, almost apologetically.
“These drones are attracted to anything orange, so if any of your
agents happen to be wearing any orange items, they'd best remove
them.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Feggio,
eyebrows raised, looked at him somewhat dubiously. “And you know
this... how?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Calliope-Jane went to
investigate something behind the warehouses. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
a sigh, Dawson explained he'd been brought in to work on the
project's development, unaware what the end-product would be.
“Believe me, if I had known, I would've said 'no' right away,
absolutely.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Feggio
nodded his head politely in mock-acceptance. “Yes...?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “They
wanted some kind of target for the drones' ability to hunt, something
not everybody would wear but bright enough to activate the drones'...
attack mode.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,
'ability to hunt' and 'attack mode' – those didn't set off alarm
bells?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dawson
sighed again. “Well, they paid very well.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Al-Zebani's
original design, he continued – he'd designed animatronic dinosaurs
for amusement parks, but Feggio urged him to leave out the back-story
– involved black-and-white vision as well as night vision as keen
as an owl's. In his past, er... professional experience, he hadn't
seen the need for something that would require anything more involved
than that. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
Osiris, their CEO, wanted something that could target specific...
well, likely targets.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “And,”
Feggio hinted, “back to my initial question...?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
know because I'm the one who designed the program giving them
color-consciousness.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Calliope-Jane
and Agent Damien Wendeaux frantically signaled Capt. Feggio from the
parking lot they'd found between the two warehouses. “Over here!”
She and Wendeaux pointed at two battered jeeps among several larger
construction vehicles.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
those are for the excavation out beyond the North Wing,” Dawson
explained. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,
you could drive them into those tunnels?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Not
me, personally, but those tunnels are quite wide: they use trucks
to...”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Stow
the exegesis, Doctor. Now, do they run?” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
imagine the keys would be kept somewhere inside the larger warehouse
– that's...” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
before Dawson had a chance to explain where to find the keys, the
first of the jeeps roared to life and both jeeps raced toward where
Capt. Feggio and his team stood waiting.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Wendeaux,
a tall skinny kid from Haiti, explained hot-wiring cars had been a
way of life after the earthquake. “Let's go!” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “The
larger warehouse opens into the tunnel you'd mentioned – the one
that comes out after you'd passed through the air-filtration unit?”
Dawson said it was a fairly straight shot but there were some gates.
“Here, use my ID badge, if the computer system's not shut down yet.
The keypads are fairly primitive; no fingerprints necessary.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dawson
looked at Calliope-Jane. “If you'd already come in contact with the
drones and weren't attacked, your hair's apparently not strong enough
on the Orange Spectrum to attract them. Good – You're probably
safe.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “'Probably...'?”
</span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sheriff
Diddon had had enough with standing on the sidelines feeling useless,
so she made one last attempt to pull jurisdiction on the situation.
“As sheriff here, I order you to wait for the State Police
reinforcements. They should be here in a half-hour. I can't let you
risk the lives of your agents by...” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> As
Feggio and the other IMP agents hopped into the jeeps, Calliope-Jane
waved. “All I know, my boss is in there and that building's not
about to last no half an hour. See ya!” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
jeeps blew up a cloud of dust behind them as Sheriff Diddon noticed
her phone had several voice-mails. “<i>Now</i> what!” They're all
from the dratted Dr. Kerr. “What the fuck does <i>he</i> want...!”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> She
quickly put the phone away and told Deputy Dett, “don't got time
for his shenanigans. He'll just have to wait...” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> In
the doorway, Shango, a fearsome behemoth at the worst of times,
blocked their path forward, silhouetted against an eerie bluish light
that rippled across the backdrop like well-oiled muscles the way some
lighting crew for rock bands might've designed his entrance. Sam
thought he looked even more behemothic than he did that first time. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Who
the hell's <i>that</i>,” Cameron asked, his knees quaking. Even
Shendo was impressed.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Meet
Shango,” Sam announced, “Basilikon's new Director of Security,
his first day on the job,” and gave him a deferential bow. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Shango's
lips curled ominously as he clenched his fists. Various muscles in
his arms and legs flexed in the faint light.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Not
been a great start, has it?” Sam stepped forward, feeling tiny in
his presence. Mbira joined him, feeling even tinier. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So,
two little traitors,” Shango growled, his voice blood-chillingly
deep and resonant. “Cute...” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Each
of the IMP agents raised their weapons simultaneously. Shango
laughed. In his paws, the Ruger SR-556 he wielded looked more like a
Derringer, one that could kill them all in a single sweep.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron,
the only one unarmed, sidled up behind Sam for protection, convinced
all their bullets would merely bounce off Shango's skin. </span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sam
and Shendo hoped they could draw Shango out from his space between
the doors which would allow the others to run behind him and head to
the exit. But Shango refused to budge.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Bond
was sure that was automatic gunfire she heard headed toward them –
they must be coming in from the outside: Basilikon guards or perhaps
reinforcements sent in by Sheriff Diddon (which somehow seemed
unlikely)? Headlights, then two jeeps quickly broke through the
darkness. Bond sent up silent thanks as she recognized a striking red
afro. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Struck
in the back, Shango turned, firing wildly. Bullets sprayed across the
tunnel floor savaged both of one jeep's front tires. Brakes squealed
as Feggio's jeep smashed into the wall and burst into flames. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
seconds to spare, Calliope-Jane swung by as Feggio and Wendeaux dove
in and frantically hunkered down in the back seat before getting in a
few well-placed shots, aimed at the hulk before them. When the
wrecked jeep's gas tank exploded, they were rammed against the
opposite wall, momentarily blinded. Shango continued lurching toward
them. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Not
sure how much ammunition they had left, Sam and Shendo started a
simultaneous assault on Shango while he was preoccupied with the
jeeps, joined by Bond, Mbira and Hurdie from the opposite side. They
were soon out of bullets but managed to weaken him enough he soon
stumbled, completely enraged and howling in pain. In his agony, he
kicked a massive leg toward Chris Shendo, tossing him high into the
air, deeper into the darkness. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Bond
couldn't see him, but heard Shendo's scream get louder – then
suddenly stop. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Out
of control, the jeep swerved to avoid Shango's other leg and slammed
sideways into one of the doors. Shango, wounded and bloody, tried
getting up, grabbed the door for support then tore it off its hinges
and threw it at the wildly careening jeep. This only further weakened
the ceiling which started to collapse. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
another violent swerve, Calliope-Jane powered through the crumbling
gateway, with just enough time Sam, Bond and Hurdie could clamber
aboard; then she deftly veered back into the tunnel before it was too
late. Sam watched as Shango disappeared Samson-like under a cascade
of rubble and dust. The doorway collapsed and the light soon
disappeared. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> The
jeep fish-tailed through the tunnel on three tires. Cameron clung to
Sam for dear life, and saw a light ahead. A light at the </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">other</span></span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
end of this tunnel? Where would </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">that</span></span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
lead?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-42.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: red;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-17222947262831152832022-11-22T10:28:00.002-05:002022-11-22T10:45:01.905-05:00987 Words about Proust's Remains <p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: small;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Rm06FDbIKXxmmeUzVCxUXiCMGHvL4zN7veUPdHNrtI6k5AZCd_8Zq7Ggm6ziETrW4trBjn3Yg8bo06go5BIrgLloewaD-blKXymaeS2m76OPgZsxWUOkZ3kwFdM6B1tokvPbZJBDcZUx73XQJiF7lYZWrdGeuKubMzLal9uKPHBql5TLhg/s440/Proust_Grave.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Rm06FDbIKXxmmeUzVCxUXiCMGHvL4zN7veUPdHNrtI6k5AZCd_8Zq7Ggm6ziETrW4trBjn3Yg8bo06go5BIrgLloewaD-blKXymaeS2m76OPgZsxWUOkZ3kwFdM6B1tokvPbZJBDcZUx73XQJiF7lYZWrdGeuKubMzLal9uKPHBql5TLhg/w291-h320/Proust_Grave.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The grave at Paris' Père Lachaise Cemetery<br /></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: small;"><span><br />There's a certain
wistfulness, when an artist dies in the midst of working, to discover
something left incomplete (or, worse, incompletable): imagine "What
If...?," holding sketches for that 10th Symphony
found in Beethoven's desk?<span style="font-style: normal;"> The mind
has stopped creating; the body, living. Published works live on; the
possibility of works that weren't finished tantalizingly survive.
Even though you may own or even have read the complete </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Search_of_Lost_Time" target="_blank"><i>À</i><i>
la recherche du temps perdu</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;">,
it's not that easy when you realize he hadn't really </span><i>finished</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
it – when then, </span><i>voilá</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
Proust died. </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> And w<span style="font-style: normal;">hen
he died, we were told his vast novel, the only major work he wrote,
was "more or less" complete. At least, that's the "short"
version one usually reads in those biographical summaries. Of its
seven volumes, each one a separate novel, the last three were
published posthumously, but he hadn't finished editing them. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> Keep in mind, this
means we have no <i>definitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
version of what Proust intended to do with this apparently
never-ending novel which he'd initially planned as two or three
novels, ending with </span><i>Time Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
It's not really a finite story: the hero isn't born and then dies; a
goal isn't necessarily sought and ultimately reached. But there are
telling details – the myriad "What Ifs?" of the
imagination's potential – many of which I've found in Ronald
Hayman's 1990 biography, making me wish I'd at least paged through it
years before. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> When
World War I started and his publishers put everything on hold for the
duration, Proust decided to fill things in. Otherwise, instead of
sequels or pre-quels, he might have published some... well,
"mid-quels." I knew, courtesy of various introductions to
those volumes of the novel I'd read, how he gradually inserted four
new novels. I was less interested in these details at the time, more
concerned with trying to figure out what was going on. Keeping
Proust's cast of thousands and reading voluminous explanatory
footnotes was enough work. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> While the opening,
<i>Swann's Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, first appeared
in bookshops on November 11th, 1913, Hayman mentions Proust's
secretary had already been typing up the manuscript for the novel's
second part before he quit that December. In June, Proust was
correcting new proofs but war broke out by August; and by January,
the publication was officially suspended. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> This
second part, completed in 1914, had not yet been definitively titled
– in fact, the whole novel underwent numerous title transformations
– and Proust continued adding new characters like Albertine into an
organically evolving plot. Knowing how he wanted it to end, what was
originally the middle volume became five, one thing leading
inevitably to another.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
Throughout the course of the war, he exasperated his publisher by
adding and revising these new volumes even after the Armistice. By
then constantly ill, Proust would add this disclaimer: if only he
lived.</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;">
</span></span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDHNDNvRoZwTsyLemN9_MfpqyfiUtagohzRIfWy0FhWady7GXzLHs2_ptmfwtezc-wVXZExCQPrvHjB-WU9i5jcgXcaWfF9yoflyfkF_Nk2qLkScOJuNgJtf8kpQ9aqaq1d0eHrpQhSGuhp9cSNCXhr4w60dk-ehDcz3e7Wr2dllBcNJl7g/s738/Proust_WritingLettersInBed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="738" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDHNDNvRoZwTsyLemN9_MfpqyfiUtagohzRIfWy0FhWady7GXzLHs2_ptmfwtezc-wVXZExCQPrvHjB-WU9i5jcgXcaWfF9yoflyfkF_Nk2qLkScOJuNgJtf8kpQ9aqaq1d0eHrpQhSGuhp9cSNCXhr4w60dk-ehDcz3e7Wr2dllBcNJl7g/s320/Proust_WritingLettersInBed.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Photograph of Proust writing letters in bed (c.1913)</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />In February, 1922, Proust still wrote there'd be more books to come,
inserting "whole volumes" between </span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and </span><i>Time Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He
told his publisher, "</span><i>À</i><i>
la recherche du temps perdu</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is
scarcely beginning." Then, in the early spring that year, he
told his housekeeper, "Last night, I wrote 'The End.' Now I can
die." </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTnDcWBfFuqfUW4WERv0TrVGx_taAzLaeBIShuqkDrbCQPCyfLvPAc6Wm-uOLTqXCw9CO83AzanAGo6qM_jxfGRyMPA9zMPw04RmJv2ODTvjlO_5T9IBaR-Y9Srd3GmiSe82gVTMHIOTROSoveNBPaUTjNsLUosO1Ue4LlMa9nZe86EhQSg/s320/Proust_Paperolles_Prisoner.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="320" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTnDcWBfFuqfUW4WERv0TrVGx_taAzLaeBIShuqkDrbCQPCyfLvPAc6Wm-uOLTqXCw9CO83AzanAGo6qM_jxfGRyMPA9zMPw04RmJv2ODTvjlO_5T9IBaR-Y9Srd3GmiSe82gVTMHIOTROSoveNBPaUTjNsLUosO1Ue4LlMa9nZe86EhQSg/w200-h193/Proust_Paperolles_Prisoner.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Proofs for <i>The Prisoner</i><br /></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;">Since he'd begun correcting the initial proofs of</span><i> Swann's Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> by 1913,
Proust's usual approach to editing was not to make corrections or
small cuts but to add new text and lots of it, resulting in margins
filled with additional lines and scraps of paper inserted between or
pasted onto the original (the famous </span><i><a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paperolles" target="_blank">paperolles</a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">).
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> In
1921, he told his current publisher the sequence following the death
of Albertine was better than anything he'd ever written. But even
this was being considerably revised, eventually causing lots of
unresolvable confusion.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> In
</span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
Albertine, the Narrator's mistress</span><i>,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
escapes from his control and dies in a riding accident. The Narra</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">tor
then spends the</span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">
rest of the volume trying to prove she'd been having lesbian affairs.
In the new version, cutting some 250 pages from the proofs, she dies
along a river, his ensuing obsession considerably reduced. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> By August, 1922,
he'd called this new, shortened version <i>Albertine disparue</i>
("Albertine Missing") but his posthumous editors eventually
suppressed the revision. The typescript itself "went missing,"
not to be discovered and published until 1987.<span style="font-style: normal;">
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> In
October, after finishing work on </span><i>The Prisoner</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
he resumed editing </span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
before he decided to change the title to </span><i>Albertine
disparue,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hoping to avoid any
confusion with Tagore's new novel, </span><i>The Fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Some published editions would call Proust's sixth volume </span><i>La
fugitive</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and others, </span><i>Albertine
disparue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, but only the title had
been changed. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmkF5ZaHIRWHw-7EXLESs14oHkfZwYGll1QnZ5hI8kfy_kUwPW44_iCIdkYncHT-1kHjlYWP6Mu6nc6NiT5jpaY7DnUp7wjaYio8X-x2C0q8UBzSopRwqrxKcQoq7hqSESh-u5RmvVD0soOVREUT2lb1Q8Q5paS5h7dyaZ2JIFDVTV-Btwg/s620/Proust_CorkLinedBedroom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="620" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmkF5ZaHIRWHw-7EXLESs14oHkfZwYGll1QnZ5hI8kfy_kUwPW44_iCIdkYncHT-1kHjlYWP6Mu6nc6NiT5jpaY7DnUp7wjaYio8X-x2C0q8UBzSopRwqrxKcQoq7hqSESh-u5RmvVD0soOVREUT2lb1Q8Q5paS5h7dyaZ2JIFDVTV-Btwg/w400-h213/Proust_CorkLinedBedroom.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The cork-lined bedroom Proust rarely left<br /></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><br />The confusion is
not entirely unexpected, given Proust worked from his sickbed, rarely
leaving his apartment during these last few years. By June, he
continued editing even though his temperature was often around 102°.
In August, he couldn't tell his typist what he wanted her to do; in
September, he had several severe asthma attacks. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> His eyesight
deteriorated, he had periods of giddiness, flu turned into
bronchitis. He tried to stand up but often "fell over." By
November, bronchitis became pneumonia. But he continued to edit his
novel's proofs.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> One major problem
with the revised <i>Albertine disparue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
(not to mention several other last-minute revisions) was, there was
no easy continuity with the opening of </span><i>Time Regained</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
even as to where it should begin. Would he have inserted another
volume about those years his Narrator spent in a sanatorium during
and immediately after the War? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-style: normal;"> There
were minor, contradictory details still needing clarification that
perhaps another pair of eyes might find so he could correct them.
Yet, considering how his creative process worked, could he have </span><i>ever</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
finished it...? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> L<span style="font-style: normal;">ooking
at the piles of papers left in Proust's room, there was no way, now,
there'd ever be "a definitive text." I</span>ronically,
on November 18th, Marcel Proust ran out of Time. He was 51. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> Regardless of his
having written "The End," his novel still wasn't quite
finished when his funeral was held on November 22nd.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
– Dick
Strawser</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Read my 1st installment for The Proust Centennial, "<a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/987-words-about-rememberance-of-things.html" target="_blank">987 Words: Remembrance of Things Proust," here</a>... </i></span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>
</p>Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-62416034469901267262022-11-22T08:00:00.058-05:002022-11-22T08:00:00.226-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #40<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-tY4rQxmEXPjgc8v8WHlR3Ld4yQpWOexrpsVgPXsN9hB-5Upl4REkP2Y1HQo_7FbeiDq89Jksm4fOVKKt3ane6e5FHJEF2xDub3EXOQQ0FXyLDbPhcIvaQOWAz8RUTm9prvGJI5zaQ5ukqMyBQ92ZwbGKwf5-U91pnA-DQG7pVoY19fORQ/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-tY4rQxmEXPjgc8v8WHlR3Ld4yQpWOexrpsVgPXsN9hB-5Upl4REkP2Y1HQo_7FbeiDq89Jksm4fOVKKt3ane6e5FHJEF2xDub3EXOQQ0FXyLDbPhcIvaQOWAz8RUTm9prvGJI5zaQ5ukqMyBQ92ZwbGKwf5-U91pnA-DQG7pVoY19fORQ/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-39.html" target="_blank">the previous installment</a>, Dr. Piltdown and a whole herd of al-Zebani's animatronic security robots, larger-than-life raptors in the image of F. Murray Abraham's Salieri (in full-court dress, no less), met their various demises at the hands of Bond and her IMP agents, desperate to find their way out of this seemingly dead-end tunnel. </span></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And another set of IMP agents have arrived at the Allegro Conservatory in Missouri just in time to discover the place completely closed down, not a soul left beyond some highly annoyed students hanging out on the lawn ("a fire-drill, they said"), staring at their phones and finding error after error message whenever they'd try to access the school's website. IMP Agent Wilhelm Streicher has some bad news for them.</span></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Good news for both of you reading this, however: after this one, there are only three more installments before the conclusion of </i>The Salieri Effect!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br />
</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
28</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
he'd come back from two rather inexplicable visits, first to the
Aficionati's laboratory on the edge of town and, more inexplicably,
to the room next door in the year 1983, Dr. Kerr had lots of things
on his mind before leaving for his mysterious rendezvous with a piano
teacher across the border in Missouri. <span style="font-style: normal;">Unable
to reach Cameron and inform him of this plan, Kerr decided he should
alert both Arcangelo Collegnano and the IMP about daPonte's letter,
stolen only the night before from the Doylestown Historical Society. </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ever
since Mr. Vole had called, he'd kept wondering what he should do:
wait patiently until the police tracked it down? Instead, he e-mailed
Capt. Ritard and asked him to forward this to the IMP's Musical Crimes Investigative Services agents. Since it wasn't officially
registered museum property, Kerr admitted it would be difficult to
trace. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Beyond that, the best
thing was to alert the scholarly community not only to the letter's
existence but to the fact it may soon find its way onto the Black
Market, and anyone seeing it should contact the IMP's MCIS before it
disappeared into the hands of a private collector, its potential
significance lost forever. There was far too much of that going on in
the world today, unscrupulous collectors, those “financial aristocrats”
capable of dropping a cool million just so they could look at
something whenever they wanted. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
took forever to find the best wording, and it certainly would've gone
much more easily if Cameron had been there to attach his photo of the
letter's first page as proof, asking Collegnano if he'd forward this
message to any 18th Century scholars specializing in
Mozart, daPonte, or Salieri, specifically someone like John Rice. At
the back of Kerr's mind, of course, was the possibility Collegnano
would want to keep this to himself: the world of musicology, Kerr
didn't need to be reminded, was indeed a cutthroat one. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He'd
wanted to keep it a secret, revealing it with a scholarly article,
but now he needed to preempt the thieves. “Just one more issue to
worry about,” he thought, “along with everything else.” Still,
announcing his discovery on a musicology list-serve might reach more
people in shorter time than some article in a journal.</span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * * <br /></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dr.
Collegnano, enjoying the warm afterglow of a pleasant dinner in the
company of (mostly) friends, still felt the need to dab his lips,
moist from the last of the wine they had shared. It wasn't that late
in the evening but the esteemed scholar knew there was no more work
to be done tonight. He stacked the books into two piles, one for
those he had finished with, another to start fresh in the morning,
then sorted through his notes and locked them away in the filing
cabinet. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> His
former assistant, a student named Attwood, always wondered if that
was really necessary, but Collegnano knew there were scholars out
there intent on stealing his research, breaking into his home,
pilfering his library. He'd left Attwood go convinced he'd
photocopied some notes and sold them to the highest bidder: one
cannot be too careful. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Before
shutting down his computer, Collegnano noticed several e-mails came
in since he'd left to prepare for the dinner. One from his publisher
would be pressuring him for a prospectus on his next book. But did he
want to renew his contract? And there wasn't even a hint of an idea
for a new book. This correspondence would only get more tiresome
until they'd make threats about him returning their advance. Alas,
the problem with advances was they tended to get spent on research,
this time along the Riviera... </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
didn't want to go and ruin the mellowness after an enjoyable meal by
poking a stick into <i>that</i> wasp's nest. Then he noticed there
was also one from that annoying T. Richard Kerr. With a sigh,
Collegnano decided he would definitely ignore that one, most
definitely. That one alone would ruin his whole day. It had certainly
ruined his whole day last week, whenever it was Kerr had called him,
asking about that Speranzani fellow. The presence of such an e-mail
was rank with false pretensions of acquaintanceship. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Just
because I'd been lured into speaking with him,” he sniffed, “no
doubt he feels we're now on a first-name basis.” The idea of
opening an e-mail that probably began “Hey, Angelo” infuriated
him. He had no interest in helping the man, whatever it was he
wanted; Kerr certainly had nothing that could help <i>him</i>. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Even
if their association went back several years, now – decades, most
likely – limited to that one time they'd met in Boston (his first
American lecture tour, which soon led to his big break in those years
of struggle), that was no reason to presume they were on the same
level either professionally, academically or socially. Americans were
so naïve, assuming just because one taught at some insignificant
small town New England roadside college of no consequence, one was
therefore on the same level as someone who taught in Vienna.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
something about the attachment caught his eye. Did he see that right?
He stopped his finger inches above the touchpad. Could he open the
attachment, a photo, without having to read the e-mail? He looked
more carefully at the file-name: what had caught his attention stood
out like fine print highlighted in bright colors. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> <i>DaPonteLetter-1.jpg.</i></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Wasn't
that what Kerr had been talking about, some letter written to Lorenzo
daPonte from this former assistant to Salieri? He sent him the
letter? He sent him a photograph of the letter? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
reached a whole new level of naïvety. Not only was Kerr no music
scholar worth consideration, degree or no degree, he was even stupid
enough to send one of the two leading Salieri experts in the world a
copy of it.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> If
nothing else, Collegnano thought, it might be worth a laugh or two.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
wasn't so much a laugh as a chortle of delight: “What luck!”
Collegnano read, then re-read the e-mail and smiled. It turned out
Kerr claimed this “letter” was stolen as he announced to the
world, the theft aside, he had no more proof of its existence than
the attached photograph of the first page. And what level of moron,
even one with a PhD affixed to his name, would seriously buy such a
simple-minded story – especially the bit about circulating the news
while hoping to “keep it secret”? Even if he relied on this
mythical “professional integrity” of the musicological community,
he must know the feeding frenzy he'll create among those collectors
who employed some of the less ethical members of that community to
scour the world for undiscovered treasures, specifically ones
associated with the likes of Mozart or Beethoven, much less Salieri.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Collegnano
sat back and contemplated the possibilities while ruminating on its
infinite potential, the pleasure of it coursing through his blood,
nourishing him even as his body digested the remains of a fine meal.
Was Kerr driving the price up before he'd bring the letter out
(“oops, found it!”) to sell to the highest bidder? He got up,
turned the light out and retired to a small room, devoid of books but
filled with technological equipment. The ghostly light of the tablet
coming to life danced across his glasses. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Passwords
and encryption did not make this the computer-of-choice for his
internet research or social media (most of which he detested). It was
fun to troll his friends with a completely anonymous, untraceable
identity bringing a little havoc to their lives, but this little
device was his “hunting computer” and it had only one purpose. In
this day and age, it might seem strange he would hack into his own
computer, the one in his library. But that's what he did, then
transferred Kerr's e-mail to his “dissection table.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
saving Kerr's original photo to a secret file, he proceeded to “edit”
it with special software which allowed him to alter the text of an
old document yet maintain the integrity of the handwriting, the ink
quality, and general authentic appearance. When done, there remained
a clever forgery – except for one, rather glaring problem. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Collegnano
very neatly typed in a whole new text full of early-21st
Century slang and pop culture references, back-translated into the
original late-18th Century Venetian dialect which any
scholar familiar with the language would immediately notice, if he'd
only read the letter: presumably, Dr. Kerr was either unfamiliar with
the language or hadn't read it. The question would be, did Dr. Kerr
(<i>Doctor in asinis causa</i>) think he was creating a fraud he
could get away with or was he the butt, witting or unwitting, of a
musicological hoax? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Unable
to tell the difference between his forgery and the letter writer's
own handwriting, Collegnano saved his changes to the photograph and
decided he would forward it to a number of his scholarly friends. It
was child's play to make it look like it came directly from Kerr;
Collegnano even included himself on the routing. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
then closed his tablet, dubbed the iHacker2000, locked the door
behind him and, as he returned to the library, hummed bits of
Trofonio's aria, <i>Spiriti invisibili</i>, from one of his favorite
Salieri operas. Yes, there it was. He opened Kerr's e-mail, saw his
edited hoax – “<i>invisibili</i>, indeed!” – and knew it
wouldn't be long now. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
destruction of whatever was left of Dr. T. Richard Kerr's
infinitesimal reputation would soon be complete. Let the innuendos
begin!</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
first,” he said, settling back comfortably, “I must make a phone
call...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * * </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Yetzer
Haradov, well-intentioned but down-on-his-luck Israeli scientist
who'd collaborated with evil because evil always paid better,
realized evil must be destroyed: he pleaded with Krahang, apparently
a fellow-collaborator-turned-undercover-good-guy, if the IMP agents
would not leave him behind (surely, he'd be killed), he'd help
destroy the entire evil project – and do it through his own
contribution. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Haradov
grabbed the small vial of reddish liquid he'd left in his lab coat,
the one he'd given to Cameron, and held it up to Sam. “But first,
we get away from this wall.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
no time to explain, Haradov handed it to Cameron and told him to
throw the vial high enough, compensating for the fan's pull, it
cleared the railing in front of al-Zebani and Osiris. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> They
were startled when a small, dazzling explosion took place before
their eyes.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> A
cloud of red glitter – laced with pheromones! </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Before
he knew it, al-Zebani was covered by dozens of biting, stinging
drones. “The Stupid Sweat!” were the last intelligible words
anyone heard the man scream. His arms flailing, he tried to get away.
There was nowhere to go, they were all over him. Too close to the
railing, he lost his balance and fell. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Al-Zebani
would fall too close to the fan! In a wild dash – had he hoped to
break his former colleague's fall? – Haradov discovered too late
he'd ripped open the bandages that covered his wound. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Haradov,
screaming wildly, collapsed on the floor just as al-Zebani, arms
flailing and screaming even louder, landed squarely on Haradov's
back, then cartwheeled toward the fan. Sucked in by its powerful
draw, al-Zebani disappeared.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
pounded the blocks that turned the fan on: could he disengage the
power switch? Instead, the rotors reversed their course. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Immediately,
minced body parts started flying past them, blood spattering across
the wall.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
sudden change in direction proved too much for the old motor. Smoke
billowed as it lurched to a sudden halt. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
a shuddering heave, the fan tore from its moorings and hit the floor
beneath with clouds of dust and smoke – and long, flickering
tongues of flames. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron,
knocked to the ground, felt something hit him on his shoulders.
Turning over, he was met by the frozen scream, all that remained of
al-Zebani's shaggy-maned head.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Osiris's
high-pitched shrieks cascaded all the way down the ramp that sloped
from the balcony deep into the hallway's farthest shadows. Bond was
convinced he was yelling “Get 'em off, get 'em off me!” This was
the elusive, fearsome, evil Osiris, one of the world's worst music
terrorists, and he screamed like a little girl? From what little she
could see, before the crash knocked her to the ground, Osiris's
wheelchair careened uncontrollably, nearly invisible under this
bee-like swarm, headed for the collapsing rubble he was powerless to
stop.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was the first time she'd ever laid eyes on the man in all the decades
she had been tracking him. What she wouldn't give to go back in time
and tell her mentors, Davis Bundle and Tony Kunstler, what she'd seen
today, those legendary IMP agents who'd been hunting for this man
since 1946.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
that shit al-Zebani hit the fan, once she and the others picked
themselves up off the floor, Bond looked around. A quick inventory
placed Mbira and Shendo beside her, Gerdie not far away. Still no
sign of Calliope-Jane whom she'd last seen on the balcony. Had the
drones gotten her? She looked up, hopeful. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Maybe
she'd gone after Osiris, intent on bringing him in alive. Still, what
were the chances he'll be captured <i>this</i> time?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Osiris'
screams had faded into the distance, but now there was something
different.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sam
had run to check Haradov as soon as the fan crashed but he could see
there was no sense looking for a pulse. The man's neck had been
broken by al-Zebani's fall and the look of disbelief in the man's
eyes proved he must have been aware of the irony of his death. Sam
hoped in whatever afterlife he might find himself in, Yetzer Haradóv,
scientist, would know he'd atoned for his sin. It was over –
almost. True, al-Zebani was quite dead; the question remained, “what
about Osiris?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> And
there was a question about the drones themselves, the Mobots they'd
all had a hand in designing: where were they? Without his tablet, Sam
couldn't get into the database to control them anymore, to undo
al-Zebani's directions for this latest mission. Had Piltdown had
sufficient time to fuel them up with enough fresh poison? <i> </i></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There's
another matter to consider, too: were they beginning to develop some
kind of intellectual cognizance that allowed them to “think”? Had
Purdue's “Clara” software managed to implant fragments of
cognitive development through those rhythm-generating codes Sam used
to transmit choreographic commands? Did he play a part in developing
this alarming new capability, this “talent”?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron
ran over and yanked Sam away from Haradov's body. “Come on! Hurry!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Two
things Sam hadn't noticed: a garage bay opened in the wall before
them; the floor began to collapse behind them.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
frame around the fan-house started to buckle as well, leaving Sam and
Cameron little time to escape around it and follow the others into
whatever tunnel lay behind the door. No one seemed to know where it
led but given the alternative it was the best option. Actually, no –
it was the <i>only</i> option. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
garage bay closed behind them as a wildly reddish afro popped up over
the railing near where al-Zebani once stood. Calliope-Jane, wherever
she'd been, had just returned, never so excited in her life. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
found the exit,” she yelled, pointing behind her. But there was no
one below to hear her. “Where'd they go?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
she looked down, the floor and hallway were already dissolving into
great clouds of choking dust before her eyes. There was nothing else
to do. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Run,
feet, like y'all done never run before!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-41.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-22492764928228810322022-11-18T08:00:00.036-05:002022-12-09T14:20:45.007-05:00987 Words: Remembrance of Things Proust
<p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8etUMiqDzTJUN6jlzJvB0nmK_aCrhRnAFXDFY1K4a-OPjje5LiYuoNDsfW_A4ack9KtuJdTzUorWkrH0ufyiza9gkoR3ngeE9yDboEB1jAWjG3WX3JAWXEqAazAA8O8NtcG7ETSxv3V3hHb6gXgA34S7zdqbsHm2Bpsw-3NdB3tY8XZSODw/s529/ProustPhoto_wDates.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="529" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8etUMiqDzTJUN6jlzJvB0nmK_aCrhRnAFXDFY1K4a-OPjje5LiYuoNDsfW_A4ack9KtuJdTzUorWkrH0ufyiza9gkoR3ngeE9yDboEB1jAWjG3WX3JAWXEqAazAA8O8NtcG7ETSxv3V3hHb6gXgA34S7zdqbsHm2Bpsw-3NdB3tY8XZSODw/w200-h121/ProustPhoto_wDates.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Celebrating major anniversaries of someone's birth makes sense though many of us fall short of bringing balloons and gobbling down cake. "Observing" the date someone died on</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (since "celebrating" sounds ghoulish)</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> presents different issues, more as a way to commemorate someone influential in our own lives, examining a legacy that brings us enjoyment or inspiration. <br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Centennial of
the death of Marcel Proust, which occurs today, probably isn't going
to draw big crowds in Paris streets. Where are the annual
celebrations like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloomsday" target="_blank"><i>Bloomsday</i></a> recreating scenes from James
Joyce's <i>Ulysses</i>? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Few fans today will
be re-enacting Proust's narrator eating a <a href="https://www.finedininglovers.com/article/hundred-years-prousts-madeleine" target="_blank">madeleine</a> with tea;
visiting a male brothel to watch some aristocrat beaten until "blood
spurts everywhere;" attending soirees hoping someone will talk
to you; or desperately feigning symptoms of an illness to coerce your
mother into coming up to give you that all-important bedtime kiss. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Two of my favorite
authors – or rather their works influencing my own attempts to
become a writer (which is, at its core, one of the things Proust's <i>In
Search of Lost Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is "about")
– are Proust and Joyce. And Henry James (okay, </span><i>three</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
of my favorite authors...) and Monty Python (which probably no one
expected). Four more disparate styles would be hard to imagine
coexisting in one creative psyche and yet they've informed all six of the novels I've written and all the music I'm still trying to
compose. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Curiously,
with the exception of <a href="https://montypython.50webs.com/scripts/Series_3/40.htm" target="_blank">Monty Python</a> (whatever you want to call it, it
certainly had a "style"), they were all creating their most
influential works in the first decades of the 20th</span><sup><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;">
Century. Henry James came into the realization of his final
masterpieces including </span><i>The Ambassadors</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and </span><i>The Golden Bowl</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
between 1902 and 1904. James Joyce began the long journey of </span><i>Ulysses</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
which takes place on a beautiful June Day in 1904, ten years later.
Proust attended <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rite_of_Spring" target="_blank">the premiere of </a></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rite_of_Spring" target="_blank"><i>Le Sacre</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;">
while correcting proofs for </span><i>Swann's Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> When
Joyce finally published </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Ulysses</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
in February, 1922, Proust was anxiously finalizing two more of the
seven volumes of </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">In
Search of Lost Time </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">while
still planning additional volumes that would be inserted between </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">The
Fugitive</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
and the concluding volume, </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Time
Regained</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">,
which he'd already completed in 1916.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> But
he died on November 18th</span></span><sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">,
1922. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Not
a scholar, I'm not intending to write about Proust's life (or, given
the date, his death), and if you don't know what </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Search_of_Lost_Time" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><i>In Search of Lost Time</i></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">
is – or </span></span><span style="color: black;"><i>Remembrance of
Things Past</i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">
if you grew up, as I did, on the original English translation – you
should probably check out some other sources first. </span></span><span style="color: black;">It's
clearly one of The Great Novels but I'd always put it off because of
books entitled "How to Read Proust." I'd fall asleep after
a few pages more likely because it bored me. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> While
I may research the life of a particular composer to better understand
his music in the context of its creation, I've rarely done this with
an author (except Henry James; that's another story). I scoffed at
needing to read a biography of Proust if I've already read his novel:
it's famously autobiographical, isn't it? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> I'm
not sure how many biographies of Proust are out there or if the only
one I own (and never cracked open until last night), <a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/Proust.html?id=Jn4dAQAAIAAJ" target="_blank">Ronald Hayman's
1990 <i>Proust</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;">,</span> is even
the best one. I'd probably be intimidated meeting Henry James and
confused by James Joyce; Proust, as a person, would probably have
repelled me. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> In
this short essay – imagine praising Proust in 987 words when his
novel of 3,275 pages (in the edition I started with) contains roughly
1,405,000 words – I need to distinguish between work and artist.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7D93gqEFHyitGBCV5PgxH1VxyMgvB5JpgHxYM9fugqFDCDxezNU51yqdhfyeIfGBvms0gaJAIJ6i1R1qHcGwDQVC6fzX9sfLMmLR-YxlDRYSdppwe4JVtkKe6YSxbFQ7L44Zkm1qXoHzh5pCZVmiLwVOXLZqAORj1KRvGEFUc40PJi5qHPQ/s450/Proust_RandomHouseCover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="286" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7D93gqEFHyitGBCV5PgxH1VxyMgvB5JpgHxYM9fugqFDCDxezNU51yqdhfyeIfGBvms0gaJAIJ6i1R1qHcGwDQVC6fzX9sfLMmLR-YxlDRYSdppwe4JVtkKe6YSxbFQ7L44Zkm1qXoHzh5pCZVmiLwVOXLZqAORj1KRvGEFUc40PJi5qHPQ/w127-h200/Proust_RandomHouseCover.jpg" width="127" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;">For my 32<sup>nd</sup>
birthday<span style="font-style: normal;">, an actor-friend gave me
Part One of the new Random House edition of Proust's </span><i>Remembrance
of Things Past</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> because, he said,
"now that you've survived 30, you're ready for Proust." I'm
not sure what that implied (he'd turn 30 himself weeks later) but
I've had few gifts offer such long-lasting rewards. </span>Since
then, I've read the complete novel once through, <i>Swann's Way</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
twice by itself, before
starting up again, most recently with the more current <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/series/SLT/in-search-of-lost-time" target="_blank">Penguin translations</a> up to the fourth volume, <i>Sodom & Gomorrah</i>.</span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's the fifth and
sixth volumes I found the most tedious to deal with: if <i>Swann's Way</i> opened with 30 pages about turning over
in his sleep, I swear 40 pages of <i>The Prisoner</i> were about him
buying his mistress a hat. His paranoid obsession with Albertine,
even after her death, would drive anyone crazy. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> At first, when I
decided to try my hand at writing a novel (not a short story), I made
the mistake of imitating Proust and before filling hundreds of pages
with outright, indigestible trash, I discovered that's not something
you can do any more than you could imitate Beethoven starting out
first composing a symphony. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> That
didn't mean Proust's ideas about what a novel could be couldn't, more
importantly for me, inspire me to figure out what </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">my</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
novel could be, and maybe help me find my own voice.</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> For me (and many
other writers and readers), the most significant adjustment came in
realizing the role of memory and how it can work, <a href="https://youtu.be/GkqzMvIcBmA" target="_blank">the famous Madeleine Scene</a> being just one of many instances. For Proust's
narrator (conveniently named Marcel), it begins a journey back to his
childhood, and from there the whole novel springs. It annoyed me, beyond this initial "Time Traveling" and occasional
flash-backs, the story moved forward in a fairly straight
chronological line. But still, the fluidity of memory in the opening
pages set the stage. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> My own novels,
their Proustian parodies and puns aside (<a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2018/08/in-search-of-tom-purdue-time-to-begin.html" target="_blank"><i>In Search of Tom
Purdue</i></a>?), are often defined by little nuggets of inspiration
lovingly pilfered from different passages in <i>À</i><i>
la recherche du temps perdu</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
</span>Finishing <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/07/the-salieri-effect-introduction.html" target="_blank"><i>The Salieri Effect</i></a>'s impact on Tom, I'm ready
for the next volume. <i> </i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> So,
Happy Death Day to you, Marcel Proust!</span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTBp6WaMgz7AzK79Mi7o7sA0E15rYpTLg4rUu77AxMKdz6FekwIKYZUjS1iJoTXaR1ObLZ2g99dMIWS_M4pkO2FIId3bctrnOWorFZigblQub0-HHGBBfQmhx6dVqhA7I2nS57Axwx8J2v6djmLwC5unHq3sFuEqGSicTpOgkxAFs9Bpguw/s504/Proust_DeathBed_Helleu.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="504" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTBp6WaMgz7AzK79Mi7o7sA0E15rYpTLg4rUu77AxMKdz6FekwIKYZUjS1iJoTXaR1ObLZ2g99dMIWS_M4pkO2FIId3bctrnOWorFZigblQub0-HHGBBfQmhx6dVqhA7I2nS57Axwx8J2v6djmLwC5unHq3sFuEqGSicTpOgkxAFs9Bpguw/s320/Proust_DeathBed_Helleu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Marcel Proust on his deathbed (<i>sketch by Paul-César Helleu</i>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">– </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>Dick Strawser</span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Read my second installment for the Proust Centennial, "<a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/987-words-about-rememberance-of-things.html" target="_blank">987 Words about Proust's Remains," here</a>... </i></span><br /></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-18930136163479562062022-11-17T08:00:00.023-05:002022-11-17T13:56:55.606-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #39<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSGzTaQLyxfZIqVVXrgUwawhJNZqolX73J7W-ig4_UWfnugBUtvNjIzxMrk7ZqW5T_l9zIsA8q0jdEAnlkFq0JDnQqqg4gFWw9vdr0cbdgAi5euGK8JMODH3wE9sGxdJd31QVMUTSPvFIW0Ep6snfPFu84mtPfiy-lmIanC_A_lfBKSpuOQ/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSGzTaQLyxfZIqVVXrgUwawhJNZqolX73J7W-ig4_UWfnugBUtvNjIzxMrk7ZqW5T_l9zIsA8q0jdEAnlkFq0JDnQqqg4gFWw9vdr0cbdgAi5euGK8JMODH3wE9sGxdJd31QVMUTSPvFIW0Ep6snfPFu84mtPfiy-lmIanC_A_lfBKSpuOQ/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-38.html" target="_blank">the previous installment</a>, it turned out to be a bad day for both the Allegro Conservatory and for Lucifer Darke, erstwhile CEO of SHMRG. And so far, it's not been going well for some other IMP agents along with Cameron Pierce at the Basilikon Lab in Orient, IA. </span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br />
</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
27</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
began regretting getting himself into this mess even more, now,
finding himself in absolutely the wrong place at whatever time. Even
at this distance, he knew these ten things were not “killing bugs.”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Chief
Inspector Bond pointed her Glock-27 at them. “Agent Senn, please
tell me these are not what you've been calling mini-drones.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Dr.
Haradóv, do you know what those are?” Senn turned him around and
the scientist muttered something sounding like a curse.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That
would be al-Zebani's latest invention, a robotic security force
called the Salierotrons.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
his previous job, al-Zebani was an engineer designing animatronic
dinosaurs for an amusement park, he explained, creatures stalking a
particular ride that took you deep into the Jurassic era –
“apparently some movie rip-off.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That
explains why they move like a bunch of raptors marching in lockstep.
Do you know the program that controls them?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Creepy!”
Calliope-Jane wondered why they looked like that as Senn fumbled
around in the various libraries on his tablet for something.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
said al-Zebani used the basic plan of his raptors but covered them
with a “skin” to resemble the actor F. Murray Abraham as Salieri
in some other movie rip-off, hence the name “Salierotrons.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Harádov,
you traitorous lecher, give yourself up.” Al-Zebani's mechanized
voice materialized from a whole chorus of Salierotrons. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
that's even creepier...!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Fortunately,
they didn't move with the speed of a hunting pack of raptors. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Senn's
tablet still had access to the different research programs they'd
been developing. “Haradov, can you find the one al-Zebani used?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ten
Salieri heads swung side-to-side in choreographic precision, loping
directly for the intruders. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mbira
and Cameron kept focusing on the wall that blocked their escape.
“There must be some way to open this gate.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Success!,”
Háradov shouted. “The 'Raptor_MST3000' – <i>Mini-Salieri T-Rex</i>.
Apparently he'd planned to go bigger.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Can
you disable it, or maybe immobilize them?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We're
coming to get you,” the Salierotrons taunted in unison, “you
double-crossing has-been!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
closer they got, the creepier Calliope-Jane thought they were and
threw a flash-bang grenade into their midst. “Fire in the...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
noise was deafening but the overall effect sent robot parts flying as
the Salierotrons attacked each other. “Only two left!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Háradov
punched text into the program, found the default commands, then hit
“Reset.”<i> </i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
barely ten feet to spare, the two surviving robots stopped mid-track,
their left legs poised and ready to step down. A weakened al-Zebani
could be heard squeaking from just the one – “God will get you
for this, Harádov!” it squawked – which then lost its balance,
toppled over, and took the other down with it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
not a moment too soon. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Agent
Mbira found a hidden panel in the side wall that lifted up a rather
sizable garage door into the room beyond. And they immediately ran
into it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Neither
Haradov nor Senn recognized the location. “This is not part of the
normal lab,” Haradov said. “I've never been here.” Senn
recalled the blueprints he'd seen of the building before the
renovations, so maybe this was part of the old air-filtration system,
ridding the toxic fumes from the factory's waste by releasing them
outdoors. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yes,”
Senn said, as they stepped forward cautiously. “Watch your step!
See? Large fans and underground vents recessed into the floor.” The
room had a much higher ceiling as the floor continued sloping
downward. “Apparently, not an area intended for foot traffic. I
suspect these filtered the air taken from the factory, then
recirculated it.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
pointed toward the ceiling at what looked like closed vents with
catwalks. “Or drawing the toxins filtered out of the air to release
them there. Any chance we could maybe escape through those?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
didn't notice any control box. “Maybe it's up on that level above
us,” Senn suggested, a kind of mezzanine where a long ramp led to
an observation platform. “How d'you get up there?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What
they hadn't noticed was the arrival of Dr. Piltdown, her lab coat
covered with soot and her hair uncharacteristically askew. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
clambering through the Salierotronian remains, she brandished her
gun, a Sig Sauer P226, pointed directly at Agent Senn, formerly
Krahang. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
double-crossing, perfidious little bastard, you!” Piltdown didn't
seem pleased to see him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
were immediately four guns pointed at her – Bond's, Shendo's,
Gurdie's (where, Bond wondered, had Calliope-Jane gotten to?), and
also Mbira's, but Piltdown blithely pointed out she'd shoot Krahang
first before they'd kill her. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Abattoir,
you, too? I should've known,” Piltdown sniffed. “They always
warned us we were never supposed to trust you Dark Types.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond,
sensing everybody's trigger fingers were a little tenser now,
realized where Calliope-Jane was, but didn't want to give her away.
The glare of hatred in those eyes under that afro was seriously
intense. By the balcony's edge, largely hidden from everyone's view,
Calliope-Jane raised her pistol, ready for a quick shot toward
Piltdown's back. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
her free hand, Piltdown called Shango for back-up but nothing he
growled back was intelligible over the shouts and gunfire, which made
Cameron wonder who's doing the shooting: did more IMP agents arrive?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
took the opportunity of Piltdown's distraction to step forward and
start talking.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
immediately swung her weapon around. “Stay away from me, you
letch,” unsure which of these guys she should shoot first.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Ah,
my dear, you have no idea how beautiful you are when angry. So
angry... – and <i>sooo</i> sexy.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
warn you!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Surely,
an intelligent woman like you,” Haradov said, waggling his
eyebrows, “must realize Dr. Dawson is also in love with you? And
you're most painfully aware I, your humbled servant, am also in
love?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
nodded back toward Krahang and gave her a knowing wink. “But how is
it you cannot understand, this young man is <i>not</i> in love with
you?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Stop
it,” Piltdown warned him. “Shut <i>up</i>!” She swung the
firearm back toward Krahang.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Krahang
was never in love with you! He's in love with this boy!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “No!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Piltdown
knew her choices: shoot the detestable old Jew first, or the faggot
traitor? But she knew as soon as she'd fire a shot, Bond and the
others would fill her full of holes. With the gun in both hands, she
aimed it squarely at Krahang's crotch and yelled something that
needed no consecutive translation. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sam
Senn heard the shot and waited for the pain and the shock. Despite
the risks of the profession he'd chosen, this was not how he expected
he'd die, at least not so soon. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Instead,
he heard the scream coming from his right as Haradóv crumbled,
writhing in pain, leveling a series of choice curses all of which
were drowned out in the subsequent gunfire as Piltdown collapsed. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Dammit,”
she shrieked through the shock, “I'm a scientist, not a fucking
soldier...” Her lab coat instantly turned a bloody red. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov's
thigh was bleeding profusely. Cameron ran over, tore off his shirt,
and ripped it into long strips for makeshift bandages.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Presumably,
when she pulled the trigger, Piltdown's aim went wild and instead of
hitting Sam, struck Haradov a few feet away. Sam checked Piltdown for
a pulse and turned to Bond, shaking his head. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
said, “Leave them – we have to get out of here. There's no
telling how quickly Osiris' agents will be here. They know where we
are, so let's find that exit, and damned fast.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “No,
please, I beg you,” Haradov pleaded, struggling to stand while
Cameron tied part of his shirt around the man's thigh. “Do not
leave me to die here – see? It's only a flesh wound!” There was
no doubt he would die a horrible death if al-Zebani found him, “just
like Ripa – or that Vremsky woman!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He's
right, Inspector Bond,” Sam said. “He could still provide much
valuable information.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He's
going to slow us down, Agent Senn – besides, can we trust him?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was difficult to argue with Haradov's fear. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
want nothing to do with the Aficionati. Or with their damned project.
I had no idea what I had gotten into when they recruited me. I will
help you stop their evil plan!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Senn
argued he'd already proven that, destabilizing al-Zebani's
Salierotrons.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
that's good,” Cameron pointed out, “because, look – here come
some more.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Damn!”
Sam grabbed his tablet and quickly began entering more keystrokes
after telling Cameron to get everybody else beyond the fan. “Haradóv,
stay here and help me prove what you just told Inspector Bond.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> This
time, another dozen F. Murray Abraham look-alike raptors stalked
toward them, all in dense formation and moving faster than before. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Mbira!
– Anyone, see if you can turn this fan on! There still has to be a
way out – just find something!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
gave the shirtless Cameron his lab coat (Sam didn't need the
distraction). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Forty
feet away, the robots loped forward and trampled over the remains of
their fallen comrades without hesitation. Cameron saw the malignant
glare in their eyes. He'd never be able to watch <i>Amadeus</i>
again...</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
Dr. Haradóv, here goes nothing – and everything.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
a flourish, Sam hit “Enter,” and the raptors slowed to a halt. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Not
twenty feet away, Cameron watched as these fearsome mechanical
monsters, ten-foot-tall versions of F. Murray Abraham's Salieri in
full court dress, broke into groups of four and began to dance to
inaudible music. A stately minuet circling around with gentlemanly
bows and discreet curtseys destroyed not only their focus but any
shred of dreadfulness. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sam's
relief was met with a barrage of applause from Bond and the other IMP
agents standing back against the wall. Cameron wished he were up on
the balcony recording this on his phone.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> That
is, until he heard an ominous buzz in the distance, a swarm of bees
or maybe mosquitoes headed their way. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
dance of the Salierotronic raptors continued, a perpetual <i>gif</i>-file
come to life, unending, as Sam motioned for everyone to get back to
the search for the panel that would activate the garage bay. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
walls were cheap, old-fashioned cinder block, heavily painted over in
industrial beige.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “There
could be a panel behind any block,” like the one book in the
library that would open the secret tunnel. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Mbira,
you're the schematics guy,” Sam called back to him, – ever find
out anything about this room, where it might lead?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Thanks,”
he laughed. “This is my first day, remember? I haven't even had a
chance to break into their database yet. According to our plan, this
wasn't supposed to happen for another two weeks.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
they all continued to “frisk” the wall, one cinder block after
another, Bond asked Sam, “I know nothing about this operation, yet
I'm in charge of the Osiris Investigation. Who coordinated your
operation?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
report directly to Chief Inspector Rackett in Chicago who then
informs the guy in charge of New York's American Division.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Theophilus
Rackett? 'The Serpent'?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,
you know him?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
worked with him once back in London some years ago. “He was well
known for his undercover work, then. I've wondered what's happened to
him.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
Haradov, leaning on
Cameron's shoulder, wondered if the panel wasn't <i>before</i> the
fan, perhaps on the other side so a passenger could get out of the
truck and operate it. Sam went to check.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Senn
now stood on one side of the room, with Haradov and Cameron on the
other, very close to the fan. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
started to press some nearby blocks when Haradov fell against the
wall. Then they heard something metallic snap into place.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Suddenly,
the huge fan kicked on with a great, sucking roar. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Found
it!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
giant fan sucked the air down into the basement's cacophonous
filters, yanking Cameron toward it in its sudden relentless draw.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
grabbed Cameron by his lab coat and managed to pull him back from the
brink. Then he realized, “oh my God, the damn pheromone – it's in
the pocket!” Fortunately, Cameron, too, was safe. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Surprised
he could still hack into al-Zebani's files, Sam inserted a new dance
pattern he'd been saving for a special occasion. He loved the
Rockettes, their precision, but it wouldn't work for mini-drones as
small as al-Zebani's Mobots. “This, however, is perfect!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
broke into a three-line formation of four each and slowly strutted
forward. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
Salierotrons, stern-faced, head-tossing F. Murray Abrahams all,
marched inexorably forward, high-kicking first with their right, then
with their left legs. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> All
Sam's computer gaming dance-moves designed for CGI graphics finally
realized their potential. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was all they could do, so close to the edge, not to be knocked into
the fan by kicking Salierotrons. Line by line, the robots toppled to
their doom, metallic body-parts flying everywhere.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Unfortunately,
Sam, thrown against the wall, dropped his tablet which skittered
precariously across the floor, then slithered down into the fan. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
shouted out, barely enough to be heard over the industrial-strength
fan, the drone swarm was making a bee-line for them. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
fan might disorient them, most likely suck them down, too, but, small
enough, they might escape the blades and reach the outside air vents.
Without his tablet, he could no longer control them. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
drones, nearing the fan's strong pull, stopped and hovered as if they
sensed danger ahead and tentatively considered their options. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> This
was something new, Sam realized: had they begun to think for
themselves?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
well,” a familiar voice shouted down from above, his hands hung
over the railing to give them a 'slow clap.' “It's the little Asian
dancer turned engineer turned traitor and would-be IMP hero!”
Al-Zebani did not sound pleased to discover them still alive and all
twenty-two of his Salierotrons destroyed. “But now, you die.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Push
me closer,” a whiny, desiccated voice invisible behind the railing
creaked out. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond's
attention piqued. “Osiris! He has Osiris here!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “No,
you must get me to a safe place. I cannot stay here...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
had a perfect shot at al-Zebani, probably Osiris, too, if he'd get
closer to the rail. Except the fan would deflect the bullet. Plus she
wanted Osiris alive, after all these elusive decades.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Agent
Selket would've known where to take me, someplace where I'd be safe!
Take me away from here! – You hear me?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “If
your nursemaid wasn't sick, your scrawny ass wouldn't be <i>in</i>
this mess.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sam
shouted back up. “Oh, she's sick, is she? Too bad. Don't worry: it
should wear off in a few hours.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You!”
the old man squawked, “<i>you</i> did that? Why, for that, I shall
kill you <i>twice</i>!” Osiris peered over the bannister. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Al-Zebani
pointed at the roaring fan behind them and the mini-drones before
them. “As you can plainly see, <i>sir</i>, he's between Iraq and a
hard place (you know, I have never understood that expression).” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “If
you don't take me away from here, al-Zebani, I will have you killed
<i>three</i> times! I give the orders, here!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
was convinced Osiris's anger must have him close to an apoplectic
stroke.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Given
their options, here, that would solve everybody's problem. But she
needed to bring him in alive. That was the plan. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sam
noticed a gradual fluctuation in the drones' attention, first a few
in front, then more toward the back, refocusing – recalibrating. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
recalled Haradóv's reddish pheromone, the “Stupid Sweat,” he'd
accidentally spilled on Osiris. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
got a glimpse of a wildly reddish afro just behind al-Zebani and
Osiris. He'd wondered where Calliope-Jane had gotten to.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Osiris,
old man, step right up! You, too, creator of animatronic toys to the
Heartland's carnivals,” Sam shouted, goading al-Zebani on. “I'm
sure you want to watch your Mobots' latest field test, don't you?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
would probably take as long for Streicher and his associate to fly
from New York to the Heartland as it would for his boss to make it
from the IMP's new office building in Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan
during afternoon rush. Finding a direct flight from JFK to Kansas
City had been challenging enough. But Ritard, being the boss, should
get to make the more significant collar, SHMRG's CEO, Lucifer Darke,
caught in his lair, and put a quick end to their case against the
“Killer z'Art” Software. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Of
the two cases they were working on, that was by far the more urgent,
even if it would only bring about a long-drawn-out trial where Darke
would undoubtedly get off on some technicality. Their sudden arrival
would've been more sudden if IMP Director Powell-Jones hadn't
commandeered the only functioning helicopter for another golf outing.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Regardless,
reports N. Ron Steele had surfaced in Independence, MO, seemed pretty
farfetched, but what sounded suspiciously like an old-fashioned SHMRG
scam was worth checking out, and that's all Streicher was supposed to
do. His fantasy had been to break in with guns drawn, yelling
“Freeze, IMP” and arrest Steele on the spot – if possible. But
“basic reconnaissance,” in this case, meant “find out if in
fact the Allegro Conservatory was a fly-by-night school or legit.”
Unless Steele actually was on the premises, yes; then they could
arrest him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
IMP had several international warrants out to arrest Steele on sight,
involving numerous cases of “suspected involvement” in
music-related murders. He had gone underground years ago after being
wounded in a Bavarian shoot-out. Since then, rumors circulated about
this or that hiding place, but he always managed to be one step ahead
of them. It was unlikely Steele would be on the premises of this
so-called conservatory, right in the middle of the United States. But
after years of escapes, Ritard cautioned, it's quite possible he's
getting sloppy. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was just one little wrinkle in the ointment, as Ritard put it:
“nobody knows what the guy looks like, anymore.” Everyone laughed
when Streicher suggested using “aging software” on the last photo
they had, then posting it on a milk carton.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ritard
dismissed the idea. “Streicher, do people even <i>use</i> milk
cartons any more?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> While
Director Avery Powell-Jones was out of the building, playing golf
with his former Wall Street buddies, Ritard was able to have Agent
Ghabatti, working from home “sick” that morning, check certain
things on-line, then report back to Agent Boumdier positioned at the
Thai place next door, circumventing technical issues his office
continued to have.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> From
all the various Allegro Conservatory complaints, Ghabatti unearthed
lots of chatter regarding Steele's likely involvement behind this
fast-track music school; and evidently SHMRG's board was gathering
for a “Come-to-Jesus” meeting with Darke today. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
he'd managed to find enough intel to confirm his suspicions about
both, Ritard sent Streicher and Ghabatti off to Kansas – “actually,
Missouri, sir,” Streicher hesitantly corrected him, “Kansas City
is in Missouri”; “Americans, they are so stupid,” Ritard
responded – while he and a more impressive show of force would
descend upon Darke's SHMRG headquarters. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Another
element of surprise would involve Director Powell-Jones whenever he
returned to his office (probably tomorrow) and discover Ritard took
advantage of his superior's absence, assumed “acting control” and
signed off on the necessary requisitions for two plane tickets to
Kansas City and enough gas for the jeep to make it to midtown and
back. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
that was how IMP Agents Wilhelm Streicher and Tootsie Ghabatti found
themselves only a few hours later driving into a posh Independence
neighborhood to find quite a scene outside the old Ripley-Greenleaf
Mansion. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ghabatti
developed their “back story” on the plane, not much of a story
but something to cover their unexplained appearance at the school.
They would be a married couple with a musical daughter and they're
looking at a music school for when she graduates from high school, a
would-be singer with a passion for opera. Streicher wondered if they
could pass for parents old enough to have a child in high school,
then did the math. “Okay,” he agreed, “and our names? Are we
musicians in a nearby orchestra?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
decided he would be Derrick Sturmendrang, a violinist; she would be
Nicola Calorido, a bassoonist (a choice that surprised Streicher).
They'd be from – New Castle, IN? And they played in the
Indianapolis Symphony. Ghabatti contacted Boumdier who'd get them
inserted digitally into the orchestra's on-line personnel list, so if
SHMRG checked, there they were. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Early
spring had been kind to this part of town, Streicher thought as they
drove around looking for the right address. Large homes, what the
cabdriver called “anti-bellum,” surrounded by open lawns, lush
landscaping, tree-lined streets and grand shade trees filled out the
image of a time of cotillions and summertime juleps on the porch. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
it wasn't children playing in the yard catching their attention when
the cabbie announced their arrival at the Greenleaf Mansion. “Home
of the Állegro Conservatory.
Looks like some kind of a lawn party.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
wasn't the grandest house on the block nor even in the best shape.
Wide and generously proportioned with a wrap-around porch of rounded
corners, its upstairs windows were on a less modest scale. There were
four, maybe five gables, two across the front (and whatever's around
back), with several dormers and imposing brick chimneys. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
clapboard siding had been painted a dim recollection of light brown
that once made a pretense of not being white. The darker trim of
porch posts and railings, plus numerous straight-forward window
frames, devoid of shutters, was also in need of attention; shrubs and
plantings across the front and along winding pathways did, too. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
substantial house as homes went, still whether it could hold a whole
music school struck Streicher as a reasonable doubt. And a fairly
substantial crowd milling about wasn't doing the lawn any good. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What's
the occasion,” Streicher asked as they nonchalantly strolled up to
some young people on the outside edge of the crowd. He estimated
there may have been over twenty of them, probably students, most of
them standing around, staring at their phones. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Odd,”
Ghabatti noted, “I don't see any 'older adults,' like faculty or
administration.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
a little late for a lunch break – faculty meeting, do you think?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> One
of the students nearby overheard them and looked up. “More like the
world's longest fire-drill. Man, damn thing's taking forever...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
don't mind missing theory, it's so boring, anyway, but I've got
practicing to do,” another student glanced over and said.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We
were in a rehearsal when some administrator barged in and told us to
evacuate the building.” This was a tall, relatively rotund man in
his mid-20s who turned out to be Mark Winsom. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Another
student mentioned all the doors were locked, even the back doors. “No
one could see any lights on inside, either.” Two more mentioned
there were no cars left in the faculty parking area.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Streicher
and Ghabatti walked around to the back, peering in windows, seeing
nothing, and knocked on the back door. No response. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
broke one of the window panes and unlocked the bolt.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Anybody
home?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
weren't even any crickets. The place was dead silent. They began
wandering through the first floor. A few students followed. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Most
of the furnishings – tables, overstuffed chairs, couches,
knick-knacks and pictures – were largely undisturbed but, outside
Dean Ringman's office, a student pointed out the file cabinets were
missing and Ms. Holliston's desk pushed aside. Cables and wires stuck
out of the floor and the one wall where, apparently, computers and
phones had once been attached. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Streicher
and Ghabatti wandered through other rooms and found each one of them
totally devoid of any paperwork or “technological infrastructure.”
Even the classroom video cameras for the on-line instruction
component had been removed. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Joe
Hummel, who'd introduced himself as a pianist – “I was playing
for the Mozart rehearsal when we were interrupted” – had tried to
access the school's website on his phone but kept getting error
messages. He showed the screen to Ghabatti (who hadn't bothered
introducing herself as Nicola Calorido): “Not Found,” it said,
“cannot locate server.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hey!”
Wearing tight jeans, a girl with long blond hair and bouncing breasts
ran down the hallway. “Somebody stole my violin!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
left a million-dollar violin in what could've been a burning
building?” Joe was incredulous. Everybody knew she owned an
expensive instrument, but leaving it unguarded in a practice room
sounded even more foolhardy. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
can I say? Daddy's rich and I deserve only the best. Thing still
sounded like crap, all squeaky and out-of-tune. But hey, he'll buy me
a new one, so maybe it'll sound better.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
wanted the police called to search everybody until her “fiddle”
turned up. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,
Tiffany, I don't think anyone here has your fiddle.” Joe showed her
the error message on his phone. “Tough break.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “So
what, the website's down,” she protested, trying not to pout. “And
that's a really cheap phone, dude, seriously – like, whatever...?”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
dozen other students tried accessing the website and a dozen students
got the same error message, holding their phones up. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Streicher
stepped forward and held up his IMP badge. “I suggest everyone of
you call your folks and check your bank accounts. What we have here
is a scam. Sorry – you've all been scammed.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “So,
its trumped-up success was a mirage intended only to fleece
unsuspecting dreams.” </span>Mark scanned his eyes around the
mansion's interior. “Well, to quote the late, great philosopher,
Doña Aldonza from Brazil,
'<i>Finem lauda</i>'!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-40.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-57368225026456667382022-11-15T08:00:00.055-05:002022-11-15T11:36:33.967-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #38<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleOO3PVWCwyD_Q_7yq9_jvdxHxq8lTlk_DeYIa2ezyzkIB3NjYR1VPPAwov9e8CGmTh26kcaGRaMbqBBMMgEz653QbDMt8XAWMpCcOWY4uGnN6JHt2FCcjV3IJlpeNz_f33iVAZmLj66cXAqu2nqsNZn6HjUvWEkrczDAtFznQz6qttY8gA/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleOO3PVWCwyD_Q_7yq9_jvdxHxq8lTlk_DeYIa2ezyzkIB3NjYR1VPPAwov9e8CGmTh26kcaGRaMbqBBMMgEz653QbDMt8XAWMpCcOWY4uGnN6JHt2FCcjV3IJlpeNz_f33iVAZmLj66cXAqu2nqsNZn6HjUvWEkrczDAtFznQz6qttY8gA/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-37.html" target="_blank">Tom Purdue went from wondering</a> how Dexter Shoad stole his music to how his housekeeper Mrs. Danvers' strange intruder (he's decided to name him "Mr. Wormwood") knew to approach her and ask about Dr. Kerr rather than confront Tom himself. What was he after and how did he know where to go to find it? Other than the original manuscripts of those compositions by his Cousin Emaline he'd found in a box, what else was there in the cabin somebody would think worth stealing?</span></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, Cameron is running down another hallway at the Basilikon Labs with a bunch of IMP agents, trying to escape from the Aficionati's killer drones when he hears Dr. Kerr's ringtone on his phone. Unfortunately, he has to let it go to voice-mail: something is following them and they don't look like the tiny "bugs" Agent Sam Senn (formerly Double Agent Krahang) had described. </span></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But now, it's time to return to the Allegro Conservatory's rehearsal for Mozart's </span></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>Cosí fan tutte</span></span></span></span><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> where things are not going all that smoothly...</span></span></span></span></i></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
26</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
the break, six singers gathered in the mansion's ballroom, more
morose than before, neither looking at nor talking to each other,
while the pianist sat down and kept his eyes on the keyboard.
Whatever the Allegro Conservatory claimed to be, it was successfully
proving itself to be anything but “Your Grandfather's School of
Music.” Whatever these walls may have witnessed in their glory days
– fancy-dress balls and cotillions filled with the sons and
daughters of the local aristocracy – the singers knew it had never
seen anything like this. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Lauren
Mostovsky, whom the website's bio identified as a “revolutionary
young talent in the opera world,” stood before them, a
peacock-patterned silk scarf thrown jauntily over the shoulder to add
a bit of confidence. To the director, the room was nothing more than
empty space to be filled with the sights and sounds of
art-in-the-making. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
singers had left the rehearsal with little more than lunch on their
minds, basically each in an overall grim mood, especially after that
bizarre turn where everything, without warning, exploded beyond the
surreal. Whatever they were feeling individually, they all agreed,
along with Joe the pianist, this was not the time to discuss it. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Instead,
Felicia retired to a distant practice room and stormed through
Dorabella's first aria, <i>Smanie implacabili</i>, about those
“implacable pangs which torment me,” an excellent way to work out
her frustrations. “Okay, <i>use</i> them...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Before
they would gather again that afternoon for a second meeting, the
director had texted each of them a short message: “Think of your
character as daPonte intended. Bring an accessory to the rehearsal.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Mark
felt it was 4<sup>th</sup> Grade show-and-tell <i>d</i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><i>é</i></span><i>j</i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><i>à</i></span><i>-vu</i>.
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> For
instance, the text Henry received was direct, a simple if
ungrammatical suggestion:</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Look
into your closet and see what you could improvise with,” Mostovsky
suggested. “Ferrando, your the dashing young soldier in love with
sultry Dorabella: so what would you choose to accessorize your
character with?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Whatever
the director's intentions were behind this message, the consensus
would've been a hopefulness that, perhaps after all, they would now
revert to a more standard, traditional approach with this production
– “as daPonte intended.” Back in the rehearsal room, they took
their seats with their chosen accessory, most of them hidden in
plastic shopping bags. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
a clapping of hands to break the awkward silence, Mostovsky suggested
starting with the recitative after Act One's big quintet. She
explained “the moment,” how Alfonso had broken the news and the
boys have come to say good-bye to their sweethearts. “Just read
your lines in English, don't worry about Mozart's rhythms – just
lines.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
they'd gone through the brief scene once, Mostovsky asked Rosa, since
Despina was not involved here, whether they were “convincing.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rosa
clearly felt awkward critiquing them and said, “well, it's their
first time...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Okay,
fair observation.” This time, the director suggested they put on
their accessories and “work” them as if they were props.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rosa
watched from the sidelines, and smiled broadly. “Oh, God yes, much
better!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> For
this next time, Mostovsky wanted each of the lovers to trade
accessories. “And with them, now absorb each other's characters.”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
was the first to balk at this as Felicia handed him the turquoise
throw she'd fashioned into her trailing skirt. “So, I'm supposed to
strut around like her?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It's
just an exercise, Henry.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Orchis
laughed, putting on Frank's blazer with the plastic rose in the
buttonhole. “It doesn't fit – it's like a trench coat!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “And
that's exactly the point,” Mostovsky explained, smiling. “They're
not meant to fit, to make you comfortable; you're different, now.
Begin. But this time, say the same words while acting in your new
genders.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rosa
tried not to giggle. After all, she'll have to do this also when she
becomes Doctor Miracle or the wheezy old notary in each act's
finales, but her smiles quickly turned to concern. She also noticed
Mostovsky wasn't doing much to help them, letting them see (or not
see) where they'd naturally lead themselves. They were having obvious
trouble with this, especially Henry who'd become sullen and had to
stop in the middle of a line to control himself; unfortunately, once
he resumed, things didn't go any better. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
a few more minutes of this, it was Henry, predictably, who broke down
and just plain stopped. The others waited. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Rosa
sat back, hoping she looked nonchalant rather than too concerned and
analytical.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
rest had their own issues with this “exercise” but realized,
whatever Mostovsky said, they'd need to work this out themselves. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It's
not a matter of <i>self</i>-identifying as this character, Henry,”
Mostovsky began quietly and without the condescension the rest had
anticipated. “It's a question of allowing yourself to inhabit,
momentarily, another person's... well, <i>persona</i>.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
walked away, shaking his head, embarrassed to look anyone in the eye.
“I feel idiotic. The whole <i>thing</i> feels idiotic.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Orchis
was the first one to speak up. “I think I get it – I'm not sure I
<i>like</i> it, not yet. I feel I'm playing 'dress-up,' only this
time not a character I'd chosen.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
you're a girl,” Henry protested, “girls play 'dress-up.' I would
never in a bajillion years dress up as a girl!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Why
not? I was always dressing up as a boy,” Felicia said, laughing
slightly, “I liked playing baseball, I liked being one of the guys
playing War – doesn't make me any less a girl.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Frank
saw Henry'd grown more uncomfortable. “Henry – or should I call
you 'Hank'? – you sang Curly in <i>Oklahoma</i>, right?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
nodded.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> [w]Well,
when you dressed up as a farmer, you didn't really become a farmer,
right? So, in this play, we're <span style="font-style: normal;">play</span>ing
'dress-up' in costumes that represent characters who may not be us in
reality.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Felicia
picked up the argument. “I've sung 'pants-role' arias like
Cherubino's a lot. It's a matter of broadening your comfort zone.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “At
least,” Frank chuckled, “we're not doing any nude scenes, right?
– are we...?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Mark
pointed out, ever the observant philosopher, Henry and Frank only
needed to master the art of cross-dressing for the first few scenes
since they'll be spending most of the opera disguised as Albanians.
“Or, in this case, gay men back from a night at the bars.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “And
that's supposed to make me feel better?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Henry,”
Mostovsky said, “go with us on this, We'll drop the nude scene when
Dr. Miracle's magnets make your clothes disappear – though there'd
be no costume then to have issues with...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Even
Henry laughed. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
have a cousin who's gay, about my age, and he fits the stereotype of
my character's 'disguise' to a T,” Frank said with that kind of
expression the Light Bulb of Epiphany creates. “So, imagining how
Guglielma moves and stands as a gay man, I'll think 'What Would
Cousin Bruce Do?' and imitate him.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
shook his head. He'd never known any gay men, didn't have any gay
friends or relatives either, and he'd never been in the habit of
watching gay men when he did see them. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
not entirely true, Henry. You've been around me for several weeks
now,” Mark said to him, “and you've watched <i>me</i>. Ah, from
your expression, apparently you didn't know I was gay? Oh please...”
He explained how liberating it had been to play “Charley's Aunt”
in a high school production. “I was magnificent,” he chuckled. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> They'd
been singing individual songs or arias in a studio for years but only
a few had been on stage before, so the idea of coordinating singing
and movement wasn't entirely new to them. Was this the best way for
them to make that transition, when just learning the basics of
stagecraft was challenge enough?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
thought they should learn a standard opera, first, in a standard
production. That's what he'd wanted, why he'd signed up. Wouldn't
this kind of experimenting be better left to those more experienced
singers? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
come on, Henry,” Rosa said, standing up to strike a pose, “I've
been playing nothing but 'roles' all my life. I'd been a black girl
in a white world so long, I didn't know who the Real Rosa Miller
really was. I even had to act Blonde to become a cheerleader in high
school.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Mostovsky,
sensing some of them were warming to this interpretation and may be
adaptable to playing an outlandish game of 'dress-up,' reminded them
of the importance of loyalty to any production they'll sing in. “And
that will be the case whether it's here at the Allegro Conservatory's
Opera Department or at the Metropolitan Opera House.” First, each
singer must sublimate themselves to their character – confusion was
slowly diminishing over Mostovsky's non-grammatical use of various
personal pronouns – <i>and</i> to the director's vision of the
production, the story behind the music. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “What
you need to do is discover how you'd interpret what the composer
wrote for the story provided by the librettist, to bring out your
character and make sense of the production's overall vision. Maybe it
doesn't make sense to you at all, all these gender changes, but it
all comes 'round in the end.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “In
the final Wedding Tableau,” Mostovsky explained, “the original
couples are reunited. Fiordiligio, now married to Guglielma, reaches
around secretively and takes Ferranda's hand, just as Dorabello and
Guglielma 'make eyes' at each other. In their original pairings, it
was all 'opposites attract' so perhaps they realize they might've
married the wrong ones after all. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “In
the Italian, the title <i>Cosí fan tutte</i> means 'So Do <i>They</i>
All,' but the emphasis is different, translated into English. Once
it's '<i>Women</i> Are Like That,' however, it's the English that's
become misogynistic.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
was not a peep from the singers who stood back as a whole cluster of
epiphanic light bulbs went off. Hummel, seated attentively but
otherwise invisible at the piano, played a crisp, recitative-like
dominant-tonic cadence to punctuate the moment, “plunk, plunk.”
Mostovsky's smile barely hid the fact – “oh, yeah” – the
premise had been sold. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
wasn't much time left in the rehearsal, so the director hoped to make
as much progress in the remaining twenty minutes to give them
something to work on before meeting again that evening.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Here
is another exercise we can try,” Mostovsky explained, “and you
can observe each other. Maestro, music? No words, just pantomime.
Take off the accessories” – Henry gladly did so – “the boys
are now the sisters but you'll be playing them as men, while the
girls will now be the boyfriends, but playing them as women.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> They'd
hardly gotten started, the two “sisters” looking at their lovers'
portraits, sighing, smiling, and comparing notes when Mostovsky
stopped them. “Yes, but seriously, is that how guys would really be
looking at photos of their girls they'd have on their phones? 'You
think <i>yours</i> is pretty? Look at <i>this</i>!' Maybe even some
wink-wink, nudge-nudge...?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
boys tried again, this time pointing at their palms, pretending
they're phones, but now their body language was clearly bragging.
Henry tried to convince Frank his girl was much hotter but Frank
disagreed. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
know Mozart's music is bouncy, there,” Mostovsky said, stopping
them once again, “but would you really just start skipping around?
No, maybe you'd swagger, swing your shoulders, cut a few strutting
dance moves?” When they'd gotten it down to something Mostovsky
found believable, the director had the girls imitate their various
swaggers and strutting. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Orchis
laughed but agreed it was working. “I feel I'm a little girl
pretending to mock my older, would-be macho brother.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Right,
but with practice, you can absorb that and make it more natural.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Henry
stood back, ready to start imitating the girls when it's their turn
to be the boyfriends. He was pretty sure he would be “absorbing”
this only in the privacy of his locked room.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
door burst open and the conservatory's Chancellor, Holly Grayle,
barged into the room without knocking. “Everybody out of the
building!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ms.
Grayle, a prim, middle-aged bean-counter of the Old School, saw
little need for art (it was just another four-letter word). She
didn't even look at the students or register what they were doing. As
far as she was concerned, she agreed with Samuel Johnson's definition
of opera, and considered it “the most useless entertainment.” Why
she was even involved with a music school was beyond her, but it paid
well and she was good at crunching numbers – and well-known for her
various recipes about the cooking of books. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> As
Chancellor of the Allegro Conservatory and CFO of the Proteus
Foundation, the last thing she would be interested in was what a
bunch of students were doing prancing around to some idiotic music.
If this wasn't distasteful enough, she had to deal with this weirdo
director-person, Lauren Mostovsky (“Who the hell ever hired <i>her</i>?”).
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> She
noticed the students still stood there, open-mouthed and unresponsive
at the interruption.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Hey,”
Grayle shouted at them, “are you deaf or just that stupid? I said
'everybody out of the damn building!' Now!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> They
picked up their books and scores, leaving their accessories behind,
and ran toward the door. “What the fuck's going on?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Think
of it as a fire drill, moron, if you have to have it explained to
you,” she yelled after them. “Whatever happened to those nice,
obedient children back when I was growing up...?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Once
everybody'd cleared the room, Grayle approached the director,
whispering under her breath. “It's come way sooner than we thought,
so not everyone is prepared. Clear everything out you can, except for
the furniture.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “What's
come sooner than...?” Mostovsky looked completely befuddled.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You
don't know? Why, the <i>police</i>, of course!” Grayle shook her
head disapprovingly. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “The
police...? But... why are the police coming?” Mostovsky started
gathering up folders and handouts, different scores, anything she
could carry. “What about the piano?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
good grief, that counts as furniture, doesn't it?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Grayle
explained as the school's finances began to tank, it was only a
matter of time before creditors would close in but they thought
they'd make it to the end of the academic year. If they'd gotten
money in for the fall semester's registrations, they might've
succeeded, she continued, but everything imploded like yesterday's
quiche.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “They're
going to close the school?” Suddenly, Mostovsky became seriously
alarmed. “That's <i>awful</i>! Our <i>Cosí</i> could've put us on
the map!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> For
a brief second, Grayle stared at her, disbelieving the woman's
complete naivety. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Where're
the sets and costumes stored? Get 'em loaded onto the van, ASAP!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
we're not quite that far along, yet.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,
that's good news. Get everything out your office that could associate
you with any Opera Department that ever existed here.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “What
office...? And what about the website? It's all over the school's
website!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Grayle
said the website's already been taken down and all their computers'
hard-drives are being scrubbed “as we speak.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “My
laptop...?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I'll
take it. IT's going through the place, collecting any technology they
find. Oh, your personal bank account and on-line social media have
already been closed down and transferred into the Foundation's
overseas accounts.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
arms already loaded beyond capacity, Mostovsky stopped and wondered
if they'd be mailing back paychecks from the past two months.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Paychecks?
Sure, sure,” Grayle said, almost patting Mostovsky's shoulder.
“Monday, so I'm told.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Mostovsky
took one quick look around, saw nothing left behind, and ran toward
the front door. “No, not that way,” Grayle said, “the
students... – the police may be waiting out front. Go out back. All
the doors are being locked. Put everything in your car,” she said,
“and drive away as far as you can.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Alone
in his office, the curtains drawn against the gloom of a rainy
afternoon, Lucifer Darke, the beleaguered head of SHMRG, paced back
and forth, lost in the labyrinth of his equally gloomy thoughts. A
tall man whose shoulders were now eternally hunched, his eyes
averted, he'd become an introvert who's become even more insecure.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
was never fond of bright lights, even now the room lit solely by the
dim banker's lamp on his desk. Unfortunately, these events of recent
months had placed him in an uncomfortable spotlight. It had never
really felt like his office or even his desk; even the company he ran
didn't feel like his, everything around him suffused with the
malingering presence of the man he'd replaced. But the scandal that
plagued him now was clearly of his own making and nothing he had
tried could stop it. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was to be his claim to fame, the triumph he'd point to to make SHMRG
his and rebuild its finances, opening new business vistas with a
software product intended for amateur would-be composers. Program it
to suit your own tastes, whatever you liked, and the software would
write its own compositions in your name. Of course the fine print
stated, while it was “in your name,” anything created by the
software would be published by a SHMRG subsidiary and became the
property of the parent company – <i>his</i> company. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> That,
however, wasn't the scandal, whether anyone noticed the fine print or
not; that was the new, 21<sup>st</sup> Century business model. If
they're “amateurs,” would they need professional recognition like
new-found wealth from royalties? Hence, the company, licensing the
software to them under a lugubrious contract nobody'd read, offered
to take care of this burden. If there were any profits to be had, the
“composer” would receive 13% as royalties, while 21% went to the
publisher, 55% went to SHMRG and the remaining 11% went discretely
into Darke's pocket. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
was no guarantee anything the software created would generate a hit;
the odds were slim there might even be one. In short, the company
wasn't liable for any failures in the program's production. Like any
success, much of it depended on how well the software was programmed.
Very few geniuses wrote nothing but masterpieces. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
there's that glitch that killed dozens of Happy Customers after weeks
of successful collaboration between stupid dreams and intelligent
technology. And the latest count of SHMRG customers electrocuted by
their computers reached 89. Suddenly one day, an unsuspecting
“composer” would be working on a new song and – Zap! – an
electrical current short-circuited their heart. One happened during a
live tutorial on You-Tube as an older gentleman demonstrated how
you'd program certain parameters into the system's database when he
was electrocuted live (so to speak) and died on camera. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Freak
accident” or not, some dubbed the video “the smoking gun” and
others, without irony, “living proof” the program was faulty. The
video <span style="text-decoration: none;">received 196,418 hits in
the hour before it was taken down. C</span>omplaints began pouring in
hourly and customers flooded the Help Line (which was normally
understaffed) wondering if their computers were safe. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> All
of which led to calls for various investigations, including a
congressional one called by Representative Ben Gozzi from North
Carolina, none of which accomplished anything beyond making SHMRG CEO
Lucifer Darke look uncomfortable. He'd taken the expected approach to
defend his company's product, that it was perfectly safe to anyone
who operated it properly. All this bad publicity sent SHMRG's stock
flushing down the Wall Street toilet, yet the product was never taken
off the market, as government and company officials cited nothing, so
far, could be proven. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Darke
assured them he felt the pain of those customer's families deprived
of their loved ones, all because they'd wanted to, however
vicariously, experience the thrill of creating something beautiful by
purchasing SHMRG's software. Just think, if they hadn't done that,
they'd still be there at the dinner table enjoying fulfilling lives
with their families. It had been the worst experience of his life, he
added, such an inconvenience, going before all those cameras and
panels and legislators, repeating <i>ad nauseum</i> his product was
“perfectly safe if properly handled.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
had turned into a media circus of frenzied speculation, the very
frame from that video where the old man died turned into a meme: “I'm
sorry, Dave, I can't let you do that...” Conspiracy Theorists who
spouted the “Artificial-Intelligence-Was-Evolving-A-Mind-Of-Its-Own”
thing, swore any computer could now turn into your worst critic, a
truly killer app.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
it was discovered the old man in the video already had a heart
condition and diabetes, what more proof was needed any mild shock,
impervious to a healthier individual, couldn't cause his death? If
you don't follow the instructions, does someone killed by hooking up
a car battery wrong prove the battery is faulty? Darke even had some
of his best engineers testify before some of these investigations to
snow the would-be experts under an avalanche of Geek-Speak to prove
you couldn't make assumptions based on mere speculation. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Privately,
Darke blamed Purdue, an amateur computer engineer, for flaws in the
original code, not his own engineers desperate to meet holiday sales
deadlines who'd overlooked some key keystrokes which created the
fatal glitch. Perhaps the system, which after all they'd stolen from
Purdue (not that they'd admit that) had been hacked by the Chinese?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “No,
of course,” he realized, “not the Chinese – it must be the
Aficionati! It must have been sabotaged; and most likely an inside,
undercover job. If I ever find out the one who's responsible...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
<i><span style="text-decoration: none;">you</span></i> are,” a not
too distant yet too familiar voice crooned, hidden somewhere in the
mordant shadows behind the desk, “you couldn't control them, could
you, imposing unrealistic deadlines, demanding impossible sales
reports. You even threatened them with terminations – right before
Christmas, too, just like Scrooge.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Out
of nothingness, a shape began taking form.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was a figure in a wheelchair, dark and formidable, its eyes
smoldering, and caressed the desk once the mysterious shape behind
him pushed him forward, slowly but with an irrefutable sense of
possession. Those eyes softened: this desk had once been his. This
room had once been his office. Even this view'd been his. The secret
passage he'd designed so he could come and go without anyone in the
office knowing had especially been his. And clearly, judging from
Darke's amazement, Steele had caught him by complete surprise. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Darke
threatened to call security. “You know the IMP has been searching
for you for years? I'll have them arrest you.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Steele's
hand immediately shot toward the phone, blocking Darke's move. “Don't
– even – <i>think</i>...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Why
have you resurfaced now, after all these years sniveling in your
hideouts?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Because
now, I'm ready to take everything back.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Especially
on this afternoon's flight, courtesy of his friend's private jet,
nodding in the direction of the statuesque blonde behind him, Steele
said he's had plenty of time to contemplate the importance of
loyalty. He realized he couldn't control his company unless he
controlled the loyalty of his people – and Lucifer was out of
control. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Because
there's nothing worse than a traitor,” Steele sneered, his words
rolling out in increasingly stentorian tones, “a traitor to the
cause, a traitor to the firm, a traitor, most of all, to <i>me</i>.”
</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Clearly,
in the few hours since he'd come under her spell, Steele had been
artfully coached by Savannah Roller who continued to hold Lucifer
Darke in her gaze like a cobra ready to strike.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Something
you conveniently forgot, Mr. Darke, is that you were not to <i>replace</i>
me. You were only 'standing in' for me.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> His
voice rose in a long crescendo. Steele thundered home, “someone
loyal to the firm would take one for the team. Remember, Lucifer,
there's no U in 'TEAM.' You cannot spell 'TEAM' without <i>ME</i>!”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Roller
laid her hands firmly on Steele's shoulders and his body quaked
visibly. When she lifted her arms with an expression of triumph on
her face, Steele rose from his wheelchair and stood tall. With aid of
neither crutch nor cane, Steele walked the few remaining steps and
pressed the escape key on Darke's computer.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Darke
stood gaping at Steele and his antics. Compared to what his minions
had been reporting to him over the past few years, what he knew of
Steele himself, this was more the Old Steele but with an even more
demonic twist. And who was this blonde woman he'd brought with him,
some latter-day Svengali? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “They're
here – the IMP,” Steele said, “ready to arrest you, not least
about your '<i>z'Art</i> Software.' You'll be gone for years. I'd been like
a father to you. This is how you've repaid me?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Once
more, Steele sat down in the wheelchair and the woman pushed him into
the shadows, one last wave before disappearing. However long Darke
might have to remember things, he'd never forget that wave. But it
was the smile on the man's face, the smirk that chilled him to the
bone. It was unadulterated evil. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Beneath
the siren's intensifying wail, Darke could hear the scuffle of feet
as fists pounded on the door. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was over. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Lucifer
Darke,” one voice yelled, “we know you're in there. Open up –
IMP!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Capt.
Ritard, bashing the door down, placed him under arrest for Corporate
Malfeasance involving the deaths of dozens of SHMRG customers. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ritard
and his team of agents escorted the handcuffed Darke away, so many
frightened prairie dogs peering out over their cubicles. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Darke
knew what they were thinking.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “TEAM
is also an anagram of MEAT...”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-39.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i>to be continued...</i></span></span></span></a></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-53420052479701866912022-11-10T08:00:00.028-05:002022-11-10T08:39:00.256-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #37 <p align="LEFT" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFX76YFHTow2yNtrUmXsPTMIjTSRjr6ZJJbX976kSvgMaOG-ICXmaJmz851AxmGXsQBFZCgk4lqvbh5tI1_bVW_Dg8ilDVkhECrwixHrWXPMz9b1zthnS8X0vquyBi4zbTC0S186tOKU1ZHRP-o1_JdJDWGJW7SqVRuDoBzVMRZ8-Oza2Aog/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFX76YFHTow2yNtrUmXsPTMIjTSRjr6ZJJbX976kSvgMaOG-ICXmaJmz851AxmGXsQBFZCgk4lqvbh5tI1_bVW_Dg8ilDVkhECrwixHrWXPMz9b1zthnS8X0vquyBi4zbTC0S186tOKU1ZHRP-o1_JdJDWGJW7SqVRuDoBzVMRZ8-Oza2Aog/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">As <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-36.html" target="_blank">the last part of the novel</a> opens, Tom Purdue has gotten in touch with some of the composers who'd been at Iowa's White Hill Artist Colony back when Trazmo disappeared. With the discovery of this new piece of music by a young Missouri student named Dexter Shoad, there's a new and unexpected wrinkle to throw into the mystery: Tom recognizes a theme he'd been working on when he was at the colony, and one of the other composer identifies musical ideas he and another of the composers had written at the same time. But how could Shoad know them to plagiarize them, music that was written before he was born and, in Tom's case, nothing that had been published to steal? Tom really needs to hear from Dr. Kerr...<br /></span></span></p><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>= = = = = = =</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">[Chapter
25, continued...]</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “No
news is still no news.” Tom puttered around the kitchen, putting
the lunch things away. “Good news would be nice.” There was also
the question whether “no news” was preferable to “bad news.”
He had almost forgotten about yesterday's mysterious trespasser, the
one Mrs. Danvers reported, and wondered if that was a good thing.
This was more immediate, if the intruder came back, something he
could prepare for if not control: was he in danger? Whatever the man
was after, it was here, not thousands of miles away. His eyes trailed
momentarily to the painting in the study, the one where Uncle Max had
hidden his old wall safe, a preposterous place to have installed it,
he thought, the most obvious cliché. If the intruder was familiar
with the cabin (which he seemed to be), why wouldn't he go right to
the safe?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Fortunately,
during Tom's visit for Max's funeral, Burt, now the new owner, told
him how as a teenager he'd discovered Grandpa Hiram's locked vault
beneath the desk, this small iron trunk under the floorboards. So, in
the middle of the night, Tom decided to transfer Cousin Emaline's
manuscripts to the vault for even “<span style="font-style: normal;">safer”</span>
keeping. Whoever his mysterious visitor was and whatever he's looking
for, what else could Tom <i>knowingly</i> have under his roof worth
stealing? Again, these obvious questions gave rise to a proliferation
of other, unsettling possibilities. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
he'd already done with any possible Shoad and Trazmo connections, Tom
began to sort through additional issues he should consider: how did
the intruder know about the box and where to find it? The man was on
his way to it when Mrs. Danvers followed him right to the closet
where it had been. So, as she explained it, she hadn't told the
intruder where it was; she only knew there was an old box stored in
the closet, there; how would <i>he</i> know what was in it? Even if
she knew about the safe (he thought it likely she would have, since
she probably noticed it while cleaning), she couldn't know the
combination (naturally, Tom changed it when he took possession). Had
Burt ever, for any reason, told her about the small vault hidden
under the floorboards (that wouldn't have seemed likely)? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> So
how did this guy know where the box was supposed to be? He'd said
Kerr asked him to retrieve it but isn't that really unlikely?
“Wouldn't Terry have just called me, instead?” He hadn't told her
what specifically he was looking for, just “the box,” which Terry
last knew was in the dining room. After they'd left for Iowa, Tom
figured he'd move it out of the way, somewhere safer, so rather than
dragging the thing back upstairs to the closet, yeah, the safe was a
logical choice.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">
It could be valuable – it was to him, more than just family history
and genealogical curiosity. “And,” he'd remembered thinking,
“who's going to steal this stuff, anyway: who else even else knew
about it?” Apparently, somebody did, because two days later, this
guy showed up out of nowhere, while Tom was out of the house. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> But
after the intruder's visit, Tom decided perhaps the wall safe wasn't
safe enough, the most obvious place somebody would look. He also
decided to wait until well after dark when he'd be alone. In the
middle of the night, he made sure the drapes were closed, the only
light coming from the banker's lamp. He'd pried the floorboards up,
unlocked the trunk and carefully slipped the papers into it before
tamping the boards back down and replacing the rug. Then he'd gone to
find some relaxing music video...</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
intruder – Tom stopped, annoyed by constantly referring to him as
“The Intruder.” He needed a name, preferably noncommittal, not
too friendly like... well, like 'Caspar'; not too evil and
unsettling, either, like 'Creeper.' Perhaps Caliban or... since he
disappeared into thin air, maybe Ariel – or Wraith. Rafe? (Too
familiar.) No – what about... “Mr. Wormwood”? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Anyway,
with that solved (and feeling he'd at least accomplished something),
Tom wondered how Wormwood knew about Terry, knew he was visiting or
had anything to do with the manuscripts in this mysterious box? He
also apparently knew he'd left but hadn't taken the box with him. Did
he know why Terry left and why, presumably, he would send someone to
“retrieve” it if he'd left it behind? Though it had sat
unattended for days in the dining room, Wormwood waited but still
hadn't known where it really was. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> While
the question about his knowledge the box existed was one thing,
Wormwood hadn't indicated he knew anything about its contents, so
“what was he looking for?” was a separate issue to be considered.
And Wormwood hadn't confronted <i>Tom</i> about it: saying Dr. Kerr
was interested in it was enough to get past Mrs. Danvers. But Tom
never recalled he'd discussed the manuscripts on the phone: he'd
waited till Kerr arrived, then showed him the collection. Because
phones could be tapped, he rarely discussed anything “sensitive”
over the phone. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> No,
it was all done here, either in the dining room as they'd looked over
the manuscripts, or in the study. What about the times they'd gone
outside and walked around in the yard? Which meant, to Tom's
reluctant imagination, Wormwood must have the place bugged, but
where's his listening post. Where were the bugs? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
also must've known Tom wouldn't be home, though he apparently hadn't
counted on Mrs. Danvers. Was he <i>watching</i> the place? Worse,
what if Wormwood had been <i>inside</i> the place, listening. Was
that possible? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Unless
he'd bugged each room – rather old-school by today's technology –
how'd he hear them talking about Cousin Emaline's box of manuscripts?
Is it possible to hack some bugging app into the cabin's wifi router?
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Tom
began to hyperventilate and settled into the recliner, taking deeper,
longer breaths. He decided to wait for Cameron to call.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Finding
a music video to listen to during the nighttime certainly succeeded
in taking his mind off the consequences of Mr. Wormwood's unexpected
appearance, details he had been doing a fine job of
self-complicating. Between the whirlpool of Dexter Shoad and the rock
of Jeckelson Hyde's <i>Minotaur</i>, did the way forward imply
Trazmo's ever-looming return? His mind was exhausted, his body
drained despite what fitful sleep he'd managed before the sunrise
prodded him into reluctant consciousness. Tom lay back on the
recliner again and hoped a nap might help. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
drifted off, early flowers visible through the window, those spring
bulbs in a small bit of the yard under the birches, mostly blue
hyacinths and daffodils (which he'd never cared for – too common).
It was the constant renewal of life, this wheel of Time come 'round.
“I should plant roses – Mother always liked roses.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Odd,
he thought, finding his mother, now, someone he could barely remember,
snippets of events coming into focus through the dream-fog. Always
idealized, she died before he'd grow up to become disappointed in
her. What had been the connections? <i>Were</i> there connections?
Irrevocable Time, we discover too late, cannot be redeemed or
restored; only retrieved.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He'd
been over this: was there anything between Shoad and Trazmo? If so,
what? How could all this be a coincidence? He felt there had to be
something. “And between Wormwood and anything else?” </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> If
it hadn't been for Trazmo – he knew he meant the whole business of
rumors associating him with Phillips Hawthorne's disappearance –
how different would his career be, have been (first, let's consider
the career)? Tom walked into their old rose garden, his mother's
pride-and-joy (both him and the garden), where he'd sit, a child
dreaming. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Humanity,
its reality unbearable in the worst of times, fell back on deep
cultural needs for art and our own perception: what we know, what we
might have experienced, points us through the present. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “I
hear other voices,” the would-be artist says, to find his own, his
path. “Shall we follow them, you and I?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Of
course, we don't know (yes?) where our careers might lead, how it'll
be shaped by our lives, successes and failures. Dreaming, success had
their perpetual possibilities, though the odds (no?) usually favored
failure. </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Like
“food, shelter, and clothing,” Tom had been told, there are three
important generalities to a fulfilled life: career, marriage, family.
When his first love – poor misunderstood Violetta Diehl, the dancer
– ran off (unrequiting), he had married a friend, Susan, surprising
everyone. The transition to being husband and wife soon became a
challenge for them. Estrangement and a separation followed Tom's
return from Iowa once the rumors began about Tom's “alleged
involvement” with Trazmo's alleged disappearance. Susan didn't know
how to deal with it, so she chose not to. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Tom
could not say where this “still point” in his life's focus, the
stability of a married life, the union of two spirits, had shattered
and some future direction dissolved, as Tom remembered it, but it's
possible, he admitted, it would have failed without the pressure from
that Trazmo Business, though he always blamed him. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Conquering
Time which time heals, incessant solitudes in which words beyond the
desert howl with temptations, Tom recalled the innumerable
recriminations, the final absence from his daughter, faded, fading
further, dying in solitary-most suicide. Through silence come the
distant cries from a funeral, patterns of sad expanses of time
stretching out before us and behind. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> All
because, on that one day for that one moment, Tom Purdue was in the
wrong place at the wrong time. He found himself hoping today would
not be Time coming 'round full circle. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> They
ran down another endless hallway, chased by killer drones and who
knew what else, smoke filtering through the air vents. Cameron had to
wonder if he could've avoided all this if he hadn't tried that silly
meditation technique which apparently backfired and accidentally sent
Dr. Kerr off into the midst of another IMP crisis. Naturally, it
could've been worse: what if they'd both been transported here
together? At least with Bond and the other IMP agents, he was better
off being among friends armed and presumably better prepared.
Whatever Bond was in the midst of (she wasn't sure, herself), Cameron
knew he had to make sure they rescued Kerr from whatever he'd gotten
himself into, any questions of “what” and “how” aside. Even
after years of working with Dr. Kerr and his Seat-of-the-Pants
Methodology, Cameron admitted those pants had started wearing
perilously thin. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> If
Cameron had gotten him into the place, however that had happened
(besides, how could he explain it to the IMP?), he knew it was his
responsibility to get him out, somehow, and fast. It was only Bond's
call that solved the “where,” yet it was a big building with
numerous situations becoming increasingly dangerous. He knew he
couldn't hijack Chief Inspector Bond's mission, initially intended as
reconnaissance only, to turn it into a rescue effort, but it wasn't
every chase scene you get asked out on a date. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Of
course, the situation could also have been worse – far worse – if
Dr. Kerr had disappeared not only into Room #12 but into Room #12 in
1983 without any clear way to get back. If Terry were stuck in 1983,
would he know to hang around and wait for Cameron to show up in 2016?
Wouldn't that mean Kerr'd be almost a hundred years old, since he
would age all those years while he was waiting? Plus, how would
Cameron know to be here waiting if they'd never met? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Agent
Senn signaled they turn down yet another hallway no different from
any of the other hallways they'd been running through. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> And
that was when the call came in: Dr. Kerr's ringtone! “He's back!”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Who,”
Bond asked, “Kerr?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Yes
– he must be back in the motel room. How else would he have gotten
his phone?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Unfortunately,
between running down the hall, prodding Dr. Haradov to keep up with
them, and trying to see through the growing smoke (Senn had not
thought the fire would spread beyond being a distraction), Cameron,
unable to retrieve the phone from his pocket without fear of dropping
it, let the call go directly to voice-mail. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “So,”
Shendo asked, “that means, what... he's somehow escaped from the
building and he's no longer here? How'd he get out!?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Cameron
was well aware the others had stopped looking for him long ago. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
kept on running, tempted to stop and check the call, but he knew if
he did that he might end up becoming a victim of these Mobots Agent
Sam had been talking about. And how would he respond, type a text
like “sorry, gotta run, later”? And how exactly did Kerr manage
to survive? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Shendo
suggested this unmarked door on the left. “No,” Senn warned him,
“don't: that goes back into the central lab complex.” At the next
turn, the hallway started dropping lower. “Okay, it's going
underground.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bond
wondered if Cameron thought whether it really was Dr. Kerr or had
someone else from the motel found his phone? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Leading
the way, Sam asked Cameron, “so, who is this Dr. Kerr, anyway?”
Bond began to explain about his being a consulting music detective
for the IMP, not quite what Sam had been thinking. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Only
seconds after Cameron's voice-mail signal rippled, Dr. Haradov's
wrist-phone burbled with an incoming text, coming from al-Zebani:
“Where u? – Z.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
a case in point, Bond wondered if that meant somehow the Aficionati
had located Kerr's phone – had they captured him, found the room
key? And now they were trying to locate Cameron's whereabouts? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Haradov
slowed down to read the message but held it out to Cameron and Mbira
as if it were burning him. “Take this thing off,” he shouted.
“I'm not interested in work with them!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Sam
stopped and turned in amazement. “What? Are you saying you'll help
us?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Absolutely,
yes!” After seeing how they were utilizing his discovery, Haradov
decided he wanted nothing further to do with Osiris's project.
“That,” he protested vigorously, “is not science; whatever
they're doing, it is the vilest rebirthing of Nazi racial supremacy –
it's inhuman.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> They'd
reached a dead end. Sam desperately searched the wall for a hidden
panel but found nothing that would open it.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Haradov
glanced over his shoulder. “Get me the fuck out of here –
<i>please</i>!”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mbira,
yanking Haradov's watch-phone off, smashed it against the wall. A
door slid open. Without hesitation, they all slid through it.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Wherever
his allegiance lay, he was with a group targeted by al-Zebani and as
a result, he will die with them. He mumbled something unintelligible
and bowed his head, offering up a hasty prayer. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
other agents looked at each other, not a clue what he'd said, until
Agent Hurdie mumbled something back equally unintelligible. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Brooklyn
girl,” she said, regarding her colleagues confusion. “Learned
Hebrew for my bat-mitzvah.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Surprised,
Haradov looked at her and smiled, comforted to know there's a fellow
Jew in their midst, and then he explained.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “These
Mobots we'd designed, miniature drones – tiny flying robots,
'Killing Bugs' – have been let loose and I'm afraid they'll find us
because I have this... <i>thing</i> which attracts them – and then
they'll kill us.” </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “He's
right,” Senn added. “We've seen them at work. Dr. Haradóv
designed this <i>thing</i>, a pheromone that acts like a lure. It's
how Graham Ripa died. It was terrible. I'm afraid there's no
escaping...”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> But
Calliope-Jane was the first to notice them.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Ya
think?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Behind
them came ten of them, clearly <i>not</i> “tiny.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “What
the...?!”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-38.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-63244026481160604972022-11-08T08:00:00.014-05:002022-11-08T08:00:00.191-05:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #36<p>
</p><p style="text-align: left; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="color: black;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VpjasUTsXwdjheR3AQ7DUKitm-kDN_QAc6SyWyPNQU7gbl3Abw0sBCzVpEBHVKod3q0KwlFdHCgpQObKyvdaYE-q7T5uEaz3QVsFozRpNx3Q3-mQLpPjRwFGwat1CL5tIi2iRI6lR_pvHgzH04KFXUg6yCsLG4EKFgfDK4scineEGdl62g/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VpjasUTsXwdjheR3AQ7DUKitm-kDN_QAc6SyWyPNQU7gbl3Abw0sBCzVpEBHVKod3q0KwlFdHCgpQObKyvdaYE-q7T5uEaz3QVsFozRpNx3Q3-mQLpPjRwFGwat1CL5tIi2iRI6lR_pvHgzH04KFXUg6yCsLG4EKFgfDK4scineEGdl62g/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><p><span style="color: black;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-35.html" target="_blank">Part Three ended</a> with Dr. Kerr making a surprise discovery. Actually, a few of them: he had somehow traveled back in time to observe Trazmo the night he supposedly disappeared<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span></i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i>– and he</i> had <i>disappeared; he wasn't murdered </i></span></span></span></span><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>– which allowed him to put two-and-two together to realize he should check out this piano teacher in Sanza, MO, Rose Philips; not only did he find her, he found her at the same time someone had broken into her house; then he found someone had attacked him; and then he heard a shot.</span></span></span></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>Part Four takes us back to Maine and Tom Purdue, still trying to figure out what all that meant, <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-26.html" target="_blank">a piece of music recently composed</a> by some young kid that quoted a theme of his </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>– verbatim, at that </span></span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i>– from a piece he'd never published. How did the guy, this Dexter Shoad, even</i> know<i> about it?</i></span></span></span></span> </p><p align="CENTER" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">= = = = = = = = = = = = =<br /><span style="color: black;"> –<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>PART FOUR –</b></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
25</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was like being dropped into a warm bath which normally you'd find
relaxing once your muscles started to loosen up. Gradually it becomes
so hot, you're screaming to get out. “The Lobster's Nightmare.”
It's an image that's kept him from eating lobster ever since he was a
child, unhandy now he's living in Maine. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
Purdue kept moving around, walking the perimeter of his small yard to
exercise the legs, strengthen the back, get the blood flowing, but
mostly to keep his heart pumping and his mind alert. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
that music kept gnawing at him – music was always gnawing at him.
In this case, his own music, that one, stillborn piece he'd always
liked but never figured out what to do with. He liked the core of it,
basically, never sure what kind of setting it needed, a problem
“diamond” requiring special care. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> At
different stages it had been different things but always recognizably
the same. He thought at first it had started as a song that never
worked, then a string quartet but not that, either. He'd tried it out
in an orchestra piece he hoped a few weeks at that artists' colony
could whip into shape. For lack of anything better, rather than
calling it by its failed attempts, he referred to it simply as “The
Tune.” Susan liked it – his daughter, young and impressionable,
loved it. Maybe that's why... </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>“</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>Once
more, into the lobster pot.” He continued thinking (<i>will you, won't you,
will you, won't you, living by the sea?</i>).</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
he'd listened to Dexter Shoad's piece about “absence,” he came
face to face with it, “The Tune,” all over again. He couldn't
believe it <i>could</i> be his, hearing it in someone else's piece.
No, it must've reminded him of something else, at first, something he
liked. Since “The Tune” never found its final form, it took on
any appearance it wanted. Maybe it wasn't really even his. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> And
what if it <i>was</i> only something he'd wished he'd written – the
infamous “crib,” another way of excusing a referential homage –
but then there was so much of it, the whole tune and nothing but the
tune: how could you explain <i>that</i>? He'd never finished it,
never published it. Could he prove he'd written it?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
put off looking through old boxes of manuscripts, pretty sure he'd
saved even the oldest ones (despite thinking, if nobody was
interested in his later stuff, who'd be interested in his earlier
things?). Who had ever heard it, this Tune? Sue had, he'd played it
often for them, but her memory was notoriously bad. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Hadn't
he played it that night at the White Hill Colony when he'd worked on
the Orchestra Thing (<i>requiescat sine nomine</i>)? Who heard it –
Perry Harcourt, certainly; also Nathan Noximov. Toscanello was there,
too. They played bits from their own Works-in-Progress for each other
that night in the Music Room, only a few days left in their stay, but
with so much work still to do on them. Then Trazmo came bounding in
in full Ass-hole Mode and tried kicking them out so he could
practice, ruining the mood. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
rest of that night aside, were those other familiar bits, mostly
motivic, from works played by Perry, Nathan, and Florian? They
appeared consecutively in what passes for Shoad's exposition, his
“Absence,” before expanding. He had been courteous enough to use
Tom's Tune as the Big Second Theme, brought back climactically for
the joyous “Return.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ironically,
Shoad could do nothing developmental with it beyond stating it over
again, the same problem Tom always had with it. But how'd Shoad get
hold of his tune? Of all <i>four</i> of them?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> At
first, Tom hadn't seen the “promotional video” put out by this
Allegro Conservatory, only a 3-minute clip that included a few brief
excerpts from the piece (only the final restatement of his Tune)
interspersed with comments from the composer and a trendy spokesman
for the school (obviously they weren't aiming for a discriminatory
demographic). There was a more extensive interview proclaiming the
brilliance of young Shoad on the school's website – he'd check that
out, later – but something definitely sounded suspicious: his first
work was a piece for orchestra? </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Checking
the website's “About Us” link only showed the school was founded
the previous fall yet one of their first students who'd only started
writing music “recently” completed his first composition only in
March. It wasn't a matter of “doing the math.” Not even prodigies
like Mozart or Mendelssohn developed that quickly. (“A rat,
forsooth...”) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> At
least the boy was genuine about not outwardly trying to “emulate”
Beethoven, despite the obvious reference between his title and
Beethoven's famous <i>Les adieux</i> Sonata, its last two movements
subtitled “Absence” and “Return.” Nor was he making any overt
reference to a particular Someone's return. “A hidden program? A
girlfriend?” the interviewer asked coyly. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
just wanted to try something new, original,” the composer
explained, “with these ideas I'd come up with” – (uh-huh, Tom
thought) – “take them apart and then, in the end, put them back
together again.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> While
Tom wondered how he would define “Originality,” he also assumed
Shoad knew nothing about the basic aspects of Sonata Form, but that's
his teacher's fault and everybody, given time, had to start
somewhere. Like many enthusiastic beginners, he was just another
brash young student smitten with his own creativity, intent on
re-inventing Creativity's wheel. The only problem was, having heard
the piece first, there wasn't anything amateurish about it, nothing
that smacked of “rank beginner.” (“A very <i>large</i> rat,
forsooth... How gullible do they think the public is?”) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
boy doesn't sound bright enough, to be blunt, for this level of
accomplishment, especially the attention to details in the harmony,
form, and orchestration (could he be that intuitive without some
intellectual understanding?). Tom began to wonder if someone else
wasn't paid to write the piece <i>for</i> him? It wouldn't be the
first time.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
Perry Harcourt called him back, checking out the video link Tom sent
him that morning, he also felt it unlikely anyone of any age with so
little training and experience could write this. “Sure, people
accused Rimsky-Korsakov of writing Glazunov's First Symphony, but
even at 17, Glazunov had studied music more than five months.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
might be unkind to attack someone new and especially so young but in
general, he agreed with Tom's assessments and added it was too
tempting to headline a review “Much <i>Adieux</i> About Nothing.”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> As
for that other, more pertinent issue Tom had hinted at in his initial
e-mail, Perry wondered about the greater mystery: how did a boy born
in the mid-'90s happen upon pieces by not one or two composers
writing at the same place at the same time in 1983, but <i>four</i>?
“And particularly yours, Tom.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
and Perry had stayed friends ever since they met at White Hill that
spring though their professional paths rarely crossed. Toscanello had
always been more aloof with them both – with everybody, there –
and they'd only gotten back in touch recently to form a kind of
support group once “Great American Cold Cases” reconnected them.
His immediate thought was to share the Shoad Videos with them, send
the various links, then discuss the implications of the body that had
been discovered on Monday (he assumed they'd also been called).</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Not
an expert in Copyright Law himself, Perry thought there was little he
or Florian could do about plagiarism charges against Dexter Shoad (if
it even mattered until he chose to publish his piece). “To quote
Toscanello's argument about those 'sounds-like' similarities between
any two composers, 'there are only so many notes to go around.' But
your piece, that tune – that's an extended quote, almost verbatim,
isn't it? If he publishes it first, it's now his. Is there any way
you can prove that you wrote it in 1983?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
admitted to never throwing sketches away. “Somewhere in some closet
there are reliquaries full of abandoned sketches, especially that
tune. And I am such an obsessive-compulsive freak, I date every scrap
of paper. Plus, if you guys can testify that you'd heard me play it
then, that night in the Music Room, that'd help.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Sure,”
he said, “I'd be glad to. And with this 'idiotic memory' of mine,
it should be convincing enough to a jury or whoever decides these
things. Not sure how Florian's memory is, though.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Idiotic”
was how Perry downplayed his eidetic memory, this uncanny ability –
“a.k.a. curse” – to recall almost every thing he'd ever
learned. It made passing exams a cinch, especially those infamous
“Drop-the-Needle” tests where you ID a piece wherever the
professor starts the recording. With the Internet Age, his students
had started calling him “Dr. Google.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
explained it as a cross between having perfect pitch and a
photographic memory except it was more like a “phonographic”
memory, working best with any music he'd heard. All he'd need is
synesthesia. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Which
reminds me, there were two notes different between your original
tune, as you played it, and how Shoad used it. Do you know if Shoad
has perfect pitch? That could mean he didn't physically copy it out
from a written source but transcribed it from having <i>heard</i> it
somewhere. A distinction worth noting, incidentally.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
sat back and laughed. “God, Perry, you <i>have</i> to include that
in your deposition! Signed and dated for my file!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “However,
you played it in G-flat Major; he used it mostly in B-flat.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
that's right, I did play it in G-flat! I remember thinking how
fucking hard that was with all those accidentals...”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
had already set up a conference call through Skype, since Tom wasn't
savvy enough to manage it on his own, chiding him to “zoom with the
times, dude – the wave of the future!” Tom grumbled, “easy for
<i>you</i> to say, kid...” (Perry, the youngest of them, was two
years from being welcomed into Medicare). </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It took a few minutes
for him to make the arrangements with Florian. It was too early for
him, he complained, though technically for Perry, who lived outside
San Francisco, it was earlier still. They'd joked how Tom was East
Coast, Perry was West Coast, with Toscanello now smack-dab in the
Heartland, retired in Kansas City but recently starting a new
part-time job at some local music school. Unfortunately, Florian was
not in a good mood, a curmudgeon at 75 on the best of days. He hated
these calls. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Florian
Toscanello was an Old-Fashioned Man even among the day's more
conservative composers. It may have been early but he was still
dressed in a suit-and-tie with contrasting vest, his silver hair
magnificently coiffed. Even if his reputation had faded considerably
– honestly, it had never been bright – he made a point of looking
the part. When genealogists revealed he was not descended from
Italian nobility, was born in Brooklyn, not Florence (the source,
he'd said, of his name), nor even conceived there, he'd labeled it
all a serialist plot. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> To
the Florian Toscanello Tom knew from thirty years ago, retiring to
Kansas City would've meant retreat, the outcome of failure, no longer
able to afford spending the summers in his beloved Florentine villa.
His wife had family in Missouri but nobody there knew who he'd been
or cared; then she died five years ago. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
know all about Dexter Shoad,” he started with a bad taste in his
mouth, “the superstar of the Allegro Conservatory.” He'd just
started teaching there, though previously he hadn't mentioned the
school's name. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “He'd
been Harmon Friedhof's student, before he died in that freak
avalanche back in February” (Tom assumed he meant Friedhof'd died).
“The boy's insufferable – arrogant little bastard, all this
publicity's gone to his head. I'd only listened to that piece once,
of course it's very derivative, he's only 20...” – but then he
stopped in mid-ramble. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
and Tom explained the reason for this particular call, Perry doing
most of the talking about how they'd recognized certain parts of it,
especially that big Second Theme in B-flat in the cellos.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
that,” Florian warmed, “yes, that was one thing I thought rather
good. It held out some hope for the boy.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,”
Perry said with some caution, “do you remember hearing it somewhere
before? Or that bit in the brass, measures later?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
a lot like a motive I'd used in one of my operas.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Yes,
in <i>The Song of Roland</i> you were writing at White Hill back in
1983.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Naturally,
only <i>you</i>'d remember that, Perry...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Frankly,
Tom thought, it sounded like something Florian used in every opera of
his Tom ever heard: it's a “stylistic fingerprint.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
Tom asked him specifically about that Second Theme.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh
yes, very memorable!” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But,”
Perry added, “you don't remember hearing it at White Hill when Tom
played it, almost verbatim, over thirty years ago?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “What,
you're saying Tom wrote that? That's impossible...”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
reminded him he was still there, even if only by phone connection. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
was positive Tom had composed Shoad's Second Theme back in the 1980s.
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “No,
I mean,” Florian back-tracked, “well, there are only so many
notes to go around, but... that whole tune? That's improbable!” No,
he couldn't recall hearing Tom play it – “that's a long time
ago.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Florian
said he'd bring up this matter of creative integrity at Shoad's
lesson before lunch (if he'd bother to show up), how there's
imitation and borrowing, but out-and-out plagiarism was the
equivalent of theft. While he always thought Stravinsky suspect in
the greater scheme of things, he did say “all composers borrow –
great composers <i>steal</i>.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “However,
it's my duty to remind Mr. Shoad he is not yet a great enough
composer to get away with it. And in my humbled opinion, he's a long
way from ever becoming one.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
universe had once again managed to impress Tom just how few people
there were to go around in the world, that of all possible cosmic
connections, Dexter Shoad's teacher was someone he knew. Perry, more
pragmatically, reminded Florian they're basically more interested in
how Shoad found these bits to steal in the first place. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “This
piece reminds me of what today's kids call a 'mash-up,' disparate
elements taken from here and there and crammed together,” Florian
admitted, “like a bad film score, switching from one scene to
another.” And Friedhof's music, what little he knew of it, always
reminded him of a film score in search of a movie. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Wait...
say that again?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “What,
about the mash-up?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “No,
Friedhof – the guy Shoad studied with when he wrote this piece,
right?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
said, “So, you think he's stealing Friedhof's music, too, not just
ours?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Florian,
however, was more focused on whether any of this would make it into
the “Cold Cases” show, since it involved all three of them from
their brief time at the White Hill Colony. “It could certainly be
great publicity for us old composers, wouldn't it; maybe get people
to check out our music again?” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Yeah,”
Tom suggested, “if that's the kind of publicity we old composers
really need, implicated in some rival composer's allegèd murder.”
Tom's career hadn't benefited from being implicated in a whole bunch
of murders. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Other
than our having been at the White Hill Colony with Trazmo, then, what
connection does Dexter Shoad have to that? He wasn't even born yet,
was he? Unless – wait, what if Trazmo'd disappeared, living in
obscurity, and Shoad is his son?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
how would Trazmo get our music? That sounds pretty far fetched,
Perry.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Not
to change the subject, Toscanello said, but he was curious what the
others thought about that body found in Iowa – since it appears the
good sheriff had called each of them about it. “She said it was
tied into the 'Missing Persons Case regarding Phillips Hawthorne,'
but not that the body <i>was</i> Phillips Hawthorne.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
anticipated the inevitable call from Monty Martello about his
reaction to these “latest developments,” but so far, he'd heard
nothing. (Once TV's ex-detective, Mike Scapuletta, Martello was now
hosting “Great American Cold Cases.”) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
Toscanello said “no news is good news,” Tom countered with his
trademark cynicism, “no, 'no news is <i>no</i> news' –
seriously.” Still, the best advice was always to give them a
dead-pan “No comment.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “When
was the last time either of you'd been contacted by them,” Perry
asked. “It's been weeks, for me.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Same
here.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Whatever
this new wrinkle in the case implied, Tom figured it was bound to
throw the “Cold Cases” folks into a blender of activity, since he
imagined by now they're probably well into post-production. There's
enough to warrant the sheriff's consideration, more than just being
the first random action in the case in thirty years. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I've
only heard it second hand, so it's not official. All I'll say is,
'don't breathe a word of this to the GACC people'.” (Tom loved
saying that – “GACC” – not the industry's finest acronym.) </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
proceeded to tell them about his friend, Richard Kerr, the music
detective – his friend Terry from years ago in grad school – who
on occasion consulted with the International Music Police in certain
investigations. (Toscanello grunted, with little to say about the IMP
who proved singularly helpless in his running feud with the Serialist
Mafia.) He was already heading out to Iowa to observe what was going
on with this GACC production – “as a favor to me,” Tom
explained – when Sheriff Diddon's call came in Monday about the
body. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Terry
told me, once he'd seen it at the morgue, skeletal remains – a male
– had been found in a field not far behind the Express Motel,
sticking out of a small culvert. Fairly intact, he may have been
stuck in there for years or maybe he'd just been unearthed by recent
heavy rains. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “So?
What's the connection?” Toscanello asked.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It
was still wearing a distinctive pair of boots, and a flamboyant belt
buckle – the exact sames one in the last photograph taken of Trazmo
at the colony.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>
Perry sat back and gasped, his hand clamped over his mouth; Florian
groaned and lowered his eyes; both shook their heads. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “...And
a polished turquoise stone which might or might not be the one I'd
accused Trazmo of stealing from my desk.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Perry
and Florian agreed that sounded pretty conclusive. “Are they sure
it's him?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
mentioned Terry felt the coroner wasn't convinced, thinking maybe the
remains belonged to someone older than Trazmo, possibly decades
older. “Basically, they're waiting on some tests, specifically DNA,
to confirm age and identity.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “How'd
you explain somebody else ending up with Trazmo's boots and belt
buckle?” Florian sighed, resting his head in his hands. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
a pretty massive wrinkle, guys,” Perry said.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You
realize,” Florian quickly pointed out, “the GACC people are going
to turn this into national headlines to boost their ratings?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “The
thought crossed my mind.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Tom,
what about that turquoise stone you mentioned. Are they sure that's
yours?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “It's
polished, so it's not a 'wild' stone.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
Tom remembered when he'd described it to Terry over the phone, trying
to recall its shape and how it seemed to have this thumbprint worn
into it, he said it was a match.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> That
led to a sufficient “Moment of Silence” as the others processed
this bit of news. Tom wondered if the unrelated mystery surrounding
Dexter Shoad's plagiarism had been significant enough to bother
bringing up, aside from the coincidence of its involving all four of
the composers who'd been on the bus with Trazmo in Orient. Tom knew
he hadn't done anything to cause Trazmo's death, as much as the man
irritated him, and he couldn't imagine how or even why Perry or
Florian would have. So, what happens next? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Discussing
the disappearance when it was first suggested there'd been foul play
with only the body lacking to prove it, they'd agreed there was
hardly a single person on that bus who, on a scale of one to ten,
wouldn't have found Trazmo's annoyance level closer to a ten, but
enough to wish him dead? </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Now,
Perry's overworked imagination concocted a scenario: “what if
everyone on the bus had thought hard enough about 'wishing him
dead'?” Could Trazmo, weighed down by the awareness of this
accumulated karma, how everybody hated him, be driven out into the
blizzard? “Had everybody's mental concentration essentially been
enough to cause him to commit suicide?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
pointed out presumably legal distinctions between 'wishing someone
dead' and killing him.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
if we'd all <i>agreed</i> to concentrate on it, the way people send
out 'thoughts and prayers' after a school shooting?” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Florian
– who could blame this on the serialists still trying to defame him
– imagined a jury might see it that way. “People are paranoid,
these days: be very careful. Watch every word you say. It only takes
a misplaced suggestion before one person's rumor becomes another's
fact: Fox News could turn this into another Salem.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
ventured beyond Dexter Shoad's plagiarism in a wider sense, and
thought perhaps he was the sanest person on the line. Could
Hawthorne's lawyer seriously cook up a charge of “death by wishful
thinking”? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> On
that note, rather than ponder the possibility someone back at the
colony might be controlling those thoughts, not just a few people on
the bus, Tom suggested their conversation had run its course. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “When
shall we three meet again? If your friend Kerr finds anything, Tom,
keep us posted.” And Perry ended the call.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> If
nothing else, Tom was grateful to have Perry's confirmation he wasn't
imagining things: what he heard in Dexter Shoad's <i>Absence &
Return</i> was indeed his Big Tune, and the whole tune at that (he'd
have to scour through those old boxes he'd hauled up to the attic to
see if he could find it). And those other motives weren't just a
collection of similar notes; they were identifiable fragments from
works by three other composers who just happened to share White
Hill's music room with him that evening. But that wasn't going to be
enough to prove a case, if it came to that; and what was the point?
Tom knew if he hadn't published or copyrighted his theme or any of
those compositions he'd planned using it in, how could he claim it
had been stolen from him in the first place? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> That
was the real mystery, as Perry said: how did his Big Tune <i>and</i>
those motivic fragments (and only those fragments) of Perry's,
Florian's, and Nathan Noksimov's pieces, all worked on there in 1983,
end up in a piece written by some apparent prodigy who'd only begun
composing in 2016? “How much coincidence was believable?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> His
mind tried keeping track of them, not just that one – in fact, how
many <i>were</i> there? He tried making a list, the way a detective
might come up with suspects and likely motives. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Speaking
of motives, whatever happened to those specific compositions the
others had written: they were all published, they'd all been
performed (even Toscanello's opera – he had a knack for getting his
operas premiered; second productions, not so much), but not performed
recently. Perry's was the only one that had been recorded, some long
out-of-print LP. So technically it wasn't impossible for someone to
find their music, but how would Shoad have known to group them
together, given their connection to the White Hill Colony? Why not
other composers, there? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
right, we weren't the only composers there: what about the others,
like Rosalind Arden and... was it Andrea Goldberg? Did Shoad include
any of their music, too, but we just don't recognize it?” He'd no
recollection of any pieces they'd been working on at White Hill or of
hearing them discuss them over dinner. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
jotted down a note to ask Perry if he recalled anything about “the
two ladies” – which reminded him how inseparable they were and
how the men, likewise inseparable after-dinner companions, wondered
if maybe they were lesbians, unaware they, hanging out as they did,
weren't presumed by the other guests to be “closet homosexuals.”
Wasn't there something about about a big scene between Trazmo and
Goldberg the night before they left? What was that about? Tom
couldn't recall ever hearing a note of either Goldberg or Arden's
music. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> What
possible connection could a late-blooming composer-wannabe named
Dexter Shoad have with a promising former prodigy named Phillips
Hawthorne whom everybody called Trazmo like it was his pen name,
who'd disappeared three decades ago?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> And
that's where Tom's Little Gray Cells came up blank, staring at a
glaringly white wall. “There <i>was</i> no obvious connection.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
key word was “obvious.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
disappointed him Perry, with his fascination for Agatha Christie,
kept coming up with absurd plots like Shoad being the “Son of
Trazmo” which made him laugh out loud. Now that he considered it,
it sounded more ominous, like this Shoad would continue to haunt him
into the next generation. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Connections
between Shoad and Trazmo were another thing. How would Trazmo have
had access to Tom's and the others' music to begin with?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> What
Tom needed now was to hear something – <i>any</i>thing – from
Kerr. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-37.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</p>
<p> </p>Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-45112238130173091722022-11-03T08:00:00.025-04:002022-11-03T11:03:46.041-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #35<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_AkM5bCWGX0dIuT8ImQIvOmmFk3fQcteRNx0zBQDxTbZwd2Fkm8-qYp9D1pEBVgAlXO4QlHSlq1BdK2I9xZb7Xu3yxlSEyOKE-hKSljI9aYs_mugmsSl-uQ2mQ7k_1qdf5yDVhcwTCzLxHIdvOya_yLheoGVPgrEwxeC_UYkCDA0oQv9vg/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_AkM5bCWGX0dIuT8ImQIvOmmFk3fQcteRNx0zBQDxTbZwd2Fkm8-qYp9D1pEBVgAlXO4QlHSlq1BdK2I9xZb7Xu3yxlSEyOKE-hKSljI9aYs_mugmsSl-uQ2mQ7k_1qdf5yDVhcwTCzLxHIdvOya_yLheoGVPgrEwxeC_UYkCDA0oQv9vg/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-34.html" target="_blank">Once Cameron's figured out what probably happened to Dr. Kerr</a> (and that's probably not good news), he agrees to meet Chief Inspector Bond and several other IMP agents at what is now called "The Crime Scene" on the edge of town. As new problems develop inside the lab, complicating their search for this mysterious intruder, two Aficionati engineers turn out to be IMP undercover agents who, once their colleagues have infiltrated the building, now need to figure out what's with all the smoke... </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>And now, Kerr, <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-33.html" target="_blank">having somehow found himself back in Trazmo's room</a> during that fateful blizzard when the former prodigy supposedly disappeared, finds himself in another surprising situation, speaking of a "</i>what the...?<i>" moment.<br /></i></span></span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>= = = = = = = </i><br />
</span></span></p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
24</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
just like that, here I was, covered with snow and shivering from the
cold, standing in a familiar-looking motel room. Since I could see
sunlight through the half-closed blinds, it must be daytime, but was
it the same day it had been the last time I'd seen it? Puddles of
melted snow quickly evaporated.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So,
where was Cameron? The last time I'd seen him, he'd been sitting in
that now-empty chair, meditating. Had he made it into the room next
door; could that be where he was now? I went into the bathroom – no
sign of him, there – toweled my hair, then looked around for any
note he'd left. What did he think happened to me when he returned to
the surface? Or had my sudden departure interrupted his
concentration? Maybe he thought, while he was “under,” someone
broke in and kidnapped me. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> If
I couldn't see him, calling out so tentatively was ridiculous, but I
refused the temptation to look under the bed. There was no phone on
his nightstand, just that book on Nepali meditation. Since he did the
driving, I remember seeing the keys to the rental car there earlier;
they, too, were conspicuously absent. But there on my nightstand was
my phone, not where I'd left it: I'd been sitting on the bed, not
meditating, when Bond's call came in; the last thing I remembered was
fumbling it.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Might
as well check my phone,” I thought, “see if anybody missed me.”
There were several calls and, worse, several voice-mails. The most
recent came in from Tom Purdue. Had Cameron missed his 1:00
appointment (“uhm, Terry's not here right now, so...”)? I had to
check the time – no, just a little past noon. (Wow...) But if Tom
was that concerned our phones had been hacked (he always had been
paranoid about Big Brother and technology), why leave me a message
now on <i>my</i> phone from <i>his</i> cell phone?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> On
the other hand, my general cynicism made me think maybe it wasn't Tom
at all, now: if “they” knew my phone was back on-line, what if
it's the hacker trying to reach me? Can a hacker gain access merely
from me listening to a voice-mail message? When I hit play, however,
it <i>was</i> Tom. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hi,
Terry – this couldn't wait.” He didn't sound particularly urgent,
but I could hear some concern in his voice. “During the night, I
discovered something you should know. It makes no sense to me. I was
wide awake worrying about that other stuff, when I searched for some
videos to take my mind off everything. What I found was really
unsettling. I know, a new piece by some young conservatory student
from Missouri, big deal, right? So I started listening to it
half-heartedly when something strange caught my attention. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
“Suddenly I heard
this phrase so familiar, I could almost identify it except I couldn't
figure out what he was quoting. Then it finally dawned on me: <i>I'd</i>
written it – a long time ago. In fact, it's from that piece I was
working on at the White Hill Colony in Iowa that year – <i>that</i>
year! </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
not just a few notes, it's several measures, a whole phrase,
note-for-note. Now, I never finished or published that piece, but I
always remembered it. There were other bits that also sounded
familiar. It's called <i>Absence & Return</i>, this piece; it's
by Dexter Shoad – dedicated to his piano teacher, Rose Philips,
'who inspired it.' Now, h<span style="font-style: normal;">ow would
this kid – who's, what, 20-something? – know what I'd been
working on at that Colony days before Trazmo disappeared? And... he
and his piano teacher live not far from where you are.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Now,
<i>there</i>'s a large chunk of coincidence I think the Universe
would have a little trouble explaining. What were the odds...? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Just
wanted to tell you – it bamboozles the mind!” and he signed off.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
massive amount of finger-pointing from that very same Universe
suggested I should pay Mr. Shoad and Ms. Philips a visit. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Usually,
I let Cameron handle the technological details, but I decided to log
into the laptop assuming I could remember my own password – ah, I
did! – and do a little research of my own. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
didn't take long to find the video and track down what little
information – very little – about the two names involved, but
lots of stuff about this Allegro Conservatory where Shoad was a
student. Shoad's hometown was a place called Sanza in northwest
Missouri, south of Orient, where Rose Philips was a long-time piano
teacher. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
for Sanza, MO, how to get there? There were no train connections,
apparently no bus routes, either. And forget airports. The suggested
directions, two different routes, were both a little over an hour.
Cameron had the rental (wherever <span style="font-style: normal;">he
was) so</span> how would I get there, not that I wanted to do the
driving. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Time
to call Cameron.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> My
call went unanswered, so I left a message. “Where are you? I'm –
uhh... here at the motel. We need to go to Missouri – get back to
me... right away?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
the meantime, there was the need for lunch. So much for a trip to
Someplace Else. “The Dining Car” will have to do, one of their
“Poirovian Club Car Sandwiches with Christie Chips.” When I
walked in, Hank behind the counter told me “your associate was
lookin' for you, maybe 'bout an hour ago?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> (I'd
been gone that long?) “Just missed him!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
thanked him and took my sandwich back to the room to wait. Still no
sign. Why hadn't he just waited for me in the room? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Reluctantly,
I decided I needed to get to Sanza with or without him, so I called
the desk for Alice Hubbard's number again with the hope I could
arrange another ride with Uber Alice. She could meet me in twenty
minutes at the motel, so I called Cameron one more time and left
another message. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> When
I'd given Alice the address, she seemed mildly surprised but made no
comment, quickly checking the GPS, calculating the mileage and
quoting me a price which, I guess, seemed reasonable enough, given
everything. There's around two hours' driving, total, plus whatever
time it'd take talking to them. We'd probably stop somewhere to eat
dinner. </span>I pretended I was tracking down loose ends for a
friend's family back East and had found some unexpected genealogical
leads. She didn't seem terribly interested so I didn't dig myself in
any deeper.<i> </i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Whatever
I expected to find, it couldn't be weirder than my latest
discoveries. There was plenty of time to prepare myself. Perhaps the
best tack was to start with the piano teacher, maybe pretend I was a
composer – well, I <i>am</i> a composer – interested in
interviewing her about how she had inspired her student's
composition. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Fortunately,
any likely conversation with Alice was soon exhausted and I was left
with my wandering thoughts. The scenery, mostly flat fields,
farmhouses and the occasional hamlet, rapidly became exponentially
less and less picturesque.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
want to go gravel? There's road construction ahead.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Gravel...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Aw,
sorry, local-speak for back roads. Shorter in the long run.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Expect
Delays,” the sign said. There, not too distant, just as we entered
Missouri, you could see the traffic backed up. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,
the short-cut – avoid the delays.” She swerved off onto a side
road. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sanza
wasn't a big town like the county seat down the road, but what I
found on-line indicated a pleasant place to live, with an
old-fashioned, Midwestern mind-set for kids to grow up in. “A place
where you couldn't measure time,” the town's official website
proudly declared. The weekly newspaper was called “The Sanza
Times.” Photographs on the website included a well-kept park across
from the town hall, its circular bandstand surrounded by well-trimmed
rose bushes. Did anything like the Express Motel constitute a seedier
part of the town? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
trained me how to become enough of a stalker on the Internet. I soon
tracked down “long-time resident and respected piano teacher,”
Rose Philips who's been teaching Sanza's children for thirty years –
interesting... In a directory of “local music teachers” was a
listing for Ms. Philips, only a block from that bandstand's
well-trimmed roses.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> We
were on a back country road beyond the middle of nowhere, greening
fields all around us, a cluster of woods here and there, without a
house in sight, the road barely a road. Alice continued driving,
fully focused on the road, fully confident in her directions. Still,
I had this gnawing sense of trouble. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
know these GPS things are modern technological miracles and all,” I
said, breaking the silence, “but are you sure this...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Don't
you worry, Dr. Kerr,” she said, “I know exactly where we are.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
pointed at the map read-out which I could barely see, but what I did
notice was a faded photograph stuck to the dashboard above the
screen, a family shot taken at a picnic. An older man on the right
caught my attention: orangey-red hair, pale complexion. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Oh,
him? He's my Uncle Guido – from Italy.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
wondered, me being a geologist and all, if I couldn't do one of those
things rooting through her family tree. “Mom's often wondered about
Guido and his family back in the Old Country. We don't know much
about his story or how he ended up here – never talked much about
life back in Venice.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Venice?”
I swallowed hard. “Why, I'd just been in Venice and saw a few
people who looked kind of like him.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Really?
His name was Ciapollo. I wonder, d'you think they could be related?”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Oh,”
I said, “we're here already?” It sounded like sarcasm, but I
recognized the bandstand in the park on the right. The sign, “Welcome
to the Town of Sanza,” was no doubt the clincher. The last part of
the trip, however many miles and even more minutes it lasted, passed
in resumed but uneasy silence. I'd promised her, if I got back to
Venice any time soon, I would ask around, see what I could find.
Meanwhile, here I was, ominously alone with the niece of yet another
Ciapollo. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
house Alice pulled up to was a well-kept, two-story frame house
painted pale blue with a wrap-around porch and dormers. There was a
helpful sign in front, also: “Rose Philips – Piano – (<i>inquire
within</i>).”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “This
must be the place,” I said, as jaunty as possible. “Could you
wait here, Alice? I shouldn't be too long.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
were rose bushes growing beneath the sign, two large roses at either
side of the steps up to the porch with other shrubs and lots of
tulips and daffodils planted across the front. A gravel path wound
around toward the side street; whatever Ms. Philips did with her
spare time, she apparently enjoyed gardening. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
wanted to call Cameron again, let him know I'd arrived, but when I
flipped the phone open, it was dead. No signal in or out, not even
the time and date. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Damn
technology...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Stepping
across the porch – one of the boards creaked – I noticed the door
was ajar but there were no lights on. I heard someone moving around
as I slipped my phone back in my pocket, but didn't hear anyone
playing the piano – she's between students, waiting for her next
pupil? Then I heard a crash. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
looked back to get Alice's attention but she was already walking up
the street toward the park, on her phone. Young children ran up and
down the bandstand steps: a game of hide-and-seek.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Ms.
Philips...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
stepped up to the door, cautious about ringing the bell. Was she in
the kitchen and dropped something? I didn't want to walk in
unannounced and startle her if she was. Then again, I didn't want to
knock on the door and announce myself so someone burgling the place
knew I'm coming.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
wasn't much to see through either of the front windows – the drapes
were open but sheers obscured the view – so I walked over to the
left side which looked into the front parlor. There was enough to
know the dread in my stomach wasn't just the Poirovian Club Car
Sandwich I'd had for lunch. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Behind
an ornate, wrought-iron table, I had found an opening between the
sheers. If I cupped my hands around my eyes, I could see the
fireplace and a sofa reminding me of my grandmother's. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
place had been ransacked, things tossed everywhere. There's enough
light to see through the archway into the next room. I wasn't sure:
were those legs on the floor? And were they still alive? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
couldn't call 911 on a dead phone. Alice stood near the bandstand but
couldn't see me waving frantically at her. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So
I stepped inside into the ominous gloom.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
wasn't time to let my eyes adjust. I pushed the door back as far as
it would go in case someone hid himself behind it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
only sound I heard was the leaden ticking of a grandfather clock. I
kicked against some magazines on the floor. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
lamp and a chair had been knocked over, everything on the mantle
shoved about or swept off onto the hearth. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Before
I heard him, someone grabbed me around my neck, knocking me down.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Quickly
overpowered, I crumbled to the floor and rolled away to the right but
not fast enough to shake my assailant. I couldn't catch a glimpse of
him – I say “him” since it was unlikely to be Rose Philips,
mild-mannered, middle-aged local piano teacher, unless she smoked
heavily and had a preference for cheap-smelling beer. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He'd
caught me from behind, wrapping something across my neck like a
garrotte, but he was having problems holding it tight. I tried
scrambling away when he'd lost his grip and kicked at him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Then
he threw his weight against my hips, grinding my chest into the
carpet as he pulled the would-be garrotte tighter. It would've been
easier to hit me over the head with a candlestick. However, I
desperately tried to steer him away from the fireplace so he couldn't
bang my head against the stone hearth. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
long as this dragged on, I hoped maybe he'd tire himself out before
he broke every bone in my body. He yanked me up like a rag doll. The
pain was more intense than anything I could remember from the past.
Now would be a good time for Cameron's meditation escape to kick in.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
know I should go limp, save my energy, pretend I'd passed out. That's
not how fear works in the moment. This guy wasn't going to kill me
that easily, not without a fight. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> My
mind raced with possibilities, not who this was or what I'd walked
into; not why was this happening to me. I consciously wondered how
I'd orchestrate this and ratchet up the harmonic tension.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> This
had become a scene in an opera. Clearly, it couldn't be sung:
everything's in the orchestra, <i>molto furioso</i>, scrambling
strings. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> My
gasps became choked-off chords in the winds; my kicking, stabbing
attacks in the brass; glockenspiel and vibes cascaded like shattering
glass broken by a whip-crack.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What'll
happen once everything stabilized, the tension released? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
man hauled me up to my feet but I could barely breathe. I hoped my
thrashing about would kick him hard, knock him off balance. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
twisted me to the left and right. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Things
grew darker, my gasps more wrenching, when</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> – </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <i>subito</i></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> – </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i> </i>I heard a shot.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
felt suspended in mid-air. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Then
I dropped.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-36.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-32598042249170253242022-11-01T08:00:00.008-04:002022-11-01T10:09:51.625-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #34<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63MHHySbngEQoxkrZeJ3LwI3e9hK7P2dy8YrpFtOmaKEM-YINzjF0kpcFGMcWCCltfHvODki2QWaojklMAENR3i1HubS6oEMItU1KCu8fSTTxaqGz1A2mirvz7GIge7uO3KD_6yERJFCFOxulYIvnVKw4rdfyXShJHu1hw95QAnvF2FwGAw/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63MHHySbngEQoxkrZeJ3LwI3e9hK7P2dy8YrpFtOmaKEM-YINzjF0kpcFGMcWCCltfHvODki2QWaojklMAENR3i1HubS6oEMItU1KCu8fSTTxaqGz1A2mirvz7GIge7uO3KD_6yERJFCFOxulYIvnVKw4rdfyXShJHu1hw95QAnvF2FwGAw/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>It seems <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-33.html" target="_blank">Dr. Kerr has been making some discoveries of his own</a> (time-travel can be such a help at times, even though the age-old question remains how, in case of a trial, would you introduce this as evidence?). He now knows how that skeleton in Dr. Femorsen's morgue ended up wearing those boots and that belt-buckle, and may even know what happened to Trazmo that night of the Blizzard of '83 (or at least why no body was ever discovered). But would anybody believe him?</i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>=
= = = = = =</b></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></div><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
23</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “They
found Graham Ripa's body here in Orient? Are you sure? That
sounds...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
wasn't sure how to finish that sentence, so Bond offered some
suggestions. “Improbable? Unlikely? Mind-boggling? Perhaps, 'All of
the above'?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I'll
take 'Inexplicable Probabilities for a thousand, Alex'?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I'm
sorry...?” American pop culture, especially TV references, were
usually lost on Bond. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
would be difficult to forget Graham Ripa, responsible for all those
murders Tom Purdue was accused of committing last year, not just
kidnapping him and hijacking his Clara Software, that Artificial
Creativity program. And that's without getting into the whole
business of the Aficionati's plot which sent their disgraced agent
Perdita Vremsky into the SHMRG concert as a remote-controlled suicide
bomber, killing dozens and creating wide-spread panic. Then there was
that fire when they tried to rescue Tom and Terry – the one Terry
thought Clara set on purpose. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So
it would be easy to understand why Tom could blame Graham Ripa for
the stroke that nearly killed him – even the guy's dad was a
childhood bully of his own father decades ago. Both he and Terry
continued to have nightmares about that night: who could blame them?
And Clara's still in the wind. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Yeah,
tough to forget someone like Graham Ripa. And here he was, apparently
found dead in Orient where Terry's working on a case involving Tom
Purdue. Coincidence? Terry's not a big fan of “coincidence.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Never
mind, Inspector,” Cameron resumed. “I don't want to start
thinking what the odds on that would be. So, now what...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That's
why I was calling Dr. Kerr, hoping he might've heard something,
especially now I know you're also here in Orient.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I'd
been meditating. He must've stepped out. Not sure when he'll be
back.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
it's safe to assume Osiris is in the building, whatever he's doing
here, and Ripa's death was a revenge killing.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Knowing
Osiris, I don't imagine it was a simple bullet to the head.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
couldn't say officially until after an autopsy's been conducted –
“and the local pathologist, a guy named...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Femorsen,
yes. We've met.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “...hasn't
been able to get here yet. From what appears to be thousands of
little pinpricks all over him, I'd say he must've been stung to
death. So, no, probably not a quick death.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
thought it odd they (the Aficionati) would dump the body outside in
the open (and in broad daylight, at that) where it could easily be
discovered, unless they wanted it to intimidate someone. And if they
knew Dr. Kerr was in the area, why not just dump it in front of their
motel room? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
here's another wrinkle I haven't told you. Two of the local policemen
were here when the body was wheeled out from the factory by a man
matching the description of Dr. Kerr.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “<i>What</i>!?”
</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “They
told me the man waved, as if he's trying to get their attention, then
hurried back into one of those old outbuildings (apparently abandoned
storage facilities left over from the old factory days).”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sounds
fishy. First of all, I can't see Terry doing that and, besides, one
thing he doesn't do well is hurry.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
noticed the keys to the rental on his nightstand. “D'oh!” If he
didn't drive and he's not at the diner, and there was no response
when he rapped on the door to #12...? Unless he's out enjoying a late
morning stroll – no, they were going to call Tom at 1:00. He
wouldn't just leave. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
understand his not wanting to disturb you but why leave his phone
behind if he's gone off on a mission? Yes, Agent Lautenwerckque? Hang
on, Cameron.” He heard some mumbling in the background. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
sat back and looked around the room. If Terry did slip off on his
own, that's one thing, but what if something weird happened that
intersected with his meditation the moment Bond called? What if –
and this would be a “very weird what-if” – Terry was the one
who ended up levitating into Room #12? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sorry,
I'm back,” Bond said, “just talking to a new IMP agent, here.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,”
Cameron resumed, “since Terry's phone had been hacked by any number
of possibilities, maybe he's afraid that someone's tracking him.”
</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Cameron,
we've gotten word from inside the factory there's an 'event' going
on. I'm not sure what that means,” Bond continued. “Apparently
there's been an intruder of some kind, and it's creating some chaos.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Oh,
I should let you go. I'll try to find Terry and call you back when...
wait, what were you saying?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “There's
an intruder at Basilikon, the factory where they're building the
mobots, and it sounds like it would be an ideal opportunity for us to
infiltrate the place, if only we had more agents. That was basically
why I was calling Dr. Kerr. I could really use his expertise, Cameron
– and your help,” she added. “Cameron, you there? Have I lost
you, too?” Bond sounded a bit edgy. “Okay, Agent Lautenwerckque,
roger that, thanks,” she added. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I'm
here – I'm just trying to recall: what time did you call Terry?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I'd
have to check my phone log to be sure, considering I've flown across
six international time zones since around midnight. Here it is,”
after a pause, “yes, just about fifteen minutes ago. Why?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
what time did your surveillance pick up the disturbance at the
factory?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Uhm
– let's see... – about ten minutes before that...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What
are the odds Terry got “transported” into the factory
accidentally? Could he have gone back only ten minutes in time? Not
exactly the Most Likely Scenario. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
took a deep breath and sighed. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It
gives me no pleasure to say I'm pretty sure where Terry is. He's...
uhm, likely found a way into the old Ratchet Factory, probably after
some clues about the body they'd found Monday. I suspect he's
probably that 'event' you mentioned, the one about an intruder? So...
tell me where I should meet you.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
met at what was euphemistically called “The Crime Scene,” then
drove on further to where Ripa's body had been dumped. Neither
Sheriff Diddon, about ready to call the Iowa State Police, nor her
deputy were thrilled about the IMP calling jurisdiction, and even
less thrilled when Bond ordered them to stay behind as back-up. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Agent
Lautenwerckque (who'd rather be more informal and have everybody call
her “Calliope-Jane”) drove the rental jeep the IMP found on their
way from the airport, as Inspector Bond brought Cameron up to speed.
Despite her “Germanesque name” with its bizarre spelling,
Calliope-Jane was what she preferred calling “a Southern Black
Woman of Well-Rounded Proportions.” With a passion for guns and a
preference for fast cars, she was disappointed the jeep was not one
of the latter and their allotted firearms fell well below the mark of
the former. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Quiet
and analytical, with lots of dark hair, Agent Gertrude Hurdie looked
the opposite of “larger-than-life-<i>baby</i>” Calliope-Jane and
her flame-red afro. A product of the Bronx, Hurdie preferred her life
to be basically uneventful. Typically, she'd still be analyzing a
problem's possible solutions when Calliope-Jane's already jumped into
action, relying on her “larger-than-life” gut. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
ten-year veteran of the IMP's American Branch, Agent Chris Shendo
viewed himself as the IMP's token male on this detail. Refusing to be
relegated to the back seat, he insisted on riding shotgun. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Shendo
then received another hurried message from their undercover agent on
the inside. He'd left them a fake ID badge “dropped” near a
nondescript doorway warning them they would only have a few minutes.
This tunnel took them into the heart of the lab, but he warned them
to be careful: the place was chaotic. He also complained about the
assault's suddenness, catching him off guard: why'd the IMP send in
some old white-haired dude alone? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yes,”
Cameron thought, “that'd be Dr. Kerr, stumbling in where others
boldly go.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
is he even doing there?” Shendo's irritation mounted steadily.
“He's jeopardized the whole mission. We weren't due for another
week.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
'assault,' Shendo,” Bond demanded. “Osiris is <i>my</i> case –
why wasn't I informed?” Months of planning and waiting were now
wasted. But Shendo's shoulders slumped in his seat: he refused to say
another word. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
surprised her Ritard would knowingly let her continue on to Iowa if
there was another on-going mission involved with Osiris, restricting
the capacity of her team because it was “only a reconnaissance
operation.” She and her out-numbered agents would certainly walk
into a trap, most likely ruining the mission, and no doubt be killed.
Her paranoia over increasing tensions with the American Branch Office
made her wonder if this was a plan to discredit her and, in the
process, secretly protect Osiris by allowing him to escape again.
Whatever prompted Dr. Kerr to break into Basilikon – how'd he get
in if their undercover agent was oblivious to his arrival? – she
could safely assume he did so unwittingly, the way he usually
operated. Unless he hadn't been completely forthright with her in
their previous conversations which may also explain why Cameron's
being fairly tight-lipped. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Agent
Lautenwerckque brought the jeep to a screeching halt mid-field,
irritation clear in her voice and especially evident on her face.
“Now, look here, Agent Shendo, whoever you think you are, what the
fuck...? I do not like walking into something 'chaotic' with these
Mickey Mouse guns. What exactly's going on? What're we getting into?”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Okay,”
Shendo relented, “this undercover agent isn't just gathering intel
on Osiris' company. We've discovered a musical terrorist organization
operating here. With our supposedly coordinated effort, he's supposed
to scuttle their project.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Which
is...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Regardless
of the number of agents, whether it was five or fifty-five – or in
this case, four agents and Cameron plus God knows if they can count
on Dr. Kerr – they had to move. Once inside the warehouse, Shendo
found the fake ID badge, not that any of them looked remotely like
this Dr. Piltdown. He explained as briefly as possible “what's
going on,” except the situation escalated quickly with the arrival
of this man, Osiris. “He's apparently in charge.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Which,”
Bond said, “if you'd asked, I'd've told you.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Our
connection with this agent is limited and only one-way, given his
high level of infiltration. He only informed us yesterday. We've
recently managed to install a second agent in place to assist him.
Unfortunately, we have no direct contact with either. Basically,
they're on their own. This unauthorized interference puts them both
at risk.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hm-mmm.”
Calliope-Jane shook her head. “I do not like the sound of that. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Does
this hallway never end? Who's got the architectural plans?” When no
one responded, she said, irritably, “Oh, come on, seriously?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Shendo
admitted the undercover agent had sent them but they're in his office
computer and the system's down, so they're inaccessible. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
began fiddling with his phone, typing furiously. “Their security's
pretty lax, but I found them. Also, their cameras are down. What...?
Just a simple hack into Basilikon's files. So, who wants a copy?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hey,
I like this kid, Bond. Glad you brought him along!” Calliope-Jane
looked over at Shendo with a distinctly snubbing “Hunh!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
was trying to read the tiny files on Cameron's phone before realizing
her middle-aged eyes had gotten the better of her. “Shendo, this is
your operation, apparently. Any idea where we should head?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
think he'd said this leads from the area outside the main labs, where
they're working on the project's latest reboot.” He explained last
year's life-sized “suicide robots” were too big to be effective.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Chatter
from the intel I'd received,” Bond said, “from <i>co-operative</i>
agents! Apparently they're close to unveiling some kind of
bumblebee-sized drones.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Shendo
assumed Osiris' arrival has probably accelerated their target release
date of mid-summer. “Not sure, except our agent is involved with
developing their remote control capabilities. That's what they'd
wanted Purdue's software for.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Clara!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Clara?
Who's she?” Calliope-Jane pointed out a side opening further down
the hallway. “These windows are damn creepy,” she added
parenthetically.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
explained it was an artificial creativity software that could write
its own music and Kerr's friend Tom Purdue developed it.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
mean, he named it Clara like in 'Clara Schumann'? Damn, that's cool!”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
plan was to use the rhythmic layer as a way to encode directions and
control the Mobots through musical streams.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “<i>Mo</i>bots...?”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It
meant either 'Music Robots' or maybe 'Mozart Robots'. Dr. Kerr wasn't
sure.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
really hate to be the one to mention this,” Agent Hurdie said, “but
for a place that's supposed to be in a state of chaos, does anyone
think it's a little too quiet?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Damn,
girl, did you have to say that?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Considering
they're so close to the main lab, Bond did find it disconcerting. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “If
your inside agents managed to derail the security cameras, it's
possible the Basilikon Security Guards aren't aware we've made
entry.” On the other hand, Bond was aware they were talking way too
much.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
thought perhaps a plan might be helpful. “So, about these
'Basilikon Security Guards'...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You'll
know them when you see them.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Meanwhile,”
Shendo said, “we're acting like Dorothy and Company traipsing down
the Yellow Brick Road on our way to a picnic.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Why
do I feel like we're about to run into some Flying Monkeys?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
young man in a scientist's white coat stepped out from the side
hallway, gesturing for them all to keep quiet. After Shendo and the
others immediately drew their guns, he raised his hands. The man was
short, wiry, a dark-skinned African (Cameron guessed possibly an
Ethiopian), with curly close-cropped hair and a trim beard. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Oops,
sorry.” Calliope-Jane appeared to blush, then smiled. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
ID badge clipped to his lapel informed them his name was “Abathur.”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
asked if they were near the Main Lab. The young man nodded. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
glanced back toward the doorway closing the other end of the hallway,
then nodded his head toward the side hallway.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
a clipped East African accent, the young man asked, “Can you tell
me which way to the center of town?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Ooh,
I've got this one,” Calliope-Jane said, pointing. “We just drove
from there.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “No,
that's our secret identification greeting.” Shendo introduced him
as “one of those agents I mentioned?,” nodding his head at him.
“Agent Mbira, now that we're here, where do you need us to be?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “For
the moment, not to be caught,” he explained. He motioned them
toward the lab's decontamination room. “Please remain very quiet.”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
some trepidation, Agent Hurdie wondered why the lab needed a
decontamination room.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
Mobots are dusted with a fine uranium powder – makes it easier to
locate the spent ones out in the field.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Tell
us about these 'Mobots',” Bond asked as he ushered them into a gray
locker room, “what is the intent of...” but the sound of
footsteps from further down the hall cut her short. It was hard to
tell how many of the guards there might be, given their boots
reverberating in the empty hallway. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mbira
whispered the Basilikon Guards were still searching for this intruder
but he's heard nothing new. “He seems to have vanished.” It was
important they lay low until after things had calmed down some. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
one last warning gesture to stay silent, Mbira, a.k.a. Agent Abathur,
straightened his coat and ID badge, and nodded good-bye. When he
squared his shoulders and turned, Calliope-Jane was impressed by his
confidence.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
looked less forward to facing armed guards.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Here's
hoping their security force is no smarter than your average Storm
Trooper.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Basilikon's
Main Control Center nestled conveniently at the securest point in the
entire building, the hub between various developmental labs and
Observation Rooms that overlooked where Graham Ripa had earlier met
his experimental demise. Apparently, since the intruder was yet to be
found, Osiris insisted everyone continue in full Crisis Mode until
he'd been apprehended. Krahang had been the last to arrive at this
hastily convened, high-level meeting except for Nurse Selket who, he
was tersely informed, had been taken ill after lunch and reluctantly
retired to her room.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> On
the monitor, Shango dwarfed Security Sgt. A-2 who was just informing
Osiris and the others they've now discovered how the outer hallways'
cameras had been taken off-line (Krahang made sure to frown
noticeably). It seems someone replaced the live feed with a
still-shot showing only the empty hall. They'd no idea for how long. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “This
is an ominous development,” Shango said, his voice crackling
through tinny speakers. “This intruder must be craftier than he
appears.” They'd discovered it when Cpl. K-9 found Agent Abathur
wandering around Hall #4. When A-2 checked in on the monitors and
couldn't locate them, the ruse was discovered and quickly dismantled.
“Everything's fixed, now.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Why
wasn't Abathur in isolation with the others?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He'd
left Decon and was headed there but said he'd lost his way.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
reminded them Abathur was new. “It's easy to take a wrong turn.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
his supervisor, Krahang had asked Abathur to finish cleaning up the
uranium dust they use on the drones in case the intruder broke into
the lab and used it to contaminate the building. “If there's any
blame for him not reporting to Isolation promptly, the fault is
entirely mine: he was doing Security Duty.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Osiris
had al-Zebani shut off the monitor. “Krahang,” he called back as
the others began leaving, “you and Harádov stay behind. This
intruder must be found – and destroyed: it's time we release the
Mobots.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Al-Zebani
activated the red button merely labeled “Drones.” Drawers opened
in the walls of the test room, site of earlier testing, and hundreds
of mini-drones emerged. They hovered in formation, fully awake and
ready.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “If
my crack guards can't find this intruder,” Osiris said, “it'd be
fun to watch my Mobots run him to ground.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
Osiris left, Krahang wasn't sure what to do. It's one thing to
choreograph the bots to attack someone in a closed room; but to
search out an intruder wandering loose in the building? He called
Sgt. A-2 and asked to have Abathur escorted up from Isolation. “I'll
definitely need his help on this one.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sure
thing.” Then A-2 asked him what he made of those rumors the
intruder had disappeared from a locked interrogation room.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He's
clearly cunning,” Krahang laughed. “Is he hiding in that closet
behind you?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Piltdown
also stayed behind, making Krahang feel uncomfortable; but Haradov
stayed behind, too, making Piltdown uncomfortable – like things
weren't awkward enough. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Piltdown
suggested programming a “search command” for an old man with
white hair and a beard wearing glasses. “Would that work?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
laughed. “Many scientists here are old, white-haired men with
beards and glasses.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
figured they'd probably wipe out half the research staff with those
factors. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
triumphantly held up a vial of his pheromone, the one that would
attract the bots like mosquitoes to sweaty ectomorphs.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yes,”
Piltdown said, “but you'd have to catch the guy and douse him with
it first before the bots found him.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Haradov
sighed. “True.” Saddened, he slipped the vial back into his
jacket pocket.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
started to fuss over something in the one panel, a loose wire. “Geez,
that's not going to help... where's Abathur?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
slid under the board like an auto mechanic under the hood, stretched
out on his back, when Piltdown bent down to help, accidentally
brushing against his crotch. “Can I lend you a hand?” He ignored
her but couldn't move out of the way. Whatever he mumbled, she
assumed it was Thai for something pleasurable. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
took this as an invitation to continue, first groping, then kneading
him, gratified when, eventually, the bulge began to respond. She
imagined Harádov stood there oblivious, unable to see what she was
doing. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Instead,
she was unaware he'd sneaked up behind her until he started to
squeeze her buttocks, muttering something she couldn't understand
(“probably Israeli for something pleasurable,” she feared) which
didn't strike her as enjoyable. She tried wriggling out of his grasp
to send him a message, but he took this as an invitation to continue.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
imagined Krahang finally accepted the honor she would soon bestow on
him. Haradov was delighted: he always preferred feisty women.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Pushing
back with a mule-like kick, Piltdown's heel connected directly with
Haradov's groin. With a breathless gasp, the old man collapsed on the
floor, pulling her backwards, his hands still firmly on her hips. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
switched around some cables which should initiate a power surge and
soon cause one of the main units to overheat. It was only a matter of
time before it created the necessary diversion. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That's
it!” Krahang had an epiphany. “Riding off to hunt the cunning fox
– only in reverse: we're the hounds, and the Mobots are the
horsemen. We dogs sight the fox, then alert the huntsmen.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
slithered out from under the control board, brushed dust off his
hands, and ignored the obvious tumescence in his crotch. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> When
Abathur's untimely entrance surprised her, Piltdown hurried to step
in front of Krahang, not before Abathur noticed Krahang's erection.
Haradov rose from the floor, his crotch pulsing in agony, and knocked
Piltdown off-balance. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sorry,”
Abathur laughed when he realized what it sounded like, “they sent
me up to see if you needed any help.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> To
keep from falling, Piltdown grabbed onto the board, accidentally
hitting several buttons.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Immediately,
another door in the observation room opened and the bots streamed out
into the hallway.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Abathur
asked, “anyone smell smoke?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ifrit
al-Zebani, as Director of Basilikon Laboratories, was cursing that
damn nurse, Selket, for picking the day there'd be an intruder to get
sick. Here he is, stuck playing nursemaid to the Old Man. “I'm
wheeling him around the place like I'm nothing more than the
hired-help. Okay, so maybe he's my boss, but still...” He'd been
surprised Selket retired to her room, clearly “indisposed” not
long after witnessing Ripa's execution. She not only looked like an
ox, she'd never been sick once in all her years with Osiris.
Initially, Shango'd been roped into wheelchair duty but as massive
and strong as he was, Osiris was concerned perhaps Shango was a
little too massive and strong: he required someone more gentle and
empathetic, especially going over doorjambs that felt like speed
bumps. What would Shango be like if he needed help in the bathroom?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Then
there was the alarm about this intruder! Who broke through their
security? Osiris, once Selket had become so uncharacteristically
sick, immediately became suspicious, the scoundrel's description,
when it came in, incensing him more. Whoever this guy was, al-Zebani
assumed some history between Osiris and the villain, his boss'
reaction extreme paranoia amplified by dread. Al-Zebani should be
acting like a Director, leading the operation to hunt down a man
capable of striking fear in Osiris. He needed to dump the Old Man in
a safe, secure, undisclosed location. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
now Shango reported there was a fire in the Control Room and that Dr.
Piltdown was being detained for questioning because she had
apparently accessed the outside entrance in the one remote warehouse.
This was only moments before she reported for a meeting with Upper
Management: had she let the infiltrator into the building? Stranger
yet, he added – al-Zebani could just imagine the snarl playing
across Shango's lips – she presumably accessed the same entrance
again while they'd all been in the Main Control Room: are there more
infiltrators? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
for the fire, it started accidentally in the wiring in the Control
Room, but al-Zebani wondered at that word, “accidentally.”
Unfortunately, it's gotten into the air-filtration system and smoke
now rapidly filled up the various offices and hallways throughout the
building. The good news was, the Mobots had been deployed, sniffing
out any intruders. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Despite
al-Zebani's urgent pleas for a security detail to assist him with
Osiris who had now become irrational with uncontrollable rage – “he
must be taken somewhere safe, STAT!” – he was unable to make
contact. He'd heard Krahang and the new guy – Abattoir? – had run
off after Piltdown was detained, and that Harádov went with them.
Acrid smoke, smelling hot with its electrical pungency, began to
obscure his visibility. Al-Zebani had no idea if they're moving
toward the front lobby or away from it. “Signage, the place needs
more signage!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
had no choice. Opening his tablet, he activated his back-up
bodyguards, a series of life-size animatronic Salieri-look-alike
robots, the Salierotrons. Originally designed for a long-abandoned
amusement park project, he'd reconfigured them to look like F. Murray
Abraham from the movie, <i>Amadeus</i>. Soon, a dozen of them would
locate him and lead them to safety. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Meanwhile,
Abathur had taken Krahang, really IMP undercover agent Sam Senn, to
meet up with Bond and her fellow IMP agents. Now a group of six armed
agents and a civilian, plus their hostage, they ran headlong into the
emergency exit's tunnel. Since Cameron was unarmed, Senn had ordered
him to stick close to him.<i> </i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
smoke had gotten thicker, but the distance felt it was getting
longer.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “So,
Cameron, after we get out of here,” Sam said, “maybe you and me,
we could go for a drink sometime?” </span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">= = = = = = =</span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-35.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-23874044665001936112022-10-27T08:00:00.026-04:002022-10-27T19:08:18.001-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #33<p style="font-weight: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7hf0BVaVAaKSnIvDd4bFGr5r5J3UuRQU9Dk32kk0nBjdQZFPq7WK8SzepkRBlcqZNfyTYVB1oWAQGoqTJlomxwXXAepiqtDumlvuRe8koPzaKrMprOLFui7g_M3IaKRGWWQX1cZjajZfk2qTaDd9zim1ew6clRbzE-MNK3jM5dMR-yTO4A/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7hf0BVaVAaKSnIvDd4bFGr5r5J3UuRQU9Dk32kk0nBjdQZFPq7WK8SzepkRBlcqZNfyTYVB1oWAQGoqTJlomxwXXAepiqtDumlvuRe8koPzaKrMprOLFui7g_M3IaKRGWWQX1cZjajZfk2qTaDd9zim1ew6clRbzE-MNK3jM5dMR-yTO4A/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-32.html" target="_blank"><i>Rehearsals continued for both </i><span style="color: black;">Cosí
fan tutte</span><i><span style="color: black;"> </span>and </i>Amadeus</a><i>, but not without mounting concerns (no puns intended) for the future of their respective productions. Certainly, the opera's cast hadn't quite embraced Lauren Mostovsky's controversial concepts (she was willing to accept it might take more time, perhaps until they started working with their costumes); and SRTC's </i>Amadeus<i> looked like it was heading toward greater troubles than just finding the actor playing Mozart might have to be replaced. </i></span></span><p></p><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>But meanwhile, it's time to check in with the ongoing troubles Dr. Kerr is facing after he's found himself, somehow, inserted into the Basilikon Lab on the edge of Orient, IA, a place he had not expected to be concerned with, given the nature of his investigation and his doubts about whatever happened to the guy calling himself Trazmo (you remember Trazmo?). So, will he be able to get himself out as inexplicably as he'd gotten himself in?</i><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
#22</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Everything
had happened so suddenly, it made my head spin more than usual, as if
Time Travel wouldn't be disconcerting enough. But this didn't seem to
be “Time” as far as I could tell. It was, certainly, “Space”
– if not quite interstellar, then from one location to another and
one not all that far away. When I get back – assuming I <i>get</i>
back – I must ask Cameron if one can choose one's destination, time
or space? Or, for that matter, if there are specific limits, like
only short jaunts? But if he'd never tried this “levitation”
meditation of his before, whatever he called it, would he know what
to expect? Even following directions, doing this completely without
supervision, would it work as planned? His hope on this trial run was
just to hop across the threshold from one motel room over to the
next. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
wasn't aware of flying – I never am, when time-traveling – much
less levitating. How could I have gotten from my bed in the motel
room to here (wherever “here” is) – by way of <i>there</i>? I'm
pretty sure where “there” was, just not sure where I've ended up
now, at least not yet – someplace completely different... The fog,
presumably in my brain, hadn't cleared yet, but I never could
remember what happened before, regardless how it began. Those
memories, quickly fading, left behind nothing more realistic than a
vivid dream.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “But
Cameron was the one meditating; shouldn't he have been the one
levitating?” Presumably, this fell under the category, “Why Me?”
I remember my phone rang – Bond was calling (I wonder what she
wanted?). And then, whatever happened, I'd run into this guard
dressed like a lizard who placed me in, like, this holding cell. When
the door opened a few minutes later, there was this guy who was the
epitome of an evil Arab villain and this huge, bare-chested black
man, probably his enforcer, and I suddenly disappeared! </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Had
they seen me? Or enough of me to distribute an APB description? It
felt like another short-circuit flash, and I ended up back in that
hallway (will another Lizard Man catch me again?). And if what
Piltdown said was true about the Mobots, I have got to get in touch
with Bond immediately – “<i>Now</i>!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> That's
when there'd been another short-circuit – it was the only way I
could describe it, like I was being consumed by some flash but
without feeling the shock – and suddenly I was somewhere else. The
room, first of all, appeared to be empty as I tried getting my
bearings. Was I back at the motel? A possibility – same dingy
décor, same basic set-up except there was only a single bed, but
this one covered with an open suitcase and a duffel bag like some new
arrival hadn't unpacked yet. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So,
perhaps the motel (at least, <i>a</i> motel), maybe even the Express
Motel, but not my room and there was no Cameron in the chair hoping
to gain access to Room #12 next door. I had no idea how this was
working – other experiences with Time Travel had been occasionally
quite accurate – or how well. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
room was lit by a weak bulb in a small lamp on what passed for a
little desk (a sense of relief, recognizing the same style of lamp
and desk from our room). There was an old-fashioned wall calendar by
the door, difficult to see at the edge of the light. “Hmmm...
March, 1983?” Housekeeping's a little behind unless the manager had
the same kind of nostalgia Tom had with his calendars at the cabin.
By that logic today's date is a Thursday, but here it's a Tuesday.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
Pounding footsteps –
no, stamping feet – outside the door! I barely had time to hide in
the bathroom (not the best place to hide: what if the occupant, who
already sounded impatient, had to pee?). As the door flew open, I
could see it was night and there was a fierce blizzard roaring
outside, snow everywhere. The man wasn't dressed for this weather but
wore impressive boots; an equally noticeable belt buckle glistened in
the available light. That's unsettling: I'd seen something almost
exactly like that just recently – but where? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
seemed young, frustrated, certainly angry, and slamming on the light
switch only to have the overhead light flicker didn't help. He
dragged the chair over from the desk, pushed the ceiling tile back
and, cursing fluently, reached up, tightening the bulb. I almost
gasped when I got a good look at his face. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo!
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Okay,
so it worked. Cameron's attempt at levitating into Trazmo's old room
didn't quite happen as planned, but here <i>I</i> am. Let's deal with
the mechanics of this later, but right now, it wouldn't take even an
honorary member of the Sherlockian Society to know this was Phillips
Hawthorne, Composer, presumably the night he disappeared! </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There's
the belt buckle and, yes, those were definitely the same boots I'd
seen but on the wrong person. Okay, so maybe the <i>right</i> person
but how'd the wrong person get hold of them? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
was so excited, I couldn't wait to tell Cameron.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Whoa,
hold on.” I stepped back behind the bathroom door. “Where <i>is</i>
Cameron? Presumably back in the Present, unless he ended up somewhere
else... How am I going to tell him, considering where <i>I</i> am –
and when? How do I get back to the Present?” It's not like the
Kapellmeister would show up and guide me, since he'd been the one
controlling the shots, last time. There's no hand-held time device, I
didn't walk through any shimmering Alice-Down-the-Rabbit-Hole
portal... </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> More
importantly, assuming I'd make it back, how was I going to tell this
to Sheriff Diddon and more specifically Tom. I could hear myself
saying, “well, he seemed pretty pissed off that night...” Looking
over my shoulder, I saw myself, gray beard and all, in the bathroom
mirror and realized I had to pee.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo
plunked the chair down and looked at himself in the table's small
mirror, his hands planted firmly against its corners. “God, you're
lookin' old, kiddo. What's happened to you these past few years?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> (Ah,
excellent, an interior monologue and he's going to deliver it out
loud!)</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
like you're growing old and nobody cares.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
sat down and I half-expected him to start removing make-up before
bedtime, hardly old enough to worry about middle-aged woes. Maybe he
was having a conversation with some imaginary friend or inner demon? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “But
what if my real talent is in convincing myself I have talent – and
despite what everybody's told me, I don't?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It's
the typical argument every artist faces, especially making that
transition between being a gifted youngster and becoming an adult
professional. Not every artist is aware of it at the time, feeling
all alone. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “There's
always someone saying 'oh, you're so brilliant, you're a genius –
another Mozart!' but they're full of crap, especially my father.”
He laughed. “What's <i>he</i> know about art? Only how much money
it's worth.” All his life, he'd been surrounded by stupid people
praising him and everything he said, whether it was crap or not. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
took something from his shirt pocket, a pen – a green pen that
sparkled in the light – which made him smile. “Except one. He
knew. He called my bluff...” (Probably his teacher, Grayson
Trautman.) </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Then
Trazmo pulled something else out from a pants pocket (I couldn't
see), held it wrapped in his hand (something small). When he put it
down on the table by the green pen (which I assume was the Pelikan
Graphos his teacher had given him), I realized this new thing was a
small, odd-shaped stone. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
piece of turquoise! Polished smooth, it also glinted in the dim
light. Did Trazmo have an obsession with shiny objects, things that
glimmered in light, that could distract him from moments of
frustration? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
pen had been given to him (according to the story from Trautman's
interview that Tom mentioned) but Tom's bit of turquoise had been
stolen – and given the time-frame, here, just the other day.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Then
along comes someone like <i>him</i> with no idea how well he writes.
And I couldn't even be friendly toward him...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Wait...
was this the same Trazmo Tom had been telling me about, the one
others recalled as the arrogant, self-confident bastard who felt he's
so much better than everybody else? Who's he talking about? Is it
possible he's referring to Tom? I mean, if that's the turquoise
nugget missing from Tom's desk – a stolen memento? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> My
immediate reaction was “Wait till I tell Tom!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
I have a cell phone, right? Couldn't I just call him? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Except,
could I make a call from 1983? Probably not, without a signal... </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Holy
crap, if this is <i>that night</i> back in 1983, couldn't I just go
next door and tell him and...” Yeah, right – he'd think he's
Scrooge being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Despite
all these mind-reeling epiphanies, it occurred to me such misplaced
enthusiasm, whether it counted as <i>schadenfreude</i> or not, was
inappropriate. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Here's
an Ex-Prodigy, a brilliant composer, having an intense moment of
doubt, perhaps on the scale of an Existential Crisis, and I'm some
gossipy crone who can't wait to tell someone what I've overheard. I
almost felt sorry for him – well, Hawthorne; maybe not for Trazmo,
Tom's nemesis, if that was his evil, public persona. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Have
some heart.” For every famous artist, there must be hundreds of
would-be artists, prodigies themselves, who did <i>not</i> survive,
giving up the dream only to disappear from sight.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Wait
– did I say 'disappear'?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Somehow,
I was about to be witness to whatever happened to Phillips Hawthorne
in those moments before he disappeared, or at least between the times
he had last been seen and then “found missing.” What happens next
could be the clue that would put my friend Tom Purdue's own decades
of mental anguish to rest. Is Hawthorne having an Existential Crisis
leading to a nervous breakdown or merely the emotional build-up to an
immense Pity Party? Like many prodigies, has he reached adulthood and
found himself already burned out? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> We're
in the middle of a blizzard in a town in the middle of nowhere, so
how will anybody come barging through that door to kill him – much
less who, not to mention why? Or will it be someone who'll “kidnap”
him so he can go live a life of quiet anonymity shrouded in mystery? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
the wind outside continued to howl, Trazmo started to take his
clothes off, carefully laying them aside on the bed – the boots,
the jeans, the shirt, even the socks and a torn t-shirt. I was
surprised (though I could barely see without giving myself away) he
was wearing a lacy pair of women's panties. Cameron told me many gay
men, even many married straight men, often wore women's panties
because they found them more comfortable. I'm no expert, guessing if
Trazmo's gay; besides, who are we to judge? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
he wasn't undressing for bed: he pulled all these clothes out of the
duffel bag and made a few selections. I couldn't tell what they were
at first, everything hidden by the suitcase. Was he going out
somewhere? Again, we're in the middle of a blizzard; wouldn't most
people stay hunkered down at home? And aside from the diner next to
the motel which sounded like it would be a very unfriendly
environment for him, what kind of nightlife would there be in a place
like Orient, Iowa? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Before
he turned his back to me, out of view of the mirror, I saw his chest
was thin, typically unmuscular for a boy who'd grown up spending too
much time with his music. Then he strapped something around his
chest, slipping a shirt over his head, dark blue with... floral
patterns and rather frilly. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
surprising fashion choice, given where we were.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Next,
holding up a large rectangular piece of dark blue fabric from the
pile to give it careful consideration, he decided to wrap it around
his waist. With a few adjustments, he tied something across the front
and stood back to admire himself in front the mirror. A smaller bag
contained a long curly blonde wig which he quickly fit into place
(he's obviously had lots of practice). All that was missing to
complete the transformation was a bit of make-up. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo
began to sway back and forth, arms folded across his chest, slowly
turning, the skirt swaying gently to inaudible music, his eyes closed
and what expression I could see one of utter contentment. Gradually,
his inner music accelerating, he began to twirl and extend his arms,
his head thrown back with an ecstatic smile. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,”
I thought, “<i>that's</i> not exactly what I'd expected.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
then it happened. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
a bang, the door exploded inward with a great gust of howling wind
and blowing snow, as the silhouette of a man stood threateningly in
the light from a nearly obliterated street lamp. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo
screamed, his arms braced across his chest. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
man stumbled into the room, unable to steady himself against the door
– an older man, not much taller than Trazmo, not much heavier,
either, his shoulders snow-covered, his stringy hair caked with ice.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sorry,
miss, sorry,” the man said, an old man with the look of a vagrant
about him, lost in the storm. “I thought you was that young feller
I saw'n the diner. Name's Gene.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Who
the fuck are you,” Trazmo spat out before he remembered to modulate
his voice to sound more like a woman. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “They
mostly call me <i>Ol'</i> Gene, 'round these parts. Eugene Dyson,
ma'am, at your service – I'm kind o' yer local Diogenes.” He
stood there, dusting himself off, and left a puddle of melting snow.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">“</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Don't
mean no harm, don't worry. I'm just lookin' fer some handouts if'n you
got stuff to spare – food, old clothes? Bitch of a storm this one
is, if you don't mind my French.”</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
the hell, barging into a lady's hotel room? Oh,” he paused, once
Gene's words caught up with him, “a beggar...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sorry,”
Gene explained, pointing at the door. “I'd been knockin' but I
guess what with the wind, if'n y'get my drift” (and here, he chuckled
at his own pun), “you pro'lly didn't hear me.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo
became a bit more relaxed but not exactly welcoming. “Hardly gives
you the right to break into my room, though.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Didn't
break in, ma'am – door must'a blowed open. Sorry t'interrup',” he
added, winking, “if'n yer young man's naked under the bed.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was a moment's inspiration. “Oh, no, he's passed out in the
bathroom.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> (“Aww,
jeez,” I thought, stepping back into the shadows in case Ol' Gene
could see me. “What if he...? Would she...?”)</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Tell
you what,” Trazmo's feminine persona now crooned, sounding sultry
and a bit sexy (he's obviously had practice at this, too). She wanted
to play a joke on him; seems they've just broken up. “Here,
why don't I give you all his clothes – these jeans are warmer and
dryer than those old corduroys you're wearing. And these boots – I
always hated his wearing these boots! Would they fit?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
realized how I could ruin everything, here, simply by flushing the
toilet which would freak Trazmo out, thinking he's alone. But it's
the First Law of Time Travelers, so everyone keeps telling me: always
leave the events of the past untouched, no matter how tempted you are
to bring about change in the future.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He'll
have no need for them any more,” Trazmo's new persona was telling
the old man. I could tell by the momentary silence, Gene must've
thought she'd killed him, the boyfriend, or will, soon. The voice
continued, a little more pitifully (he's getting good at this), “by
the time he comes to, I'm long gone. Why, when that bus pulls out of
town, I'll be on it and that rat bastard – nobody's going to miss
<i>him</i>! – he'll be naked and too cold to come running around,
lookin' for me.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So
much for this fascinating scenario, but what's he up to, with this?
How does this wronged and broken-hearted young lady know when the bus
will leave town, considering the state of the roads? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yes,
that's it, you put those jeans on, Gene” – laughter, at her pun –
“while I pack up the rest of this.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Peering
out from the bathroom, I could see Ol' Gene's scrawny legs in the
mirror as he pulled on Trazmo's jeans. Trazmo himself – or rather,
<i>her</i>self – had emptied the suitcase and busily stuffed things
into the duffel to get rid of any evidence – evidence the Old
Trazmo would no longer be a burden to her.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
leaned against the wall. So, <i>that's</i> how Trazmo's clothes ended
up on that body, the one found four days ago. Nobody'd suspect who it
was because who'd notice some old bum had disappeared? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Here,”
I heard Trazmo say, the voice a little too emotional, “here's some
money – as soon as the storm clears, you should move on to the next
town. That's what <i>I'm</i> going to do.” The door opened and
whatever else they said was lost in the wind, as Hawthorne watched
Gene disappear into the snow. Maybe she's thinking he didn't want to
be around when the police started to look for him and can't find him
– but here's this tramp with his clothes. He'll become a suspect,
for sure.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
never thought my knight-in-shining-armor would be some mangy vagrant
in well-worn corduroys! There goes Trazmo, the great composer, former
prodigy. As if there's anyone around who'll miss him,” reverting to
his natural voice. “I guess Dad will – 'that boy'll be worth lots
of money some day!' Not that the boy'll ever miss <i>you</i>, Dad...”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Is
that why Dad – Phillips L. Hawthorne, Sr., recently and finally
deceased – has pressed these murder conspiracy theories all this
time, to recoup financial losses a successful <i>Wunderkind</i>
would've brought to the family fortune? What about everything he'd
spent buying orchestras so they'd play his kid's music and create the
aura of a budding genius? Had he ever thought his son just ran away
from home, now that he's old enough to be on his own; that he'd want
to get out from under his old man's controlling influence? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Was
this rancor the postscript to all the publicity the father generated
beforehand to let the world know his boy's a prodigy with a great
future; and now it's become a flood of constant publicity, merely to
keep the pain alive and tell the world someone must pay because that
future's been stolen from him.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
all these years, had the old man died a bitter, twisted soul because
he had yet to prove someone's responsible for killing his son so he
could sue him for, what... – wrongful death? What's the point of
suing a composer like Tom who's hardly flush with fame or fortune?
Where's the benefit in that? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Had
this – what I'd witnessed tonight – been part of a well-thought
plan of a young composer wanting to find his independence? Or
something spontaneous, a chance to find redemption through the
miracle of re-invention?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Another
voice, a man's voice. Had someone else entered and I hadn't heard? I
peered out, the doorknob in the way. The front door hadn't opened, no
renewed attack from wind and biting cold. The voice was too
practiced, too clipped and impersonal to be conversational, more of a
TV news reporter, sounding like Trazmo. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
room is empty, no sign of Trazmo's whereabouts. 'Gone missing,' the
note says, 'to live my life – as a woman!' And that's all from
here. I'm Lance Bleeblebuss.” (Another one of Trazmo's
personalities?) </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
stood there – <i>she</i> stood there (what do I call him now? Is he
a woman because he's dressed like one? He's still, anatomically, a
male but one with a preference for ladies' apparel) – anyway,
whatever pronouns apply (I'd never thought of it quite this way,
before), whoever stood there wondered what to do next. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
was thinking out loud – so I'm guessing this was all spontaneous,
part of a dream but without planning the details. “If I leave the
suitcases,” she muttered, “maybe they'll think I've been
kidnapped.” But they'd be empty. Plus she needed to take the
woman's clothing, since any of that left behind would be confusing. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> At
least, I figured, in fairness I shouldn't call him “Trazmo” any
more: that's the real identity she's trying to shed. He was still
(legally) Phillips Hawthorne. But Trazmo? No, Trazmo was dead, now. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Lost
in thought – I couldn't imagine what was going through his head at
this moment, aware of the powerful decision he'd just made, no
turning back (should I even be calling him '<i>him</i>' now?) – she
stood at the window, her arms wrapped around her, and stared out
across the empty fields covered with drifting snow. I could see her,
turning back to the dressing table, pick up Trazmo's old wallet –
she'd already taken out the money – then looked at the ceiling
light which flickered again, just for a second. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
slipped some stuff into a small box, climbed up onto the chair,
hampered by her skirt this time (something he'll have to get used
to), then slid the box above the ceiling tiles. “It'll be years
before they'll find it, judging from this place. With any luck, by
then they'll think I've been murdered.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> When
I pushed the door open another smidge (as my grandmother would've
said), it squeaked just enough that, when I looked up at Hawthorne on
the chair, he was staring down right at me.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
the God-Almighty fucking hell...!?” Nothing feminine in <i>this</i>
voice. He nearly tripped getting down from the chair (the skirt,
again). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> I
flew out into the room rather than be cornered at the toilet by an
insane whoever-he-was-now, already “full gonzo,” and slammed my
knee into the corner of the bed, screaming out in pain. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was enough to knock the chair over into her way, as the high heels
(which I hadn't noticed before) gave out from under her (definitely
going to have to get used to those). Between the two of us, our
individual pains brought out fresh streams of profanities (hers, I
admit, more colorful than mine). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> If
it's considered the best room in the place, #12 wasn't big enough to
do more than swing a cat in, and certainly not big enough for an old
man with a banged-up knee to be chased around the bed by a raving
maniac in a skirt screaming about how I'd gotten in and when. Not
that I could imagine myself in Trazmo's place, with or without the
skirt, given the highly personal and extremely intimate moment he'd
just experienced only to find some stranger was spying on him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
threw one of her shoes at me, barely missing my head as this stiletto
heel zoomed close by my ear. It'd only take another minute before I'd
collapse from a heart attack and die from a stiletto wound to the
forehead. The logical choice... – not really, but I opened the door
and ran outside. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
didn't take long before I couldn't see the light from Trazmo's room
or the looming silhouette of the Express Motel. Which way to downtown
Orient? Or was I out in the empty fields? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Surrounded
by snow I could describe no other way than “blinding,” I was
painfully aware I'd not dressed for this weather. And, if this
actually ended up with me dying here, I realized as far as the future
was concerned, I wouldn't be around to show up in 2016 to find myself
and gain closure. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Trazmo's
curses soon became one with the bellowing wind and I quickly realized
this wasn't going as well as I'd hoped. At this rate, what would it
matter what I could tell Cameron, or even Tom, much less someone like
Sheriff Diddon or those guys involved with GACC (though I'd love to
see their faces). What about the face on Diddon's predecessor in the
spring of 1983 when he discovers the body of an old man who, despite
his 2014 driver's license, should only be about 33 years old? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Not
only did I not know how I'd even gotten here or if there was any way
I could get out of here (hadn't I been in the Mobot Factory just a
while ago?), what could I do with the knowledge I've just learned to
solve what's rapidly become an even stranger, even colder case? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
best I could hope for was to run smack into the motel's diner, unless
I'm stumbling in the wrong direction. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Whatever
time I had left, this wasn't the way to spend it, worrying about the
imponderable, like “okay, here's another fine mess I've gotten
myself into” or “how're you going to explain this one?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Not
to mention how I'm going to get myself <i>out</i> of it, finding the
escape route from some kid's snow globe.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Escape
room! That's it! “Cameron, if you're listening – anybody? The
word is... '<i>now</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-salieri-effect-installment-34.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-11441960335799125062022-10-25T08:00:00.014-04:002022-10-25T08:00:00.220-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #32<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7hc08wotMASIo1mE_vcXOXh9o80txMWU8PqlNZMUGYKvlVHjN-u0xKtTjkcRk2c8DALYtstHkOmhz3rA1RKHqyjP-jmHHHtEa5tLMcOMnA4amLUhntzF4lza0BMLOkKMg8bsqVD9bbXp-M_ORMtLEboS36TSXfcHuIFdnCkdNlpqZ8JSVw/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7hc08wotMASIo1mE_vcXOXh9o80txMWU8PqlNZMUGYKvlVHjN-u0xKtTjkcRk2c8DALYtstHkOmhz3rA1RKHqyjP-jmHHHtEa5tLMcOMnA4amLUhntzF4lza0BMLOkKMg8bsqVD9bbXp-M_ORMtLEboS36TSXfcHuIFdnCkdNlpqZ8JSVw/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The rehearsal process, that long, often painful gestation before the audience gets to experience the end artistic results, is often fraught with periods of doubt, and, as we saw <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-31.html" target="_blank">in the previous installment</a>, there was a good deal of that to go around for both the Allegro Conservatory's ground-breaking production of Mozart's </i><span style="color: black;">Cosí
fan tutte<i> and the Surrey Regional Theater's more run-of-the-mill </i>Amadeus<i>. Unfortunately, that wasn't the last of it...</i> <br /></span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> = = = = = = = =</span></span>
</p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">[<b>Chapter
21, continued...</b>]</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Earlier,
the old ballroom, the Greenleaf Mansion's rehearsal space for the
brand new Allegro Conservatory, had been full of fairly gloomy
singers, scowling at those mind-boggling, gender-switching prospects
(for instance, Ferrando who becomes Ferranda) while a gum-flapping
director blathered on impervious to the fact each of them in turn
contemplated dropping out of the program. Even the pianist wondered
why he was there, as his mind wandered back to the last time he'd
tossed a spitball at a teacher, then remembered it had been Remedial
Theory only Monday morning. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Time
and Mostovsky droned on, both rooted to the spot, only Mostovsky's
hands occasionally fluttered about in an attempt at emphasis; a
makeshift clock leaned against a window sill, its hands immobile and
implacable. Henry Roberts thought if she (the director) would just
move around a bit, it could make things a little more tolerable. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “In
the long run, we'll use an interactive modular approach to the
overall look of the production on stage,” Mostovsky continued,
“something Scricci's brilliant mind imagined as a 'Chinese Menu
Approach' in which we interface specific details of what various
characters' aspects we might envision in 'Column A' best address the
available singers, 'Column B.'” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> However
much they had each gotten used to Lauren Mostovsky as a person,
regardless of the unexpected challenge of non-gender-specific
pronouns, they've got serious doubts about the sanity of Lauren
Mostovsky as a director. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We'd
come up with a suitable collection of variables as to what our
characters could look like which can be narrowed down to match those
who would end up chosen during the audition process, rather than
casting a particular body-type to match an abstract character
description, an image perhaps too specific for the potential cast.
This means we wouldn't have to reject an excellent singer for a role
because they couldn't, say, fit into the Little Black Dress the
designer had in mind for the character in Act Two. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “For
instance, about our pairs of lovers – Fiordiligi and Guglielmo, or
Dorabella and Ferrando – let's take a look at the men. Which one's
the more masculine one who might be a biker or lumberjack? Going by
stereotypes assumes the baritone is the 'more masculine' of the two,
a tenor being higher, less 'manly' in sound.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Villains
were stereotypically baritones (according to 19th Century
operas), romantic leads were tenors. We've all seen the caricatures
of short, pudgy tenors and big strapping baritones, but Ferrando and
Guglielmo weren't hero and villain. Tenor Henry Roberts was short and
chunky, and baritone Frank Goodman was substantially taller and
definitely more athletic, fitting the stereotypes. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
would happen if we go against type? What about accentuating the
differences, if they're already the opposite of each other?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Henry
squirmed in his chair. The others tried not to look at him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
kept thinking this wasn't a reflection on himself, but people who'd
see the performance would see him singing a male role dressed as a
woman. How could it not be anything but humiliating? And the others
remembered all this talk of Gender Swapping from earlier, too. Ready
or not, they knew what was coming. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was the slimmest glimmer of hope maybe he, never personally meeting
the expectations of a swashbuckling hero or leading man, would be
characterized as the “more masculine one,” probably not the
Soldier-of-Fortune he'd imagined initially, members of a SEAL team
dressed in camo with black cork-grease on the face ready for
nighttime jungle combat. He could “do” athletic, maybe someone
who'd been on the high school wrestling team gone to seed before he'd
turn 30, compared to Frank who really had been a star quarterback in
high school.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mostovsky's
attention turned to the soprano, Fiordiligi, to be sung by Orchis
China Aster, a fashion-conscious, demure, petite young Asian woman
(one assumed from the name, Chinese) carefully dressed but not
self-conscious or showy. The director's glance took in the singer
from Column 'B' and compared them to the character's potential
attributes in Column 'A.' But in an opera full of disguises,
Fiordiligi's the one who dons a military uniform (something she just
happened to have), convinced she must join her belovèd on the
battlefield rather than become unfaithful. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was a confidence about Mx. Aster (or was the last name “China-Aster”?
– no, checking the printed roster, there's no hyphen), something
sensed in her bearing or the intensity and set of her eyes, that made
Mostovsky imagine, if it were up to her, not Fiordiligi, Orchis would
hardly mourn a romantic break-up for long. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Given
that, then, the singer was already the opposite of her character,
unlikely to share in the romantic silliness of a broken heart or
grief that would be taken to such an extreme level. “Attraction at
First Sight” was certainly an option but would she be as
susceptible to the arrows of an interfering Cupid? If anything, if
time were not so condensed in reality as it was by the needs of the
plot's whirlwind pressures, chances are Orchis would probably find
companionship with the next available compatible man. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Conversely,
Felicia Kroll's generic Europeanness hid any Germanic ancestry (or
was it merely her father's name and she's only 12.5% Teutonic?) –
of course, <i>krol</i> was also a Slavic word for “King,” if it
mattered – her round face and overall flat impression, face as well
as physique, augmented her obvious lanky and sometimes awkward tomboy
qualities. Like many mezzos, she was doomed for a lifetime of
Cherubinos and Octavians, speaking of gender-bending “pants roles,”
though if you're going to get typecast, those are not bad roles to be
stuck with. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> If
one possible version of Fiordiligi as sung by Mx. Aster would turn
her into a pastel, chiffon-loving, high-heeled Barbie Doll, did Mx.
Kroll's bobbed hairstyle and jeans mark her as a potential lesbian?
How'd she look with spiked hair, numerous piercings, and a studded
dog collar?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Now,
Mostovsky considered, “what if we... <i>switched</i> them?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Was
Mostovsky perhaps a little too blunt, rolling out these observations,
judging from the singers' increasingly negative reactions – did
Mark Winsome philosophically cough out the word “psychobabble”?
Their successive expressions verged on the appalled. The reasoning
behind the characters' dramatic personas, how they should think of
themselves, became, if one dared use the word, “clear.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Given
Skripasha Scricci's so-called “Albanian Axis,” Dorabella, no
longer Felicia the tomboy, absorbed Orchis' feminine beauty and
Guglielmo, no longer Frank's macho man, became Henry's less
masculine, would-be playboy. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Then
we switch the genders!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> In
daPonte's story, the sisters' relationships were based on the idea
“Opposites Attract” until their fiances return in those
ridiculous disguises, dropping in unannounced as a pair of Albanian
sailors, friends of Don Alfonso's. But each girl eventually gives in
to the boys' advances and chooses the </span><i>other</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
boyfriend, the one who's her “Personality Equivalent.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
now, what if Henry's Ferrando becomes Ferranda, a tomboy and a
possible closet Lesbian, a bull dyke who wears “metal accessories”
and a studded dog collar? Henry's eyes had practically doubled in
size. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Frank,
unable to control himself, burst out laughing in disbelief, then
realized, “no, Mostovsky's really serious!” and sat back
embarrassed. “Shit...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Frank,
it turns out, will become Guglielma, transforming Orchis' femininity
into a dark-haired Barbie Doll swathed in chiffon and feather boas. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Henry
was quick to point out Frank wasn't laughing any more. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “No
shit...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Unperturbed,
Mostovsky preempted any further interruptions, questions or appeals
to sanity, and asked Joe to pass out the costume sketch hand-outs.
The men, who are now singing women's roles, don disguises not to make
fun of Albanians as in Mozart (how politically incorrect) but as gay
men coming back from a night at the bars. Henry's Ferranda disguises
herself as a lumberjack; Frank's Guglielma, as a tap-dancing dandy.
This is what many mezzos call “Octavian's Nightmare,” the idea of
a woman singing a man's role disguised as a woman. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “This
of course adds a new level of discomfort to the original sisters'
unwillingness to tolerate the Albanians' advances. Now men – and
one presumes “straight” – they're faced with gay men coming on
to them. Naturally, this offers a whole different subset of scandals
once the boys decide to give in and say “okay, why not?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> While
Felicia was the only one even remotely smiling during the ensuing,
ominous silence, Mark and Rosa patiently waited their turn, sweat
beading up on their collective brows as Mostovsky's attention turned
to them. Mark was convinced Alphonso'd become Pennywise the clown
from Stephen King's <i>It</i>, while visions of Aunt Jemima danced in
Rosa's head. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Despina
will be the only character who doesn't change gender,” Mostovsky
began, “but that's because she already disguises herself with two
male roles: the doctor and the notary.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Rosa
gave out an audible sigh. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Since
you're both Black” – Mostovsky, obviously going for the Equal
Opportunity Offender Award – “Despina is a young activist full of
racial bitterness while Alfonso, now Doña
Aldonza, attempts to assimilate and pass for White.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mark
pulls a calypso move with his neck and outstretched arms. “That's
Doña Aldonza from Brazil –
where the nuts come from!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Rosa
took advantage of the explosion of laughter breaking the director's
spell, and pointed out, since she's already a servant stereotype,
“shouldn't I become a White stereotype while one of the sisters –
or rather, brothers, in this case – becomes some kind of Black
Stereotype, perhaps a rapper with dreadlocks and yet another level of
scandal?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mark's
deep bass boomed out with a seismic laugh, barely catching his
breath. “Can you say 'N-Word in the wood pile'?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Fortunately
for Director Mostovsky, the bell rang and the afternoon's rehearsal
was over.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
the rehearsal wore on (and “wear on,” it had), Toni'd noticed a
change in Fielding, not just in his Salieri, but even during the
breaks when he seemed a bit more deflated, irritable. Without
Underhill to goad him, keeping his spleen in a state of near-boiling,
did he realize it wasn't as much fun? She noticed, after the break, a
change came over Bridges, too, especially before the evening
rehearsal started, but one of relief, as if some good news had
finally come his way – about Underhill, maybe. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> For
herself, Toni realized how much fun it was to read through Mozart's
lines once she'd gotten used to the idea. Fortunately, they'd skipped
over his first appearance, that naughty little scene with Constanze.
But Bridges had asked her to keep on, if she could, just to help them
out a little with the continuity.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Fielding
saw through Bridges' not so subtle plan to show everyone in the cast
how this teenaged girl, such a natural talent – how old was she:
15, 16? – was better, more natural than Underhill. Likely, there
was some ulterior, habitual motive behind the scenes, as they say,
whether Bridges was aware of it or not. Fielding hadn't forgotten how
the great Laurence Bridges once “discovered this incredible talent”
years ago, cast her in his latest play long before she was ready, and
how they'd immediately become this <i>scand</i><i>á</i><i>l
publique</i>.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
“roughed” their way through to the scene about <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Figaro</span></i>
when Bridges decided, “it's been a good day, let's end here. Toni,”
he added after everybody else started to leave, “we need to talk.”
Fielding saw this, and with a knowing smile nodded toward the
director who, if he'd noticed it, chose to ignore it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> With
Ben's half-hearted help, Grover, busy checking his clipboard, put
away different tables and chairs used to suggest various set pieces,
then locked up the old-fashioned wheelchair, a true antique, in the
scene shop. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Grahl
talked with Ben about some of his lines, then patted him on the back
as he wandered toward the exit. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “So,
Pete,” Fielding said, one eyebrow mischievously cocked, “who's
going to replace Heath? I assume the rumors I've heard are true?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
I'm not sure what Laurence plans to do right away, but yeah...”<i>
</i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bridges
was having a similar conversation with Toni back in the costume shop.
Initially, she'd thought he had wanted to talk more about the music,
how maybe he'd found some money for live musicians, but when she
thanked him for the opportunity to read Mozart's lines, he started to
pursue a different topic of conversation. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “As
a composer,” he said, closing the door behind them, “I thought
you brought a totally different perspective to the role, like you
really identified yourself with this young, naïve and unfiltered
young genius.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> His
use of “naïve” and “unfiltered” surprised her but, “yeah,
basically, I do. I mean, what young composer just starting out
doesn't want to grow up to be the next Mozart or Beethoven, right?”
She'd blushed again, afraid maybe he would ask her to coach Mr.
Underhill when he eventually came back to the rehearsals.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She'd
heard the rumors, too, but discounted them – how Underhill's leg'll
be in a cast, how he'll be in a wheelchair. She'd also read newspaper
reports on-line from years ago about the famous director Laurence
Bridges, accused of sexual harassment by a number of young actresses
to whom he'd promised stardom – and here she was. She took note of
the immediate situation: she's alone with him back in some remote
corner off-stage (would anybody hear her?); he'd just shut (locked?)
the door; he's standing between her and the doorway. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bridges
began to explain how he'd just received word before the rehearsal
began Underhill would have “this thumping huge cast on his leg”
and be in a wheelchair for several weeks, more's the pity, unable to
return to the show (so the rumors were true), if you could do the
math (she nodded she could). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “So
either we close the show, or I replace one of our two lead stars, the
legendary if over-the-hill Heath Underhill. And I thought, listening
to you read his lines,” Bridges continued, “<i>you</i>, Toni...”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Me?”
She'd backed up against an old couch. “You mean <i>me</i> – play
Mozart?” Stardom, she thought, here it comes, getting closer: the
offer, the Big Temptation, the evil snake in the Tree of Knowledge...
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Why
not, Toni? You're a natural-born talent, the way you took to his
lines, even more credible than old Heath was.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
maybe he was too old for the part and, yeah, he couldn't very well do
it in a wheelchair” (how absurd would it be with him and then Old
Salieri in <i>his</i> wheelchair?), “but how can <i>I</i> do it?
I'm too young! Besides, I'm a <i>girl</i> – a 16-year-old girl, in
case you don't remember...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
he slowly inched toward her, Toni felt panic climb up her spine. She
thought she could kick him where it hurts but wondered if she could
control her muscles (“God, he looks old!”).</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That's
part of the 'magic' of the <i>theatre</i>,” he crooned, “the
audience would quickly accept it; it's unlikely they'd even care.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It
sounds like a gimmick...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
reached out a hand to touch her.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> By
the time she felt his hand brush against her breast, she gave her
knee a stiff yank and pulled mightily. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
happened so fast: Bridges screamed just when she'd screamed (more like
a karate yell) as she slammed her knee into Bridges' groin, just as
the door flew open and she heard Vector scream. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
the bloody hell got into you,” Bridges panted as he painfully
picked himself up off the floor, dazed and incredulous.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
ran into Vector's arms, relieved. “I'd say my theatrical career's
over, now...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="text-decoration: none;">As
he led her out into a gathering crowd, Vector looked back and said,
“I believe yours is, too, Mr.</span> Bridges.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-33.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-12365250284332357922022-10-20T08:00:00.033-04:002022-10-20T08:00:00.239-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #31<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj28AMiZvBkY6AsWrsOW99IbIEonIMJbFE16rkzwGEBPitIdhOqQGGAvIFOrOjAKq_oMdnqFKK6AgYKrDivLv-IWwudwEf0Z3IFaBvGKQkPqtWuUnc-TjiBNr41GobsimDotBRXzsaLWjveD90cVM9bo0fFWS2jTVJVkoh07Q1OBI-oCro-IQ/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj28AMiZvBkY6AsWrsOW99IbIEonIMJbFE16rkzwGEBPitIdhOqQGGAvIFOrOjAKq_oMdnqFKK6AgYKrDivLv-IWwudwEf0Z3IFaBvGKQkPqtWuUnc-TjiBNr41GobsimDotBRXzsaLWjveD90cVM9bo0fFWS2jTVJVkoh07Q1OBI-oCro-IQ/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-30.html" target="_blank">In the previous chapter</a>, </i><span style="color: black;"><i>Prospério
Kárax started losing control of the Casaubon Society's gathering even before the unexpected arrival of Victor Spoyles, his one-time friend turned adversary. And IMP Chief Inspector Sarah Bond, pursuing a new lead in her on-going investigation into the Aficionati's ever-elusive leader, Osiris, had already met with Capt. Ritard in NYC and voiced her concerns about any possible danger to Dr. Kerr's safety. Then, once she arrives in Orient, IA, Bond's made not one but two discoveries.</i><span style="color: red;"> <br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>= = = = = = =<br /></span></span></span></p><p>
</p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><b>CHAPTER
21</b></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Since
everything was new, the first students at the Allegro Conservatory
would need to have that old-time pioneer spirit and flexibility to be
innovators with a willingness to improvise and “roll with the
punches.” Likewise the faculty, whether first-timers recruited with
newly minted degrees or the recently retired who perhaps still had
something to offer. There was never a dearth of good students or
reliable faculty, Dean Ringman told them, talented musicians looking
for solid situations, if they had the right entrepreneurial attitude
and the requisite sense of adventure. It might take a few years until
things could become more firmly established and yes, there were
complaints about a couple inexperienced theory teachers with one-year
master's degrees barely ahead of their own students, but Ringman
pointed out Tchaikovsky, a recent graduate himself at 20-something,
had similar issues when a new conservatory opened in Moscow. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
the Dean never failed to remind them (donors or students), here they
were “in the very heart of this great nation of ours whose very
towns and great traditions would not exist today if those legendary
19th<sup> </sup>Century pioneers had stayed back East with their
traditional comforts rather than face hardships and the unknown.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> In
that spirit of groundbreaking entrepreneurialism Ringman so admired,
the young and otherwise inexperienced Director of the Opera
Department, Lauren Mostovsky, began to explain a bold new concept for
an old, often maligned classic. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Gathered
in a semi-circle, the boyfriends on the right, the sisters on the
left, while the schemers sat in the center – or was it the men on
one half, the women on the other? – they read over their lines
through the first ten scenes in a literal English translation, saving
the original Italian for later. “First,” the director said, “you
must know what you're singing and to whom you're singing it, not just
to the audience. Also, mark in your score where you're thinking but
singing it out loud. In theater, you have different levels of nuance
you need to make clear: Dorabella's conversation, whoever's on stage,
could involve talking to them or talking to <i>them</i>,” Mostovsky
said, pointing to Ferrando, then Alfonso. “Or it could be something
only Fiordiligi's supposed to hear, even if in reality we can all
hear it, can't we?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> For
the moment, Mostovsky skipped over various gender-based issues
mentioned earlier to focus on more general details about the dramatic
situation – Alfonso makes a bet; the girls realize their boyfriends
are called to war – then asked each character what he or she'd be
thinking, how they'd react, what facial expressions they'd have when
<i>not</i> speaking. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “As
you transfer to the Italian you'll be singing, We want you to think
about 'how you look when you're listening.' You're not just standing
there counting measures until the next time you sing.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> There
was a slight flash of awareness that spread across several of their
faces: Mostovsky sat back and smiled as they realized in the past
they had thought more about what they'd sing next. “Yes, you do
have to think about that, where you must move and <i>why</i> but you
must also listen – think 'multi-tasking'.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
plot was simple, almost basic, focused around two sisters and their
relationships: girl-having-met-boy, girl-loses-boy; then ultimately a
happy ending, girl-gets-boy-back. But it becomes more complicated
when you add the X-Factor, an old philosopher. “What do they add?
Why do they do this? What is its outcome? They're throwing a catnip
mouse among the cats. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “And
what happens between the losing and the getting-back is the confusion
– in fact, it's the <i>chaos</i> – that advances the plot. Anyone
familiar with the opera will know the outcome, but you... do not.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mostovsky
stood up and pushed the chair back. “In Mozart's day, there was an
old saying, 'First the words, then the music.' But is it the
equivalent of 'First the egg, then the chicken'?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> (“Okay,
we've gone from interactive to lecture mode.” Rosa Miller sat back
and prepared to at least try to look interested.) </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “When
you rehearse a scene, find time to start with the words – in
English, like spoken drama – and work out the nuances. Question
yourself: 'why did We do that?', 'what would We do here?'...” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mostovsky,
looking around, noticed different levels of awareness. Some, with
more experience, nodded in agreement (“yes, I already do that”);
others, with less, shrugged a metaphoric shoulder (“<i>that's</i>
obvious”); nobody seemed to question why.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “So,”
Orchis ventured with some hesitation, “what do we do with our duet
scenes? People don't speak in unison in pairs.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Good
point.” Mostovsky wondered how long before that'd come up. “Work
mostly on the recitatives – that's where the action is – but you
still have to listen and interact when both your characters 'speak'
simultaneously. Do you both agree, 'one mind, one voice'? If you
disagree, who's viewpoint prevails? Are you identical twins or rival
siblings? What was it the great Anna Russell once said? 'You can do
anything in opera so long as you sing it!'” Given most responses,
Mostovsky assumed they'd no idea who Anna Russell was, either. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Frank
wondered what the hell <i>that</i> had to do with their duets'
characterizations? Russell meant Wagner's character relationships in
<i>The Ring</i>, but Orchis meant Fiordiligi and Dorabella's speaking
in unison, especially in the recitatives. If they <i>speak</i> in one
voice, like they sing in the music, how can you make that understood
in spoken theater? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Well,
okay, so, assume I <i>am</i> singing it,” Orchis added, “I guess
my question is 'how do I speak it?' – we...?” (These damn
non-specific pronouns only confused her, if she couldn't even say
“I.”) </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Those
are the things we want you – as in 'y'all' – to go find on your
own, so question everything you do. The rehearsal process – learn
the words, then the notes – is all about discovery.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> (“Well,”
Rosa thought, pretty sure it wasn't out loud, “I want to sing
Mozart but this shit is for the birds.”)</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mostovsky,
setting aside the director's cap, now slipped into Professor Mode
oblivious to whatever attention not already lost completely slipped
away. But like many a seasoned university teacher knew, as long as it
was said, that was the important thing, “mission accomplished,”
whether it fell on fallow ground or took root and become memorized
fact. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Most
of the early critics of Mozart's <i>Cosí fan tutte</i> reacted not
to the music but first to the words, to Lorenza daPonte's script,
which he always referred to as <i>The School for Lovers</i>. It had
been found immoral despite being an old theatrical convention that
pre-dated Shakespeare's time – to remind you, that's the
early-1600s – 'impertinent and unfunny,' 'primitive and
unimaginative,' 'cynical and frivolous,' to quote early critics,
three pairs of balanced adjectives like these characters in a story
Beethoven and Wagner dismissed as 'offensive,' complete with insipid
music.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> These
days, the opera's current tribe of detractors were more likely
inspired by the 21st Century's concerns for issues like
Gender Equality and Sexual Harassment, but these same “complaints”
– Mostovsky emphasized this with air-quotes – existed already
even in Mozart's day, “hardly an enlightened time for women, even
as the French Revolution brewed 'round the corner.” Men were
hypocrites, in private demanding absolute fidelity from their wives,
while in public they carried on with their own “affairs” – yet
they found the lovers' Trial of Faithfulness by Subterfuge degrading
to women? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Or
did Mozart's turning a dirty story into the stuff of Art offend
critics when he placed private foibles on the public stage, a place
usually regarded as the home of gods and aristocrats? It was a time
of lavish public prudery and lascivious privacy, metaphoric fig
leaves to hide the truth from knowing eyes. Sex – and to proper
18th-Century Classical gentlemen who tried to understand
life as a rational world, this was all about sex – sex was the
problem but it was easier to blame the surface thing.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mostovsky
pointed out people were shocked Mozart set <i>The Abduction</i> in a
<i>seraglio</i>, that secret harem for women where men were
forbidden: and what went on there? Sex! Therefore, the story had
sexual overtones. With <i>Cosí</i>, he turned a story about love
into a game of wife-swapping; and who couldn't see through those
ridiculous disguises?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Well,
then,” Mostovsky said, ready to wrap things up (soon, each singer
hoped), “what are we to make of this story? When Paris adapted
Shakespeare's <i>Love's Labours Lost</i> to Mozart's opera, it was
daPonte's words, the Emperor's dirty joke, they were erasing. But how
do we, now, make the whole of it relevant to today? Here's a game
that involves three pairs: two couples and a couple accomplices.
Don't be fooled by the obvious symmetry: three men, three women; two
boyfriends, two sisters, two schemers – it's not that simple! </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Each
couple is a pair of opposites: the boyfriends are not the same; the
sisters are not clones but reasonably independent. They each approach
everything thrown at them differently, and become each other's rival.
Of the schemers, Alfonso is a cynical old man, but Despina's world is
one of romance novels, a realm of hedonism. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Or,”
Mostovsky added with the vaguest semblance of a sparkle in the eye,
“as We like to call it, Despina's '<i>she</i>donism'.” Some of
them groaned, one of them giggled. Only Frank chose to argue.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “With
all due respect,” (meaning none was intended), “the male pronoun
is not the root of the word 'hedonism,' is it?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> But
Mostovsky dismissed this since “hedonism” was a<span> male domain and
this was hedonism boldly espoused by a woman. “Pun accepted.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">
</p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> (Frank
worried maybe she'd confused his “male pronoun” as a euphemism
for “penis.”)</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span> “We'll
talk about other aspects you'll need to conside</span>r to create your
characters in the weeks between now and dress rehearsal, but right
now let us mention some obvious aspects behind this particular
production.” Mostovsky opened a ring-binder and referred to some
pages before closing it again. “These will involve a series of
improvisatory exercises. Something you will <i>not</i> do is remember
any production you've ever seen of <i>Cosí fan tutte</i> either
live, on TV or on video. Don't watch one: that is not 'research.'
Music-only files are okay. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “In
fact, show of hands: how many of you watched a video, perhaps
on-line, before your audition?” All hands went up. “Okay, so,
now, erase everything you'd seen on them from your memory cache.”
She swiped a hand across her forehead and shook it out, like tossing
stuff on the floor. “Go ahead – do it.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> After
they did that, most of them a little too self-consciously, Mostovsky
resumed. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Most
productions treat the sisters like nearly identical twins except for
maybe their hair color or the color of their gowns.” A couple
nodded yes but she pointed out, “you were supposed to have deleted
that, remember? Again,” wiping across the brow. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “The
same with the boys – to distinguish them from Don Alfonso, the
'elderly' philosopher, usually turned into a portly senior citizen.
Despina the maid is young, flighty, probably still a teenager, a wild
card. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “The
problem with the pairs of lovers, they not only become
interchangeable, switching their relationships in the course of the
action, the audience becomes so confused about who's who they can't
tell them apart. The only thing worse would be if Mozart had cast
both the sisters as sopranos and all the men as tenors. Or we'd
listen to some Baroque opera where men were sung by <i>castrati</i>,
singing in the same range as the sopranos. (Don't worry, guys, relax;
we won't ask you to go quite <i>that</i> far...)</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “After
Ferrando discovers his girlfriend Dorabella's given in to Guglielmo,
he goes after Fiordiligi more adamantly, determined to win Alfonso's
bet, at which point our confusion (like those disguises weren't
enough) turns into chaos. In the end, do they really think, once
they're back together with their original partners, all will now be
smooth sailing?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Since
each of the lovers are essentially opposites – “<i>do</i>
opposites really attract?” – Mostovsky explained when they come
to those scenes where the differences begin to show, “like cracks
in their otherwise amicable social armor,” they'll improvise some
hypothetical conversations, “like they're sitting around the
kitchen table, sipping coffee, talking about whatever comes into
their heads. Except one member of a pair starts with a declarative
statement about something, then the other member says something
that's contradictory. For the sake of the exercise, in this case, the
genders are equal. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “It's
not just saying something to be contrary, maybe just a clue about how
you feel until things get more serious and you begin to reveal more
of what you actually, deep-down, genuinely believe. We assume you all
have social media accounts? Yes?” (They all nod.) “Then you know
what it's like to feel attacked.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “So,
then,” Mark Winsome, the Don Alfonso, the first time he's entered
the fray, offered, “it's not like I tell them – Despina – I'm a
Republican and she... <i>they</i> respond 'Well, We're a Democrat,
yeah'?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “You're
a Republican? Well, damn, I'll be gobsmacked,” Rosa responds,
slapping her forehead. “For your information, I'm... <i>we're</i>
being ironical, here?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “But
it has to be a declarative statement-of-fact. Say something about
policy – hypothetically. We doubt either of you'd be Conservative:
for the sake of stereotypicality,” Mostovsky reminded them, “don't
you think Alfonso <i>would</i> be?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Mostovsky
turned to Frank and said, “let's say you insist 'pedophiles should
be castrated,' and you,” turning to Henry, “say... what...?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Well,
they <i>should</i> be...”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “It's
a theatrical exercise, Henry, not an actual discussion.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “So...
what do I say?” Henry looked around, hoping the others would help.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “It's
an <i>improvisatory</i> exercise, Henry; so, improvise... respond.”
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Okay,
um... I can't just disagree, so I'd say, 'pedophiles come from broken
homes and were probably abused themselves as children.” He was
clearly uncomfortable, then added, “they need therapy and
understanding – and... support?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Felicia,
do you think Henry was very convincing?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
laughed. “No! He's trying a line like he's presenting it for
approval.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rosa
thought it was too tentative, more of a question, not a statement. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Okay,”
Mostovsky said. “Felicia, how would you sing that last line of
Henry's? Joe, give us a G Major chord, recitative-style.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Felicia
shrugged her shoulders. Her simple phrase, sung <i>mezzo forte</i>,
used few notes, dominant to tonic, a short scale to the third, back
to tonic, emphasizing the note just above the tonic on “-<i>stand</i>ing,”
before tentatively going up to the third for “sup-<i>port</i>?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
pianist, without prompting, rolled a B Major chord as punctuation. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> They
all laughed.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Excellent!
Perfectly Mozartean! Now, more convincingly, the same basic notes...”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> With
the volume louder, her tempo more clipped, she changed the last three
notes, ending on G, and the pianist obliged. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Again,
they all laughed, and a few applauded. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Exactly
– even resolving emphatically to the tonic, where the first one,
tentative, moved off into active harmonic territory, maybe headed
toward E Major or somewhere else. It wasn't the words you generated –
words on the printed page the reader must interpret – but how the
character 'inflects' them. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “So,
if you feel Henry was equivocal for some reason,” the director
asked, “are you convinced <i>this</i> is what Felicia believes?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “It
doesn't matter what Felicia believes,” Rosa said. “It's what her
character believes.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “As
you may have noticed,” Mark said, “Rosa and I, the 'schemers,'
are both Black, and reinforces the stereotype she's a servant, maybe
a household slave.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rosa
responded. “Yo', suh, be assimilated, yo' passin' fo' White. I is a
po' black girl an' I's longin' fo' <i>free</i>dom!”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
others had no idea how to respond.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
players of the Surrey Regional Theater Company, still subdued after
last night's fiasco, had begun to assemble for their afternoon
rehearsal. There was a lot of ground to make up, not knowing what the
short-term outcome would be from Underhill's untimely accident, or
even its long-range effects, more than enough to give anyone pause.
There were rumors the production might be canceled without one of its
stars, which made no sense: just find another actor. Still early in
the rehearsals, would it be that hard finding another Mozart? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Backstage,
Toni saw Mr. Bridges and Mr. Grahl deep in conversation,
understandably preoccupied. He hadn't been keen on Toni's idea
of Dr. Kerr's talk about “The Real Salieri” to set the historical
record straight. It disappointed her – he'd so quickly dismissed it
– but he had enough on his plate without dealing with some pesky
kid. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bridges
had cocked his head with this look as if thinking into the distance
(the only way Toni could describe it). “I admit,” he said, “I'd
been in Vienna a few times, even visited Mozart's birthplace there,
but it's hardly relevant, yeah?” (She debated whether she should
correct him, that Mozart was born in Salzburg.) “Sure, the play's
not historically accurate, but you saw the movie – that's what most
people believe is true, anyway, isn't it? Why confuse them with
boring facts? This is <i>theatre</i>, after all. It's <i>magic</i>!”
</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Rigley
Fielding, old and dumpy despite attempts at stylishness in his open
shirt, peach-colored silk ascot, and unfortunately too-tight jeans,
tried on his best snarls before a mirror in need of some serious
cleaning. Toni got the impression the only thing missing was an
eye-patch to cross-pollinate the Viennese Court Composer with Long
John Silver. Agnes Tiepolo, wearing yesterday's same outfit only
re-imagined in different colors, sat in the same chair and read the
same magazine. Ben Tishell paged through his script, slowly mouthing
his lines, word by word.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> For
a moment, Toni went back to last night, everybody in these same
places, everybody doing the same things as if this were all part of
those pre-rehearsal rituals each one had to perform. She could almost
hear an old man with shaggy white hair, the production's Mozart,
practicing that silly giggle from the movie.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Most
everyone regarded her blandly, another inexperienced kid making her
“debut” in the theater (or, as they overacted it, the <i>theatre</i>),
and who was she anyway, just one of those annoying little Venticelli kids. Only the old man playing Salieri (was there a stunt double to
play Salieri as a young man?) smiled at her. Did the actress playing
the singer Cavalieri snub her because Toni had more lines than she
did? (She had none, actually.) At least Cavalieri got to wear an
elaborate costume and make grand entrances. Of course, the director
was very friendly, had been ever since that first video-call, with
advice how to approach the character which wasn't much of a
character, was it? – more like half a character. She'd done some
on-line searches about Laurence Bridges, about his early career, but
didn't tell her folks what all she'd found. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> The
actor who'd turned out to be the Emperor (he didn't seem tall enough)
had listened to Bridges' long-winded introduction about their new
cast member, peered over his bifocals and quipped, “Too many words”
at which the actor who'd turned out to be Mozart (he certainly wasn't
young enough) had let out his fatuous giggle. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bridges's
assistant, Pete Grahl, and Grover Horner, the harried stage
manager, were the only people on stage who looked their parts. There
wasn't much about this first impression Toni looked back on as
“magical.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> And
all that before she'd witnessed the in-fighting between Fielding and
Underhill, an old married couple living off years of pent-up
bitterness, not a famous team of actors with a long theatrical
pedigree goading each other with their ridiculous backbiting, calling
each other “Wrinkly” and “Overhill” and all those barbs about
each others' “dramatic nuances.” Was she the only one who found
them embarrassing or was this another thing she'd learn about life,
how our ideals don't always turn out the way we've hoped, as Uncle
Terry often hinted? Did the other actors, the ones hired from London
or the local ones who've been included in the supporting cast who
thought this would be the highlight of their careers, working with
these two, did they feel the same disappointment she did, that the
reality behind the scene made the magic on stage virtually
impossible? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
Underhill tripped doing those silly hops, she saw the fear in his
eyes as he fell backwards: this wasn't planned. It played in her mind
over and over again, all in slow motion. Had she seen Tiepolo reach
over to pick up that gum wrapper she'd thrown on the floor which he'd
slipped on? Or when Fielding said, “oh, don't worry about him,”
to some actors fussing over Underhill, “if pain's all in the mind,
his brain's so challenged, he won't even notice it in a few hours.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> There
was also the odd suspension after they'd carted Underhill off to the
nearest hospital, fortunately only a few blocks away: do we stay and
continue rehearsing or should we call it a night? Bridges, after
seeing the ambulance off, announced Grahl “drew the short stick”
and went along to handle the bureaucracy of admissions. Toni wasn't
sure if the concern on his face was more about his injured actor or
what inconvenience the insurance required. Fielding was the only one
with his script held open, ready to resume. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “We'll
wait and see what tomorrow brings and if Heath still isn't ready to
join us,” Bridges said, “we'll just run the scenes that don't
involve Mozart, starting with the opening four. Three o'clock?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Once
they'd all nodded their agreement, the Emperor said, “Ah, well...
there it is,” and processed stage left into the wings. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Word
had already made its rounds before the afternoon rehearsal began that
Underhill's condition was much worse than they'd initially expected:
a fractured femur, a slight concussion but at least the hip was okay.
“Old people and hips – dangerous combination in a fall,” Toni'd
heard Grover say. “Still, he could be laid up for weeks.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bridges
appeared unperturbed by whatever news he may have heard, when he
announced, as he stared Fielding down to keep him quiet, the
“situation is fluid; we'll take it one day at a time.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Without
further ado, he ordered everyone into places. This opening was a big
scene for the Venticelli, two “middle-aged gentlemen” according
to the script but Ben especially had trouble sounding <i>not</i> like
a teenager. Salieri in a wheelchair, his back to the audience, sat
near the back, everyone else part of the whispering off-stage chorus.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “We're
not supposed to notice him – Salieri,” but Toni couldn't help it:
without makeup, Fielding made a convincing Old Salieri (the play
opened in 1823 when Salieri was 73, a patient at the asylum), except
for the fact he's smiling rather contentedly, perhaps because his
rival (Underhill, not Mozart) wasn't there to ruin his day. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bridges
tried getting Ben to sound more “urgent,” more like a gossip who
wanted to be the first with “the news.” The only thing Ben could
do was shout and sound even more stilted. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> They
made it through the first four scenes, skipped Scene 5, Mozart's
first appearance, but after Fielding finished his brief soliloquy,
surprised “the filthy creature” could compose at all, deciding
Mozart was nobody special, everything stopped. With everyone else in
place, ready to go, the Emperor made an imperial gesture toward
Bridges – “Shall we proceed?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
was the first big Court Scene with Salieri and Company on one side of
the Emperor, Mozart on the other. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Bridges
looked around. “But let's have... ah... – Toni, would you read
Mozart's lines?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Ben
handed her his copy of the script – she noticed it was unmarked –
and told her, “Better you than me, luv.” Toni blushed, paging
through it to find the spot, and took her place.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
she got through the flurry of French – flawlessly, Bridges noted –
everyone applauded. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Take
a break. Toni, come talk to me.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><div style="font-weight: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
wanted to discuss what music he had in mind for the production, since
he'd mentioned her composing a few bits of “interstitial” music
between pre-recorded bits of Mozart's and a few of Salieri's. It
shouldn't really be original sounding, perhaps a modernization of
18th Century classicism, like Poulenc (Bridges asked her
who that was). She suggested how the “curtain music” under the
first scene with the Venticelli, itself a verbal overture, should be
a distant tempest rising to claps of thunder to coincide with the
shouts of “Salieri!” </span></span></span>
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
would take a small orchestra, maybe only a dozen or so, but it would
need to be coordinated with the actors, those crucially timed shouts.
She thought her Uncle Terry could conduct it.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “There's
nothing in the budget for that,” he apologized. “Can't you find
recordings and play them through the CD player backstage?” </span></span>
</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">Another
disappointment. He suggested that bit from Disney's <i>Fantasia</i> –
“the one about the grape harvest's storm?” </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">But,”
she wondered, “would starting a play about Mozart with a famous bit
of Beethoven be all that suitable?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Seriously?”
Bridges wondered if anyone would notice.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Yet
one more disappointment. The magic had by now been successfully,
completely dispelled. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span>
</span></span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="color: black;"> “Ah,
Grover,” Bridges interrupted himself, calling over his stage
manager. “Can you find Pete and bring him back to my office? We
need to discuss something. Oh, and Toni,” he added, “we'll talk
later.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span>
</span></span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="color: black;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-32.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-84802340167480384142022-10-18T08:00:00.044-04:002022-10-18T08:00:00.220-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #30<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4Lcm5qDa1WPgP_RuTHX_O399yMaUQBGbLECby9dGH5AI0P6BfCuCdz0jaEYrdtTqIURcP3RzxPzf7u0bgdGxzYBU6sVAISVz98eO1QspwmEqUsn_Mg3_eXAKmXHYpYBgOYThSs9liGdF4csOI7oR-ud2PIf0A2TQKT-_xFwFxPnn73gtdA/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4Lcm5qDa1WPgP_RuTHX_O399yMaUQBGbLECby9dGH5AI0P6BfCuCdz0jaEYrdtTqIURcP3RzxPzf7u0bgdGxzYBU6sVAISVz98eO1QspwmEqUsn_Mg3_eXAKmXHYpYBgOYThSs9liGdF4csOI7oR-ud2PIf0A2TQKT-_xFwFxPnn73gtdA/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-29.html" target="_blank">In the previous installment</a>, we caught up with N. Ron Steele, erstwhile CEO-in-Hiding of SHMRG (biding his time to regain control), who, vowing to "return to life," contemplates his political ambitions. He's met the Evangelical minister, Savannah Roller, who vows to help him achieve his dreams (in more ways than one) in return for at least one little favor.</i></span></span><br /><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> = = = = = = =<br /></span></span></p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
20</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax
stood there, leaning almost nonchalantly against the podium, then
realized his pose lacked the necessary gravitas as he scanned the
crowd of scholars, most of them attentive, a few already showing some
impatience. “Ironing out the business before we begin is always
tedious,” Kárax admitted, “so I shouldn't blame them.” He
cleared his throat. Most of those were younger, the newly acclaimed
ones, the eager-to-impress generation of freshly minted researchers,
who despite their early accomplishments always have that pervasive
sense of insecurity lurking within their otherwise self-satisfied
auras. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “International
representatives,” Kárax resumed, “here from every discipline of
human knowledge, have begun gathering at the Abbey of Santiago,
perhaps feeling like an additional thousand martyrs, to engage in
what can only be called a most significant challenge, unaware what
possible success, if any, its outcome or its potential impact on the
future might be.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Whatever
we compile here,” Kárax continued, “whatever you want to call it,
whatever we <i>choose</i> as its ultimate title, whether it's thirty
volumes or two hundred and thirty, will be considered a single work.
Once it is finished, published, and distributed around the globe, it
may be a thousand years before anyone will read it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Every
discipline has been given its own code number, each volume its unique
accession number which places it in the continuum. Given the nature
of it, it's possible our collection might stretch to infinity.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax
imagined half his assistants if not most of those members present
were convinced his opening remarks would stretch to infinity. He took
a sip of water and again cleared his throat, creating aural
punctuation between topics he felt important to cover. In his notes,
he'd called this section “Mechanics” and scribbled beside it,
“boring.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
editorial council has already been arguing for some time, even before
assembling our scholars, about every facet of its organization, not
necessarily just what language it should be in – but I'll start
there. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Everyone
agreed it should be in three languages, one being the vernacular,
with a common denominator acting as a kind of <i>lingua franca</i>,
whatever that may be in the future, if one even exists. Following the
Rosetta Stone, we decided English should be one of the control
languages; either Arabic or Chinese, depending, the other.”<i>
</i></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
saw hands about to be raised, whether with questions or objections,
especially the Icelandic linguist Óskiljanlegsson who's always
championing Esperanto. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Please,”
Kárax said, raising both hands for patience, “hold any
disagreements for later? I am concerned here only with introducing
the Basic Mechanics – it says here, 'boring,' see?,” holding his
notes up, “right here.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
few chuckled but others reluctantly lowered their hands, frowning.
How did he ever hope to have everybody working smoothly together if
he can't even get through the introduction without people ready to
argue? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Each
volume will begin with its own basic primer for each of the included
languages which, thinking of it as the Rosetta Stone, may help
someone unfamiliar with any of them 'crack the code.' We can't count
on someone a thousand years from now who'd be able to understand 21st
Century English – much less Esperanto. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
challenge of comprehending the subtleties of philosophy or
mathematics will be difficult enough in a language you already speak
much less in something as remote from modern English as Chaucer in
the original. What do we hope people who live in the future will
understand where they speak Hungarian or Bantu or Farsi today? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Could
Arabic or Russian be dead languages familiar only to archaeologists,
or Chinese the equivalent of Latin today, studied by scholars? Will
there <i>be</i> scholars then? Will anybody remember English had even
once existed?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sure
he's offended everybody on the basis of their national culture, Kárax
moved on to the next topic, “Presentation of Content,” which
would more than likely rattle a few more egos before he'd finished.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
“History, obviously, will be chronological but first a summary of
the facts before any commentaries on their various interpretations,
causes, effects. As far as the sciences are concerned – and I'm
including math and the broader, general, more technical aspects of
engineering, here – these should be alphabetical by discipline
(sorry, zoölogy) and
subdivided accordingly by topic. There's still discussion about being
chronological within the necessary background leading to today's
conclusions, the historical material kept for later so future readers
aren't literally reinventing the wheel every time we've reinvented
the wheel. We want them to know what we now know, leaving the
historical aspects to those interested in how we got here.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Without
looking up, Kárax raised his index finger,<span style="text-decoration: none;">
knowing there would be hands poised for questions or objections,
befo</span>re moving ahead. “Basically, we recognize the need for
flexibility, so it's not a one-pattern-fits-all approach. We also
recognize the importance of interpreting the facts to include
balanced commentary that might prove confusing to an inexperienced
reader. Ideally, though that's an impossibility, we intend to stress
these diverse opinions are there for someone unused to our scientific
approaches to draw their own conclusions through the process of
discovery, experimentation and deduction. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Scholars,
you are summarizing your field of expertise, so realize you are
writing not for your colleagues but to give the fullest understanding
possible to a reader who's a complete novice about your field. Given
various technical details, think also of the translators' plight
trying to make sense of this in the simplest language possible. Your
assistants will help with organizational details, and those working
with me and the Editorial Board will annotate them, create an index,
insert cross-references, add bibliographical material as needed. So
much for the mechanics.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Looking
up, he added, “So far, we have only our own planet's knowledge to
codify: let us be thankful for that. Our purpose is serious, the task
daunting, the reason for its necessity dispiriting. If I mention the
Norns, I would cross-reference Dr. Skuldhilde Brekhester's volume on
Norse Mythology, and so I introduce her, now.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
her youth, the statuesque Dr. Brekhester had been dubbed “The
Striking Viking” by a thoroughly unoriginal American press when her
first book appeared in 1971, <i>Understanding Ragnar</i><i>ök</i>
(which, of course, no one did). Still imposing, her pewter-gray hair
twisted in an ornate plait to her waist; all she needed was a helmet
with horns. Unfortunately the microphone could not be adjusted
for her – she stood several inches taller than Kárax who had
graciously stepped aside; fortunately, her voice was powerful enough,
her accent aside, she needed no amplification. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We
talk about the 'Dark Ages' as this monolith of ignorance,” Dr.
Brekhester began, “yet men figured out how to build great stone
cathedrals despite an abundance of illiteracy and of warfare and
plagues. Someone could unearth the past, thanks to Arabic scholars in
Baghdad and in Spain, out of which the Renaissance was born. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
origins of this period, these Dark Ages, is vague; no one singular
apocalyptic event caused it to happen, though English and Frenchmen
like to blame the Vikings,” she added with an enigmatic smile. “For
a future Dark Age, our options apparently include nuclear war,
another asteroid, climate change, or some new wave of
pseudo-barbarians. And while dinosaurs had no way to overcome the
effects of an asteroid or a global Ice Age that destroyed them,
humans today have ways we might preserve our civilization, assuming
humans will survive. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Unless
the future belongs to bacteria or some expeditionary force from an
alien planet, or some other life-form not yet discovered, we've
proposed this 'Key to All Human Knowledge' or whatever we'll call it.
It all depends, doesn't<span style="text-decoration: none;"> it, on
how the World-As-We-Know-It will end. Perh</span>aps only a few
copies of this Compendium will survive. It may only take one of them
to be discovered and trigger a discovery so momentous, our future's
understanding of our past will change, may in fact renew us, or
what's left of us.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
described scenarios where research, like the Rosetta Stone, the Dead
Sea Scrolls, or even those fragments of ancient Greek tragedies, has
taken years to decipher, artifacts full of holes with large sections
missing. “Knowing this and not knowing what they must withstand, we
must protect our efforts to ensure they survive, if possible, intact.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “<span style="text-decoration: none;">Initially
the premise </span>sounded like it would involve many rows of
like-binded books on rows of shelves in libraries everywhere, but
these could easily be incinerated by heat or fire, and dissolved by
floods. No,” she emphasized, “they must be stored in vaults made
of sufficient material to withstand any disaster, whether natural or
man-made. They cannot be easily accessed and made vulnerable to any
roving hoard of barbarians superstitious enough to destroy them or
cart them off as souvenirs – even venerate them, ignorant of what
they really are. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
perhaps somewhere, in some forest village on the edge of our great
ruined cities will live someone with a vague familiarity of a past
language who can begin the long road to rebirth. As Dr. Kárax has
already said, 'to not try is already to fail' – so with that, I
leave it to you.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> To
a smattering of stunned applause, Dr. Brekhester stepped down, strode
back to her seat near the top of the amphitheater. After a moment's
silence, Dr. Kárax returned to the podium and looked around.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “At
this time, I'll introduce an old friend and colleague whom I've asked
to assist me in editing this entire project. <span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Though
primarily a musician, he is a legendary polymath, a true Renaissance
Man, with his own wide array of scholarly contacts. To his colleagues
and friends alike, he is known only as... 'The Kapellmeister'...”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 132;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * * </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Chief
Inspector Sarah Bond of the London Branch of the IMP's European
Division had had a rough morning of her own and wondered when the IMP
could invest in more efficient ways of travel. “Like time travel,
some network of wormholes that could transport you in a flash between
locations – now, <i>that </i>would be nice.” So the Red Eye from London
had to do. Given their budget cutting, she couldn't bring any of her
own team. “Sorry,” her boss said, “you'll have to find some
agents in New York.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
should've taken a cab, not relied on subways and buses. It felt like
it took almost as long to get from the airport to the IMP's new
American Branch office in Outer Brooklyn as it took to get from
London to NYC (they booked her on a flight to Newark because it was
cheaper). Her meeting with Powell-Jones, the new Director of the
American HQ, was pointless, since he wasn't going to be in until
almost noontime despite her having made an 8am appointment which he'd
approved yesterday. Then she was told by his secretary Mr.
Powell-Jones had labeled the case “unsustainable” because it
wasn't cost-effective, whatever that meant. He'd also questioned
needing more than two agents instead of the ten she'd requested and
her own boss had already approved. “If she needs back-up,”
Powell-Jones suggested, “she should call on the local police.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Capt.
Ritard commiserated with her over a cup of bland coffee in the snack
bar, his comments kept to a minimum. “The company bean-counters are
apparently even cutting back on the number of beans you can use in a
cup of coffee. Good lord, don't they realize this is no way to run a
cafeteria?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> From
her own experiences with Ritard in Paris back in the Good Old Days
(which were only a couple decades ago), Bond knew he often spoke in
allegories vague enough to mystify his superiors. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
he could offer no more consolation than assigning her two relatively
inexperienced agents from the understaffed satellite office in St.
Louis rather than taking ones she was already familiar with from New
York. “I've heard reasonably decent things about Agent
Lautenwercke, but I know nothing of Agent Hurdie. They'll meet you
there. Good luck...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
traffic to the airport was terrible and she barely made her flight.
“It'll still be faster,” she hoped, “than driving.” With no
idea what to expect from these agents, paging through the file, she
wasn't heartened by Ritard's final assessment: “sorry, it's the
best I could do but they're not the best we have.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What
a myopic way to run a police agency. Investigating international
music crimes isn't meant to be a profit-making industry, especially
dealing with someone like Osiris, who's been Music's Enemy Number One
for decades. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “He's
up to some new form of musical terrorism, I'm sure of it. But without
more than a hunch, how can I tell where this could lead? 'It's only
reconnaissance.' I need more help...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
tried calling him again last night, but Dr. Kerr still hadn't
answered. “That's not like him, unless they've gone undercover...”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ritard
gave her the impression he wasn't really concerned about the break-in
at Kerr's home and him not answering his phone. If he'd mentioned
being on an extended vacation in Europe, what would bring him back to
visit a friend in Maine? “Sounds like reason enough to leave him
alone – let the locals handle it.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “But,
Jean-Baptiste,” she mumbled into her coffee, hoping the cup hadn't
been bugged (Ritard was as paranoid as any conspiracy theorist),
“what if someone” – someone like Osiris or SHMRG, she worried –
“is after him?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Ever
since Kerr became “peripherally involved” (the best way she could
word it) with the IMP's investigations into N. Ron Steele and Osiris –
the one shot at Scheinwald, even if he escaped; the other nearly
burned to a crisp in that fire following Tom Purdue's abduction,
likewise escaping – Kerr's been on their respective watch lists. As each of
these shady organizations, each other's worst enemies, were up to
something new, what were the chances, she argued, either one was
trying to pre-empt Kerr's involvement before they'd implement new
schemes? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>
</span></span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “All
the more reason not to involve Dr. Kerr in</span> another escapade,”
Ritard mumbled back, thinking it was too bad the Thai Palace wasn't
open for breakfast, “and let the man enjoy his vacation. Besides,
he's close to retirement age, yes?” (something to look forward to):
“why not just let him enjoy it in peace?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ritard
and his staff apparently had a different opinion of Dr. Kerr as an
asset than she did, that was clear, but she valued his insights and
his ability to make connections she couldn't. Sure, he could be a bit
quirky, sometimes rude, even a little accident-prone, and there's no
denying he was getting older. But when he was working with Cameron,
the two made a good team, their perceptions more irrational than her
logically-minded agents. Kerr's age and experience with Cameron's
youth and curiosity managed the right questions. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Bond
knew Osiris had gone beyond his anthropomorphic suicide bots like the
beta version that exploded in Philadelphia: that's old news. But the latest
chatter concerning Osiris placed him somewhere in the Midwest, at one
of his corporation's factories in rural Iowa. Along with that
disturbing news, there was also a vague mention of “drones.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
the right questions were things she would find immensely helpful
right about now, so she was determined, despite whatever reason
Ritard had for trying to slow her down, she'd give Kerr another call.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
once on the plane, Bond tried Kerr's number again, again without
success. With no signal, that'll have to wait till she got to O'Hare
where she had to change planes for Des Moines. Then, too frantic to catch
the next flight for another attempt, she decided it now had to
wait until she'd arrive. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 132;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax,
looking around to see where the Kapellmeister might have been
sitting, couldn't find him but noticed several of the scholars seated
across the back row had turned to look toward the middle entryway as
his assistants, led by Mr. Sturgeon, hurried out to see what the fuss
was about. “Now, where was the Kapellmeister?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
also noticed Dr. Brekhester had gotten up with a concerned expression
to follow Sturgeon out, a formidable presence as back-up: try not to
think of Skuldhilde as an excellent bouncer for a library! </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> His
inability to ignore the commotion added to the others' curiosity as
the sound of a scuffle and raised voices, more prevalent in his
continuing silence, produced numerous looks ranging from concern to
alarm.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax
winced when he recognized the voice – “perhaps he's only a bit
late?” – and secretly wished that voice had not come. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Victor
Spoyles had been one of his closest friends at Oxford, as much as one
could be outside your own college. Like small boys reveling in secret
meetings, hidden places, and clandestine projects to protect the
world from the forces of evil, together they had formed the nucleus
of what would become the Casaubon Society.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
somewhere Victor had fallen in with the wrong crowd during the
tumultuous years of the 1980s, much to Kárax's chagrin, a group of
misfit philosophers called “The Glorious Brotherhood of the
All-Knowing Hedgehog.” (What Greek poet had supposedly said, “the
fox may know many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing”?)
Kárax sighed.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Mr.
Trout examined his clipboard. “I'm sorry, but there's apparently
been a misunderstanding.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
assume my invitation's been lost in the mail,” the familiar voice
explained, “or went automatically into my Spam Folder –
whichever...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
black figure appeared out of the shadows, small in stature against
the looming presence of Dr. Brekhester standing behind him. A
recognizable silhouette, Kárax tried to hide his disappointment at
seeing him again. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax
introduced him to the assembly as a co-founder of the original
Casaubon Society from their Oxford days, during the late-1970s. “You
had chosen to become inactive after years of barely noticeable,
half-hearted involvement.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
I'm here,” he said, stepping dramatically into the light as Kárax's
assistants made way. “I've decided to become active again.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Victor
Spoyles hardly looked like a scholar though he struck several of
those in attendance as a philosopher from the bad part of the
scholarly community, one who'd already begun to fade in popularity.
He was short but not too short, and thin but not too thin, and not
too old for that matter, either. He wore a black turtleneck with a
matching shirt and equally tight-fitting pants, a scarlet scarf
knotted artfully at his throat. Then there was his black fingernail
polish, the right index fingernail brilliant red. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We'd
discussed this, Pros,” he began – “I always called him 'Pros',”
he explained to some scholars sitting in front of him. (“Yes,”
Kárax thought, “and several called you 'Con'.”) “Have you
forgotten our meeting?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Victor
cocked his head with his trademark raised eyebrow and simpering moue
that reminded Kárax he's still a spoiled rich kid. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
told me I should be on the Editorial Committee, whatever you called
it; I even sent invitations to some colleagues as you'd suggested,
but I notice their names aren't on your list either.” Spoyles
showed Mr. Carp a piece of paper. “It's even got your signature.”
Mr. Carp held the paper up and nodded. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax,
careful not to give his annoyance away, certainly wanted to avoid any
sense of conflict in front of the Society-at-large. He recalled no
such meeting with Spoyles and never approved any such list.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Spoyles,
stepping forward, scanned the room. “It seems you've invited quite
a few. I, on the other hand, had only intended to invite ten, so I
hope you won't refuse me my few associates? Allow me to introduce two
of my assistants. We were delayed, incidentally, because the
rush-hour traffic from the airport was horrendous.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
approached the podium, reached into his black leather valise, and
handed Kárax a folder without bothering to shake his hand. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You'll
find all the information about them here – which I'd sent you
earlier?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
young man, probably in his twenties, was also dressed in black, his
hair clearly dyed black. He had piercing eyes. “This is Timothy
Danaius, one of my students at Brasenose (had I told you I'm teaching
there, now?), who, among other things, is primarily specializing in
Greek History in relation to the Italian Renaissance. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “From
Florence, Italy (as if there were another Florence worth mentioning),
Donna Ferrante, who's quite gifted, recently joined the Bodleian
research staff and speaks seven languages fluently, including Latin,
Ancient Greek, Arabic and Sanskrit. Plus she teaches advanced
computer programming through the library's Adult Education program,
so, yes, well-versed in things both Ancient and Modern.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
stood there, unmoving, and stared insolently at Kárax in his
academic robes, wondering what the hell he was play-acting at. Also
dressed in black, she was festooned with enough piercings, Kárax
visibly cringed.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> By
now, Prospério Kárax had lost control of the proceedings as his
audience faced another commotion at the Reading Room's entrance.
Their attention diverted by the scene with Victor Spoyles and his
assistants, Mr. Sturgeon and his fellows were unaware the
Kapellmeister had opened the door, unable to completely disguise his
own sense of distraction. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax,
initially relieved at his appearance, frowned when new concerns arose
and he realized his “appearance” indicated not all was well. The
Kapellmeister worked his way downward as Kárax started walking up
toward him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “My
friend, beware.”<span style="text-decoration: none;"> Whispering in
Basque, </span>the Kapellmeister told Kárax he'd been attacked
outside his room and only later came to, gagged, bound hand-and-foot,
and left in a closet in some remote wine cellar.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “There
are dirty feet at work,” he warned. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
the meantime, Spoyles positioned himself at the podium, and cleared
his throat.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 132;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
ring-tone came out of nowhere, shattering his concentration,
disrupting his deep meditation. Startled, Cameron nearly fell out of
his chair. If time stood still – wasn't it supposed to? – how
long was he “under”? He distinctly recalled turning his phone
off, the first step whenever you'd begin, part of “clearing the
mind of all distractions.” Maybe he'd forgotten to ask Terry to do
the same with his phone. He blinked as the ringing continued and
tried standing. There – it's coming from Terry's phone, on the
bed... but where's Terry?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
was sure that was Chief Inspector Sarah Bond's ring-tone. Where would
Kerr have gone he'd end up missing her call? Half-afraid he'd fumble
and drop it, waking from a deep sleep – it didn't feel like it was
that deep after all – he answered with slightly groggy-sounding
concern. “Hello, Agent Bond? This is Cameron Pierce...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Oh,
I was expecting Dr. Kerr. Hi, Cameron,” she continued. “I tried
calling a couple times last night, couldn't leave voice-mail. I know
he said you guys were on vacation – in Maine, is it?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Right.
We'd been visiting our friend, Tom Purdue.” Maybe he shouldn't say
too much. Curious, he started looking around for Terry. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
tried to explain the technical issues with Terry's phone without
being specific or mentioning the possibility it must've been hacked.
“May I call you back in a few minutes from <i>my</i>” –
(encrypted) – “phone?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
completed the intricate dance of transferring numbers to get past
their phone's security systems, and he called back five minutes
later, once he'd made a quick round hoping Terry would somehow turn
up. He'd called out to Kerr but got no response – not in the
bathroom – and Cameron felt silly looking under the bed. A quick
peek out the door revealed nothing. Was he outside #12, ear to the
door if Cameron got inside? No. Maybe, if he was desperate, he'd gone
down to the diner: apparently not. The thought Kerr would've left and
not taken his phone nagged at him as he explained to Bond what had
happened, how someone in New York apparently hacked in and took his
phone off-line.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Where
are you now,” Bond asked. “You sound so clear, it's like you're
in the next room,” laughing at the cliché. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
room was still empty. Still mystified about Kerr's whereabouts, he
told her they were stuck someplace in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Really...?”
Bond sounded genuinely surprised. “Oh, right, <i>that's</i> why
this place sounded familiar to me, where Purdue had that incident
years ago with some composer who disappeared, a Mozart Wannabe?
Right, called himself Trazmo...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Right.”
Now it was Cameron's turn to sound surprised. “What do you mean,
'this place,' Inspector? Where are <i>you</i> calling from?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Reports
came in of a possible sighting of Osiris in Orient, Iowa, so...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Without
getting into various IMP budget-cutting issues, exhausted from flying
business class from London overnight, or her exasperating meeting
with Ritard, she explained she'd gotten some IMP agents and came over
for some reconnaissance. “I'm out in the middle of a field on the
far end of town, not far from some seedy-looking motel. You?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
small world of the matter impressed both of them: who'd have thought?
“We're in that seedy-looking motel, the so-called 'Express'.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Do
you or Dr. Kerr know anything about that old factory out here?
Curiously, it's owned by Osiris' company, Basilikon Industries. And
how did you end up in Orient at just this precise moment?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
went through the facts: how the local sheriff found a body that
could've been Trazmo but turned out it wasn't.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Right.
Well...” There was an awkward pause. “They've found another one:
Graham Ripa's.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">=
= = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-31.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p></p>Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-51702791976055520572022-10-13T08:00:00.009-04:002022-10-13T08:00:00.219-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #29<p>
</p><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd4LUky-0Wqx1MPM6L8cUrf4GAS5BYEA9L48Juc7kDM--0sdtMq0bZ4n48NNaxaYAyDatG-DOAnyYQF3B6rE3crbPsmJllwf59ybj0Vkz2MXxuT5h56ORWP0Zy-7TjEBzTFuwzqXNO0cTXVeQ6Wh8RNsVBmKv8qoYJm-G4nKLKUec_yt0mg/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd4LUky-0Wqx1MPM6L8cUrf4GAS5BYEA9L48Juc7kDM--0sdtMq0bZ4n48NNaxaYAyDatG-DOAnyYQF3B6rE3crbPsmJllwf59ybj0Vkz2MXxuT5h56ORWP0Zy-7TjEBzTFuwzqXNO0cTXVeQ6Wh8RNsVBmKv8qoYJm-G4nKLKUec_yt0mg/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-28.html" target="_blank">In the previous installment</a>, the most respected scholars from around the world gathered on a medieval mountainside monastery in the Pyrenees, </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">as the Casaubon Society was now </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">ready to begin work on the Library of All Knowledge, intended for survivors of some future (and perhaps quite imminent) apocalypse who might need to rebuild the world from scratch. <span style="color: black;">Prospério
Kárax</span> wasn't sure how well it might go, but as he'd often said,<span style="color: black;"> “if
one doesn't try, failure will be the only outcome.”</span></span></span></i></p><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i>Back in Orient, IA, Sheriff Betty Diddon made a startling discovery which could just blow this whole Trazmo Case sideways, if not wide open, when her deputy, Roger Dett, called with an urgent update. </i><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">= = = = = = =</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">[<b>Chapter
19, continued...</b>]</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
careers went, N. Ron Steele shouldn't have been surprised at the
twists his own had taken in recent years, his father's rise and fall
from power and prestige part of the family lore. The important thing
to recall was not to let simple failure affect him like it had his
father, grinding him down. It was the damn waiting that rankled his
butt and the amount of effort it took to claw his way back. In that
sense, his grandfather, an especially nasty bastard, was his role
model. He always felt the <i>re</i>-inventor should be more highly
esteemed than a mere inventor who only came up with the prototype.
Re-inventing oneself after failure required more patience and
self-awareness than any first-time success. That's where Steele felt
himself different: he was a self-made man and owed every bit of it to
Dad and Grandad. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
downward spiral happened suddenly for him when he'd been shot in
Germany by pesky International Music Police agents who had no
business sticking their pesky international noses into a simple
internal business matter. All he was doing was tying up loose threads
which happened to involve the bungled murder of a proven security
threat. If successful CEOs can't shore up their security, what's this
world coming to? They had to shoot him in the leg, cripple him for
life, then hound him around the world for no reason? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Four
years!” Steele winced at the memory, still in his wheelchair stuck
staring across the back yard of his current hideout where signs of an
early spring made his allergies all the more intolerable. He had a
drink in his hand and the loyal Holly Burton, his secretary for what
felt like centuries, seated nearby. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
had been other “undisclosed locations” – like that rundown
country house in England not far from where Robertson Sullivan's
cousin LauraLynn Hardy was getting married before the IMP ruined that
sweet plot of revenge. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Things
could've gone on pleasantly enough on that polysyllabic Polynesian
island he couldn't pronounce (“too many vowels”) somewhere south
of Tahiti, if it hadn't been for that pesky volcano erupting at that
very moment. Had the IMP sussed him out, already on their way, tipped
off by that pesky Bill Cable, his suspicious IT guy? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
refreshing his drink, Holly – he meant Bertha – wandered off the
porch into the sunlight to inspect the dozens of hyacinths (Steele –
that is, Ringman – hated hyacinths almost as much as he hated
marigolds). It saddened him to see her, so much looser and more
familiar at home rather than tightly girded for the office. She'd put
on considerable weight in all the old familiar places (as the song
went), which made her look considerably older. It was this aging and
“plumpification” that made these past four years interminable. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Naturally,
his own condition, stuck in this wheelchair, totally dependent on
her, didn't help his self-confidence any, a shadow of the powerful
figure he'd once been until just recently, but what could he do? He
was in no position to replace her with a newer model since, alas, she
knew where the bodies were buried.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Polynesia,
the land (or rather, ocean) of never-ending paradise, may have been
pleasant for some, but for him, the isolation was so complete he was
going out of his mind from the interminable boredom. His only
companions were Holly and that Cable guy, except for two natives who
were so backward they couldn't speak English. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
after they'd evacuated the island (and left the body of Bill Cable
behind to be counted among the volcano's victims), here he was back
in America's Heartland: it's time to return to life.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
week earlier, at the end of a busy day – who knew it was such work
setting up a new scam (clearly, he wasn't getting any younger) –
Steele was alone in the living room. Holly was doing the dishes while
he browsed through his laptop and accidentally came across an on-line
talk show and podcast. It was the voice that stopped him initially
since he usually wasn't inclined to listen to these Right Wing Rabble
broadcasters, even though he'd always been attuned to their views,
especially about the economy. Lately, he realized when it came to
what the liberals called “White Supremacy,” he'd think “of
<i>course</i> I'm superior” and considered what they called
“privilege” was what society owed him because of his success.
Yeah, well, unfortunately the trappings of that success were taken
away by the IMP and those disloyal losers with Lucifer Darke. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> His
plan had been to place his company in such a position it'd become the
first corporation to run for President in 2016 under “Citizens
United” (however you could rationalize giving corporations the
vote). That'd all been scuttled, now, and he was hanging on for dear
life, forced to place his political ambitions on hold. But once his
team was back in control, all this garbage behind him, his future
motto would either be “There is no U in TEAM,” or “TEAM –
it's all about ME,” whichever. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
there was something about this voice that struck him immediately: it
sounded hopeful, like it would always believe in him, like some great
cat that would curl up on his lap and purr. It wasn't so much what
she said – religious nonsense, aside – as the fact whatever she
was saying sounded sexy as hell. He imagined how words dripped from
her mouth like honey, convincing him she could twist those words any
way she wanted just like that woman who tied cherry stems into knots
with her tongue. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> For
several days, he listened to Savannah Roller's podcasts and drooled
over her photographs, this “Evangelical Preacher of God's Almighty
Word” with her powerful religious following who promised whatever
he needed, she could provide. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Like
Grandad always told him, “Ronnie, if you can fool a preacher, you
can fool anyone.” And so he called her.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Talking
to her, especially once she began to pray for him, Steele felt a
faint stirring in parts of his body where, for all these years since
he'd been shot, he'd felt almost nothing. It was, the more he thought
about it, a quivering in the muscles, that tingly returning to life
after long disuse. Once she mentioned tithing, these vague sensations
came to a halt, as if faith healing could only be successful if the
spirit was willing and the flesh willing to donate enough to her
cause. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
talked politics long enough to establish a worldly like-mindedness,
and she, sensing this was potentially a person of some consequence,
was convinced God could use him – certainly, she could – to
spread the word. A huskiness in her voice lit a long-dormant spark,
until he realized, if his spirit was weak, certain flesh definitely
wasn't. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
wasn't what he'd expect a preacher to say, especially one trying to
convert him and heal his unhealing wound, but it <i>was</i> something
he'd expect a wheeler-dealer businessman to say, five magic words.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What's
in it for <i>me</i>?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was nothing cautious or even skeptical in the way she said it,
either, merely matter-of-fact. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
set up a meeting the following week: she'll be visiting St. Louis on
her private plane, not too far away. He'd send her his address –
“there's even a small airfield down the road.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
had been enough to establish an understanding. Faith-healing or not,
he was already on the road to more than recovery. Through prayer, she
could help him regain what had been stolen from him, “God giveth
what the Devil hath taken away.” He wasn't sure that's how the
Bible put it, but it sounded right. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
return, since he “knew people,” he'd make some calls to his TV
network friends, maybe get her a broadcast slot, though he doubted
any of them would take his calls after all this. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
did say “I'll make some calls,” not “I'll get you a TV slot.”
Besides, they could always pray about it. It was how business worked
in the modern world: you offered the premise of a deal, not the
outcome of one. And what if it should happen to fall through? Well...
hey, you tried.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Of
all the offices in the world, she chose to walk into mine,” Steele
thought, and smiled when Holly announced her. Savannah Roller was, he
noted in one experienced glance, “a leggy, well-stacked long-haired
blonde babe who was maybe a bit too old for Fox News, but that's the
way he liked them – with curves.” Behind those ice-blue eyes was
a brain (he had less experience evaluating brains), and between those
two capricious breasts (perhaps he meant “capacious”) beat a
heart to inspire passion in the weakliest of men. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What
red-blooded American male couldn't imagine what was between those
stupendously calpurnian legs (or was that “callipygian”? –
either sounded damned impressive) and without further ado, he felt
both flesh and spirit rise beyond willing. Now she's promising to
turn him into a man of such political power, he could eventually
implement God's Design for Mankind. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Steele
had been all eyes as she strode, smiling confidently, toward his
desk. He smiled back, now all ears as well. Adjusting himself to a
more comfortable position, he wheeled himself out so she didn't think
he'd been hiding behind his desk and self-consciously dropped his
hands into his lap. “You had me at 'power'.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Steele
spoke firmly into the intercom – “Hold my calls” – then
raised his hands.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She'd
never mounted a man in a wheelchair before but to those who believe,
the Bible said, all things are possible. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Afterward,
smoke curling upward from their cigarettes, she stood at the mirror,
fixing her dress and adjusting her hair, nothing else out of place,
despite the momentary frenzy and heavy breathing of intense passion.
For himself, he felt (and felt like he looked) wrecked from the
experience, yet couldn't keep his eyes off her legs. She was
promising she would turn him into “God's Divine Instrument on
Earth” in order to bring about a Christian kingdom, how millions of
people would flock to support them and make it possible. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
she continued, he found these pleasant feelings, the warm honey of
her words (and more, besides), helped soothe his ego, disquieted only
by an undercurrent of unbidden thoughts about to break the surface.
How would a preacher and talk-show host help return SHMRG to his
control, and from there help with his political ambitions? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
sat back and tried to find a comfortable angle for his hips, wheeling
himself behind his desk, business after pleasure, and realized how
it's been years his own “divine instrument” has lain dormant. But
wouldn't regular appearances on “Vanity's Bonfire” mean coming
out of hiding, inevitably vulnerable to the IMP and Darke's
traitorous faction? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
needed to expand her talk show from a podcast to the broader medium
of television to reach an older demographic. And he needed regular
donations to spearhead his campaign to take back SHMRG. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I've
always been an excellent public speaker,” Steele said, certain few
would agree. In fact, he had always been terrified of speaking in
public, blustering with enthusiasm and whatever thoughts popped into
his head. He knew it was threats about employees losing their jobs
that kept them in line, not the inspiration of his speeches. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Roller
patted him on the shoulder, little tingly sparks coursing throughout
his body. “Even Moses,” she said, “had his Aaron. I shall stand
beside you to interpret whatever you say into God's own thoughts.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Even
better was her prayer, once she placed her hands upon his head, no
matter what he said, no matter whether it made sense or not, or even
if it all seemed completely wrong: God would spread a fog across the
land with his words so anyone who heard him will believe whatever he
says. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was still the practical matter of how they would join forces (so to
speak) on the political front, each one broadcasting their messages,
individual and combined, to a new and ever growing audience. The most
obvious was, once “Vanity's Bonfire” was syndicated nationwide on
TV and radio, his regular appearance as a guest commentator. While
Savannah saw her role as an adviser – call her a “spiritual
adviser”: all great leaders had preachers by their sides – she
would use her influence to advance God's Word in his worldly
policies. And while Steele knew his role as the CEO of SHMRG had, in
the past, gone largely unnoticed by the general population, Roller
pointed out once he was back in the seat of power (he did like the
ring of that – “seat of power” – as long it didn't involve a
wheelchair) his fortunes would change. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was not just getting back his chairmanship of SHMRG that mattered and
eliminating all the nefarious underminings of that interloper Lucifer
Darke, it was shoring up his standing in the wider musical world. It
was bringing more music under his control, especially in the pop
world, representing bigger names and the most lucrative bands. He
also needed some plan to make a killing in the classical market, too
(but that's probably not the best term). Alas, Roller's evangelical
cronies would be less interested in the hottest pop bands.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
she shimmied herself up onto the corner of his desk, one leg sliding
over his own, Ms. Roller looked down at him through her cigarette
smoke. “There is <i>one</i> thing to do, immediately.” She began
to tell Steele about this humanist cesspool known as the Casaubon
Society which was currently gathering somewhere in Spain. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
admitted he'd not heard of it before and proceeded to light another
cigarette before remembering he should offer her one as well, even
light if for her. “I've been out of the loop...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Steele
wondered if he could feign sufficient interest in her interest in the
Society, whatever this had to do with SHMRG.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Because,
you big, soon-to-be-powerful-again lummox of a corporate CEO mindset,
don't you see anything that challenges the hegemony of our populist
viewpoint is an enemy we must deal with and sooner rather than
later?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Their
purpose, she continued, accepting his cigarette while brushing her
leg against his – was he feeling any sensation there? (he was...) –
was to amass every bit of knowledge that existed about everything in
existence. “This would involve science, history, art, anything
scholars ever wrote about, to falsify the truth and perpetuate all of
history's errors.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “All
that already exists on-line, filled with lots of garbage. What of
it?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Except
this single collection, placed in every library around the world,
awaited eventual rediscovery after an impending apocalypse, should
humanity survive. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
clearly,” she stressed, as she stood up to smooth down her skirt,
“this eventuality cannot happen, another humanist Renaissance
reborn. We don't want to destroy it, because it's to our long-range
(<i>indeed</i>!) benefit. Scholars loyal to our conservative,
populist, primarily Evangelical cause, upholding God's Every Word,
must infiltrate this gathering to influence it 'appropriately'.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
how do you think I'll be able to do that? I'm not exactly a collector
of what you'd call scholars.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
a matter of making connections, which, in corporate-speak, you would
call 'networking'...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
she turned to leave, she shook his hand like they'd struck a deal to
divide the Earth between them. “Should you need... <i>further</i>
assistance,” her eyes sparkling, “you know how to find me.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Steele,
his muscles tingling, reached for his phone.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hey,”
Steele crooned, “been a long time. Got a little preposition for
you.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
= = = = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-30.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-47807676434735573802022-10-11T08:00:00.016-04:002022-10-11T10:06:20.526-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #28<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErxXBno87lnHCt0wh_Q3-j6XGNJw3X8Ih7RrRwRyv9Q7Xy7xlWEZnG1-hTPhBH-w-UPtG1eic9UBrazig2nFsZe9FPdgmo-pHhpfyJTitBHqTSBS-7h4l5Mgc2YX-dqOXdffj3w4lfF7bNkwN_EUio4Xx-CsVoc7GToUm6ZC6aanLxxOvKg/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErxXBno87lnHCt0wh_Q3-j6XGNJw3X8Ih7RrRwRyv9Q7Xy7xlWEZnG1-hTPhBH-w-UPtG1eic9UBrazig2nFsZe9FPdgmo-pHhpfyJTitBHqTSBS-7h4l5Mgc2YX-dqOXdffj3w4lfF7bNkwN_EUio4Xx-CsVoc7GToUm6ZC6aanLxxOvKg/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-27.html" target="_blank">In the previous installment</a>, guards at Orient's Basilikon Industries, regardless what they were really guarding (not that any of them seemed to know), scoured the building trying to find their mysterious intruder. Agent Krahang has also started acting mysteriously for an agent of the Aficionati. When he's confronted by a guard, there seems to be a lot of interest in Dr. Piltdown's whereabouts...</i><p><i>Meanwhile, how about a brief change-of-scenery from the flat fields of southwestern Iowa?</i> <br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =<br /></span></span></p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
19</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
began as a brilliantly sunny, crisp spring day in the mountains of
the central Pyrenees, despite the snow crunching underfoot (this
might be Spain but many were surprised it still looked like winter in
this small, isolated part of the world); the abbey, suspended on a
steep mountainside, still gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun. It was on
such a day twelve centuries ago defenders of the faith lost their
lives in battle against the Infidel when Charlemagne repulsed the
invading Moors not for the last time above Roncesvalles. High above a
valley tucked between these impressive peaks separating France from
Spain, the abbey of Santiago de los Mártires
– St. James of the Martyrs – honored the ten thousand souls lost
that infamous day. It had all been recorded by a witness, watching
from these very rocks, in a great poem written in old Basque. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
great man who watched from these rocks today was neither a witness
nor, despite his imposing appearance, even a priest, his stately
robes in black and pewter-dark silver, its dark blue stole
notwithstanding. He stood centered in the splendid windows of this
splendid room behind him, looking over the splendid view across the
valley. Silver hair beneath a jaunty black velvet cap worn like a
beret (how French) belied his age and signified his respectability. A
scholar, he'd been dubbed “The Vulture” because he feasted on
dead books. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
room had its own magnificence, part of the splendid library amassed
here over the centuries with seemingly miles of packed shelves
burrowing deep into the mountain's caves, purportedly founded by St.
James himself. Initially a reading room, it was also suited for
scholarly convocations such as the great Prospério Kárax was ready
to convene. Grand desks and magnificent chairs with modernized lamps
(installed in the 1920s) swept upward from where he stood, tier upon
tier, an amphitheater for scholars discussing the finer points of the
world's accumulated knowledge. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
view itself reminded Kárax, despite a thousand years of faith, not
everything you believed was based on fact, and as a scholar he was a
stickler for facts and nothing but the facts. He was the one who'd
recently discovered the battle commemorated here never happened, a
10th Century poem mistranslated into “fake news.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
problem had been the belief of those who didn't feel they needed to
read the fine print and assumed, on the basis of that belief, who was
who and what referred to what. The great <i>Tale of the Ten Thousand
Martyrs and the Death of Santiago</i> had only been known in a
Castilian translation. The poem, originally written in a long-forgotten 10th
Century Vasconian dialect of Basque, now completely indecipherable to modern Spaniards, is a footnote only
because it predated France's <i>Song of Roland</i> by a century. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
poem detailed a battle near the Roncesvalles Pass where the conflict
celebrated in the <i>Roland</i> epic was fought in 778, a clash
between the Franks under Roland's uncle Charlemagne and the invading
Moors. But in 801, in another battle, the Basques, allied with local
Moorish generals, fought the Franks to maintain their fragile
independence. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Our
intrepid Castilian friar, inflamed by his faith's intensity, failed
to realize his unfamiliarity with Vasconian syntax, leading to
grammatical presumptions that only later proved to turn Basque and
Moorish martyrs into Catholic ones. When the Church built this abbey
to commemorate the ten thousand martyr's souls, the mistake was quite
literally “set in stone.” But, as Kárax later discovered, after
researching the facts which had come down to us, that was not the
only lie: the whole poem was a lie – <i>fiction</i>. <i>That</i>
battle had never taken place. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
“Santiago” of the Basques' tale was not St. James (a.k.a.
Santiago), the former Apostle who'd settled on the Atlantic coast not
far to the west, but a well-respected nobleman of ancient Basque
lineage. Real or not, he was regarded as a hero among the Basques
much as Roland became a hero to the French. Our anonymous 15th
Century Castilian translator never questioned whether an apostle of
Christ could have founded a library only centuries ago or had
literally carried the cross against the Infidels to lead
Charlemagne's army. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Whether
the original was meant as a fanciful tale to inspire the beleaguered
Basques at a dark time or was propaganda to convince their enemy they
had once been defeated, we may never know, but for whatever reason
Homer composed his <i>Iliad</i>, was it meant to be taken as fact or
merely to entertain listeners? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax,
researching the Basques' tale once prominently displayed in the
abbey's library before it disappeared in the 1780s (stolen or
misplaced?), found it hidden in its own remote private vault for over
two centuries. After years spent translating it, he finally published
it, controversially causing much embarrassment to both the Church
and, particularly, the abbey. It also added considerable fuel to the
Rationalists' argument about the factuality of the Bible as the Word
of God as opposed to ideas transcribed centuries later by men
protecting their interpretations of it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
as Kárax explained in his translation's lengthy introduction, aside
from pointing out he spoke fluent Basque from his mother's side, both
the original poem and its misguided misinterpretation had places in
the world. And we should not be tempted to see the existence of one
as the reason to destroy or deny the other. Like the age-old argument
between Science and Faith, Kárax explained Science answered
questions about the “How” for the Rational, and Faith answered
questions about the “Why” for the Irrational – and Mankind
needed them both. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
took a millennium for Medieval Europe, locked in its faith-induced
Dark Ages, to find the blinding light of the Renaissance. Kárax
warned, “one hopes the next time it will not take so long.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Hence,
his decision to gather the most respected scholars in their fields to
create the Casaubon Society's “Library of All Knowledge.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Dr.
Kárax?” The voice intruded on his meditation: one of his
assistants had coughed gently but made no impression. “The first
set of visitors has arrived.” He stood high at the top's main
entrance.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Excellent,
Mr. Tench.” Kárax, turning from his spot at the window, stepped
over to his podium. “If you could wait. Please?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
suggested everyone should be “processed” first, registered and
assigned to their rooms, monks' cells serving as part bedroom and
part private studies. “They may also prefer to take some
refreshment after their journeys.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was over a harrowing hour's ride up the tortuous road from the
Pamplona airport but a good chance for his guests to view the
mountain stronghold they were entering, seemingly vast, definitely
forbidding. Some, used to life “on the ground,” might find the
view, dangling off the face of a cliff, too literally breath-taking. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
Abbey of Santiago of the Ten-Thousand Martyrs (it seemed cruel to
change its name following his discoveries) still amazed him. He'd
first seen it as a boy coming to mass with his grandmother. How they
had built it a thousand years ago was beyond his comprehension, a
stone nest built by gigantic prehistoric wasps. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> From
the top's entrance, you walked downward, hoping the bottom wouldn't
fall away.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
sorting his papers at the podium, Dr. Kárax climbed up the steps to
greet his awaiting guests in the “lobby.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> These
were the first thirty scholars invited to partake in the Casaubon
Society's initial assembly, setting about the fundamental business
and necessary guidelines in preparation for the main work on the
project housed here. Aside from an indispensable resident staff to
cook, clean and do laundry (monks, yes, but hardly scholars could be
considered self-sufficient), the abbey could accommodate one hundred
such members attending such a special conference. Six assistants
wandered about, handing out their “welcome packets” and
“designated numbers” identifying assigned rooms and desks in the
reading room. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Prospério
Kárax stood in the doorway to the abbey's Grand Hall, its walls
covered with Gothic paintings representing the Christian
interpretation of what was deemed a significant event in the history
of the Church. The fact everything about it was wrong neither amused
nor saddened him, but only pointed out the importance of his project.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
wandered about and greeted old friends, introduced himself to ones
he'd only talked to on-line, his academic robes at odds with
turtlenecks and tweed jackets, business suits with or without ties,
even a few younger ones in blue jeans and sneakers, each one gawking
about at a place they didn't think looked very monastic. The monks'
cells were larger than they'd assumed, the beds modern and
comfortable, and most pleasantly the prospect of vellum, ink made
from berries, and quill pens replaced by internet wifi. And the
food...! The place had clearly been updated since Art Deco electric
lamps were placed on the library's desks in the 1920s, or centralized
air and heating installed to control the environment and protect the
books. The library, begun so long ago, had eventually replaced those
medieval monks' constant prayers and hourly meditations as the
abbey's <i>raison-d'etre</i>. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
these scholars – and more as could be added before summer sessions
began – had a duty as sacred as any monk's. From their own research
and what they can find stored here at Santiago's, hundreds of
thousands of books written since the 1500s, they must glean the
knowledge in every field previously compiled by mankind. Gathered
into succinct volumes with cogent summaries and factual details, the
complete collection must be purely abstract with no personal
interpretations. In the process, despite disparate viewpoints, maybe
no one would kill each other. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
enough greetings had been exchanged among colleagues, some warm,
others professionally polite, and the conversational din began to die
down, Kárax nodded to his assistants to open the doors into the
Reading Room. They filed in in groups of six, each assistant guiding
their scholar to an assigned desk, each one facing the window. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Dr.
Isaac Edwards, the oldest of those attending, a Swiss-born
archaeologist nearing 85, was led to his desk in the back row's
center, with fewer steps to walk – the place was, alas, not
“handicap-friendly.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Dr.
Françoise Belbeau, a still energetic French philologist past 80,
didn't like being placed in the next row in front of Edwards (she
mumbled, “at least I won't see his miserable head nodding away”).
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #280099; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Dr.
</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Isiphambano
Esiseningizimu</span></span><span style="color: black;">, the South African
astronomer, was confused to find himself in the very front, seated
right before the podium. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
others filed in, furrowed brows at the randomness of it became smiles
of awareness as they realized the seating wasn't arbitrary but
divided into distinct areas, neither alphabetical nor by age or
expertise, but by their continents of origin, by their ethnic and
cultural backgrounds, despite their universal recognition: a
microcosm of the globe. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
everyone was in place, Kárax began by joking perhaps the Norwegian
climatologist based in Antarctica should be seated with him at the
podium, looking up at the rest of the world. Everyone applauded. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was an amount of business to get through, what he called their
orientation, which would be followed by a tour of the premises,
especially the “bowels” of the Abbey, the library caves where it
was, he warned, possible to become lost, but everyone had a badge it
their packets whose GPS tracked their whereabouts. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “As
a boy visiting here once a year, I was convinced getting lost was a
major part of the monks' plan, a way of teaching perseverance over
fear and increasing their reliance on God.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Not
that they would need to wander around the maze of hallways searching
out a particular book in a particular cave. “Each of you will bring
one assistant with you this summer, and between them and my own
staff, all you need is to request a particular volume by checking the
computer's digital card catalog. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
can work in here during the day or in the more private confines,
literally and figuratively, of your individual rooms. Wherever you
choose, there's one rule above all else, like any good monk or
scholar. This is a library: there's a Rule of Silence. Or at least a
'Respect' for Silence. No loud conversation.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Another
rule, at least during the daytime, was not to disturb any other
scholars in their rooms or at their desks. “If you want to
socialize or discuss work, there's the <i>Sala</i> or 'Lobby.' </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “After
dinner, we'll meet back here to discuss the day's events where
discourse is considered healthy but heated argument is not. This is
primarily for general concerns, rather than specific individual
discoveries and epiphanies. Of course the chapel is open for
meditation if you wish it; we've also made arrangements for other
faiths as well. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “All
meals, speaking of housekeeping, are served in the Abbey's refectory
at set times for breakfast and dinner; pick up your 'brown-bag
lunch' after breakfast, and eat in your rooms or in the Sala. All
dietary and medical needs are included on your badges: don't lose
them! And do not go outside, wandering around alone. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Whatever
you do in your own rooms, here, when you're using your computers,
it's work. 'Thou shalt not view Social Media nor live streams,
neither shall you You-Tube' – and <i>definitely</i> 'thou shalt not
porn'!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="text-decoration: none;">Opening
a different folder</span>, Kárax thumbed through his notes before
starting in on how their purpose was to amass all the world's
knowledge about different subjects, each volume pertaining to the
various scholars' specialties. An editor with more generalized
experience would collate these, cross-reference them, prepare
indices, flagging whatever needs more explanation or less intuition.
Once completed, the whole collection of volumes will be available
on-line with translated copies distributed to major libraries around
the world. The idea is somewhere, somehow, at some future time,
someone will discover them. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> One
of his assistants, Mr. Sturgeon, who liked to cook, saw it as a
recipe book where the past could be reconstructed but offering the
creative option of using these or those suggested ingredients. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
like 'hitting the metaphorical Reset Button,' not burying the past
but allowing some future someone to start over from scratch.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> These
volumes, collating numerous reports by numerous scholars of often
differing viewpoints, would therefore contain whatever scientific
data's necessary to support them, whenever applicable – otherwise,
it would be labeled as opinion and footnoted appropriately. The most
important thing was to be both thorough and thoroughly scientific,
not guided by our own beliefs or popular prejudices. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
not meant to be contradictory for the sake of frustrating the reader
but to offer the future all the evidence we ourselves gathered from
the past so they can make their own deductions.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
premise was to create something from which future scholars could, by
considering the implications, create new visions for a Second
Renaissance that's a synthesis of current beliefs rather than
reconstituting the present Normal, an already conflicted world with
all its imperfections and dissensions, ready to self-destruct again
in a few short centuries (or less). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
without any further serious ado, let us begin our tour of this
magical and mysterious Abbey before it gets dark, so we can,
fittingly, view a magnificent sunset from the Main Entrance's
portico.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Kárax
sighed at the conclusion of his remarks that it might be too
idealistic to hope for, this rescuing the world's accumulated
knowledge to save humanity in the event of some new Dark Age, but he
admitted, as others apparently agreed, nodding as he spoke, “if one
doesn't try, failure will be the only outcome.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
end room of the Express Motel had only been empty for three days,
sealed off as a crime scene despite what happened there over thirty
years ago wasn't considered a crime even then. Sheriff Betty Diddon
unlocked the door and hesitated, hit with this odd sense of something
she wasn't sure how to describe. Had previous occupants of what
Masterman considered his best room, the only single-bed occupancy in
the place, felt something weird here? It wasn't so much “weird
evil” as just “weird unsettling,” maybe borderline nasty. She
hadn't expected anything. Unlikely she'd smell a dead body or find
Trazmo's corpse hidden under the floorboards beneath a bed which
looked like it had never been placed anywhere else in the room. If
the man wasn't murdered here, it's unlikely the room would be haunted
by his ghost: but what about John Buck's? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust gradually to the
natural light before finding the switch, then realized this had been
the first time she'd ever had an unidentified male victim, this “John
Buck,” associated with Buck Masterman's motel (“<i>allegedly</i>
associated”), and she found the coincidence more amusing than she
should. No wonder some of the townspeople she'd talked to about this
case were confused, particularly the slower witted types like her
deputy, Roger, and her name-calling, high school nemesis, now town
councilman, Dickie Longbottom. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Hiking
up her belt again, she straightened her posture in the hope she could
stretch the shirt's fabric before it'd rip, and practiced her best
John Wayne impression as she strode across the floor. She looked
around the room – what did she expect to find? What possible
evidence could there still be after three decades? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Even
this damn case is a hand-me-down, just like my damn uniform,” she
groused, turning around, peering into the closet (“nothing...”).
She kept requisitioning money for a new uniform but the board was
adamant. There was never money in the budget to outfit someone “with
your measurements” for a new, form-fitting uniform since the county
commissioners were convinced she'd never be re-elected if Councilman
Longbottom had his way. Too tall, too broad-shouldered, and too
female compared to their collection of past sheriffs, she'd just have
to deal with it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So
this morning, after she again complained how her uniform was never a
comfortable fit, especially across the chest and around the waist,
discomfort reinforcing her perception as a second-class woman and
Native American, Roger suggested maybe John Buck had to deal with
this, too, a taller man wearing a shorter man's pants and boots. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Initially,
Diddon looked at him as if to say “where did <i>that</i> come from”
or, as her mother said when something made no sense, “what's <i>that</i>
got to do with the price of eggs?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
he was right. Forced to wear something “off the rack” rather than
tailor-fit, she must put up with what's available. “Who'd be forced
to wear something 'off the rack' when nothing else's available?
Somebody who found them. Somebody who'd been given them, maybe from a
charity. Maybe some vagrant who was passing through town...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
was reluctant to consider her deputy “a genius” for suggesting
something that put some of her own gray cells into motion, especially
when nothing involving innate intelligence had lurked behind what
he'd said, but she had to, even reluctantly, give him some credit,
make him feel for a moment he had contributed something worthwhile.
Even before she patted him on the back, it occurred to her it might
have no impact on solving the case, but it did give her some insight
into their current victim's potential identity.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
what was it that annoying Kerr's assistant had told her yesterday
afternoon? (The only thing that could've made the experience worse
was running into the old professor himself, him with that
smugger-than-thou delivery.) How Kerr wondered if the original
reports indicated any evidence had been found in the ceiling around
the room's overhead light. Reality rather brusquely reminded her,
striding off to Masterman's office for the key, Kerr was no longer
involved in this investigation: the body wasn't Trazmo's and there
was no reason to keep him apprised. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Except
her Better Policeman Self kept pointing out, “but yeah, there is,
right?” There's Trazmo's belt buckle and there's Trazmo's boots.
The problem is, they're on the wrong body. “How'd they end up
there?” There's that much of a connection but until she can
identify this body, there's not much chance of solving that mystery. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
was tall enough to push the tile back and clear the opening around
the casing for the light fixture, but, not seeing anything, just
barely tall enough to reach in and grope around. She strode over to
the small dressing table, picked up the lone, spindly chair, then
placed it directly under the light. Sitting on it was one thing but
she wondered if it would sustain her weight standing on it. It could
easily tip over as collapse underneath her. (Where did Masterman buy
this crap, anyway?) </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
didn't help her self-confidence, alone in the room, falling off the
chair, maybe hitting her head on the bedpost before passing out.
She'd arranged to meet Roger for lunch: he'd find her, eventually. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
slid the tile back and heard it clunk against something, a resonant
sound hitting wood, not metal – a wooden crossbeam? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
It also gave a little bit, so presumably it wasn't a crossbeam. Did
it move maybe an inch before she stopped? She reached in and started
to feel around, unsure what she had discovered. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Her
hand brushed against something wooden, smooth, polished, not an old
beam, not some metal part of the light fixture, either. And not, she
sighed with relief, the skull that was her next choice.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> A
small wooden memento box included a room key, a wallet with outdated
cards and driver's license for Phillips T. Hawthorne. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Diddon
nearly fell off the chair when she gasped, “How is this possible?”
This box lay hidden undisturbed for thirty-some years. “How many
times would someone have had to change a burned-out light bulb?”
And yet no one, apparently, had ever noticed this, especially since
it was only a few inches away from the fixture. No doubt about it,
she thought, stepping down to get an evidence bag, this definitely
put this whole case in a different light, so to speak, even if it
didn't quite crack it open. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
also thought it wouldn't add any stars toward Masterman's hoped-for
Michelin Rating if this speaks to his cleaning crew's capabilities
(wasn't this place renovated at least once since 1983?) or their
less-than-satisfactory housekeeping. It almost made her want to rip
up the flooring to see if there <i>was</i> a body buried under the
bed. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
Diddon didn't want to imagine what it was like if she'd stayed here,
back in the spring of 1983, never aware a dead person might be
decomposing a couple feet beneath where she'd slept. (Quite frankly,
she wasn't keen on imagining what past occupants of these rooms had
been doing in that same bed, regardless.) Maintenance crews might
overlook this beautifully hand-carved box hidden up in the ceiling
but customers or cleaning crews would've certainly smelled the
pungent decomposition of a body wafting up from under the floor,
right? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> If
he – or someone else: the murderer? – hid this box in the
ceiling, Trazmo didn't just wander out and get lost in the storm. It
was put there for a reason, wouldn't you think? If Trazmo was going
out for a walk or just down to the diner, he'd've taken his room key
along, right? No, he'd put it there, Trazmo or the murderer, she
continued to think as she walked around, glancing up at the light
from different angles – because he'd planned on coming back for it
later. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
what exactly was it that made that old fool, Dr. Kerr, think she
ought to look there in the first place, like that young fool, his
assistant, suggested to her, not very subtly? They needed to have <i>her</i>
discover it if... if they'd planted it there? Perhaps on orders from
their client, Tom Purdue? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Diddon
dragged the undamaged chair out of the way, then reached up to slide
the ceiling tile back into place, reminding herself she'd done this,
coincidentally, in Kerr's room Monday night after he'd arrived.
“Maybe that's what gave him the idea,” she thought, stepping back
as her phone rang – Roger, again – “a convenient hiding place.”
But when would they have gotten into the room and planted it there?
“That would've been the easy bit,” she assumed, given Kerr or his
assistant would no doubt be expert lock-pickers. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,
Roger...?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sheriff,”
he said, more excitedly than usual (it didn't take much to excite the
boy, she considered, like the time he'd found a dead 'possum near
that break-in last month), “glad I caught you. You should get out
here soon as you can – somethin' odd's goin' on...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
what is that, Roger: another dead 'possum?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> No,
okay, so it wasn't that, but he wasn't being very cogent, typical of
Deputy Dett, and he certainly sounded flustered. Even his mother'd
always said, it wasn't a question of having a screw or two slightly
loose, it was more like Roger'd always been short a few, ever since
that childhood accident years ago. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Okay,
Rodge, I'm on my way. And where, by the way, is 'here'?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Sliding
the new evidence bag under her arm, she quickly locked up. “Yup.
Seems odd things're goin' on everywhere 'round here.”</span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;">= = = = = = = </span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-29.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-83233124047775272392022-10-06T08:00:00.010-04:002022-10-06T09:19:08.055-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #27<p><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-26.html" target="_blank"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI-Cvfi1JJMZMsNud-4vd6Oyv1vyK49grfMUJ1a_UygzQrgdhCeTCWcA4Oq7hJRPKKH_--dqZAapXik4Hs2_ZwROauFTGB0_sbr6XEP3ewIbMNFph2H3h8M-5_MXgwGLXT6pMCfQ2wnEm1eg8JmYrMSHRiyqnzeS7R0CoXXiIZdA6CKA8Hnw/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI-Cvfi1JJMZMsNud-4vd6Oyv1vyK49grfMUJ1a_UygzQrgdhCeTCWcA4Oq7hJRPKKH_--dqZAapXik4Hs2_ZwROauFTGB0_sbr6XEP3ewIbMNFph2H3h8M-5_MXgwGLXT6pMCfQ2wnEm1eg8JmYrMSHRiyqnzeS7R0CoXXiIZdA6CKA8Hnw/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-26.html" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tom Purdue sat in the back yard</span></span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-26.html" target="_blank"> of his cabin in Maine</a>, after a rough night, recalling some pleasant childhood memories of those visits, and sorted out some of those scary tales Cousin Burt used to tell to find if there was anything (or anyone) who might match Mrs. Danvers' mysterious stranger (certainly no ghost). He also thought about that strange on-line video he found, some young composer from Missouri whose very first piece had something Tom was sure he'd heard before. Yes, in fact, he had <span style="color: black;">– it was something </span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">he</span></span></span><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> had written many years ago, but how did this kid ever find it to plagiarize it?</span></span></span></i><p></p><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">It had also been a rough night for the Doylestown Historical Society's Mr. Vole after he'd been attacked and left unconscious. Trying to sort out the next morning if anything had been stolen in the break-in, he decided to call his assistant who'd been off sick the past week. He could use her help unpacking, so when she didn't answer her phone he decided to go over and see if she was alright. In fact, he ended up calling the police because when he got there, not only was her door ajar, she was found missing!</span></i><br /></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> [<b>Chapter
18, continued...</b>]</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #280099; font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
thought the boss set us up out here in the middle of nowhere to <span style="font-style: normal;">avoid</span>
big city crime like this?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Cities
aren't the only place in this country where people can break in.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
two Basilikon guards gradually worked their way room by room down
another hallway, doors left hanging open in their wake.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Even
in small Midwestern nowhere towns like this? Everything's practically
dead here.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Practically?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Scientists
gathered in small knots around water coolers, whispered among
themselves, and watched as the guards checked their area.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Nothing
here.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
two guards moved on to the next hallway and more offices after
radioing their “All Clear” back to Security Central. All this
tactical gear they had to drag around was slowing them down.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Aren't
we in the Great Plains, here? Technically, I'm not sure we're in the
Midwest.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Doesn't
get more 'Mid' than Iowa...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
one guard, K-9, sang to himself, “How far west could the Midwest go
if the Midwest could go west, man?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
other one, K-8, presuming he was the numerically superior, stopped
and threatened him. “Shut up, Dog! I swear I'm going to shoot you.
It's the Midwest because it's west of the East Coast.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
kept going, unperturbed, despite all this body armor being way too
heavy. “Right, and it's in the middle of the country, so, what,
everything between New York and Los Angeles is the Midwest?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
cleared another hallway, then took the steps up to the second floor. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What're
we looking for, anyway, with this intruder?” K-9 threw open another
set of doors. “Anybody know what he looks like?” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Some
old guy, I dunno, with white hair and a beard. No one but L-3 got a
good look at him.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Look,”
K-9 continued, checking each office as they went, “so what do
Californians call this area, then, if it's halfway between the West
Coast and the East Coast – the Mideast? I don't think so...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
ran into another guard, K-12, headed toward them. “Roger, nothin'
down there.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> K-9
started singing. “We three guards in Orient are...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “That's
it – when you least expect it, C-4 right up the butt...”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “My
guess is probably some kid from Orient High.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “With
white hair and a beard?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Jeez,
a disguise...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> They
moved on. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> K-12
was saying, “Have you ever noticed how many of the scientists who
work here have white hair and a beard?” They called him School but
doubted he'd ever made it to 12th Grade. Yet every now and
then he came out with something surprising that left the others
speechless, in a manner of speaking. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Shit,
should we be checking every white-haired, bearded guy for his ID
badge?” K-8 was annoyed. “Nobody'd said anything about that.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Nobody
told me anything beyond 'search the premises for an intruder',” K-9
said. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Sniff
him out, Dog, just like that. Jeez... Don't you guys ever take the
initiative?” School didn't sound terribly impressed. “Think!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Of
anyone in K-Squad, School was the least likely to be caught thinking.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
whole point of being in Security is you follow orders.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
whole point of Security is catching the bad guys!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> No
one said the so-called “Incursion” was over; no report came down
from Security Central to say he'd been apprehended, either. The guys
in K-Squad were going around checking their zones for an intruder.
K-8 wondered what would happen to discipline if everybody started
going off on their own “initiative”? The Center would not hold. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> School
had already cleared Hallway 2-C, checking older men's IDs, and found
nothing unusual. He suggested they re-check Hallway 1-B's IDs. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> K-8
definitely didn't like taking orders from an underling, especially
someone like School.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
guys in L-Squad were out checking the perimeters, those outlying
hallways that skirted the various centralized labs like the ones
where Piltdown, Krahang, and Dawson developed their respective
programs, as well as Háradov. L-8 and L-9 checked each security
camera's software, troubleshooting from the main arena, but couldn't
identify the source of the disruption. Fanning out to check all the
hallways had lead back to the lone emergency exit which came out at
the old warehouses, long unused, and no one had found any signs of
any tampering. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-2
was annoyed they've spent so much time trying to figure out how the
intruder got in rather than tracking his location to find out where
he was now: they can do that later. Shango and al-Zebani only caught
the briefest glimpse of the man L-3 found but what if he wasn't the
only one? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-7
agreed, struggling with his new helmet which didn't fit him as
snuggly as the old one had. “What <i>about</i> that?” He's being
charged a bundle to replace it, like it was his fault. It still
bothered him, how it could disappear like that, in his locker one
day, and then – <i>poof</i>! – gone the next. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Hey,”
he told his partner, L-6, “what if someone stole my helmet to
disguise himself in order to infiltrate the place?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Like,
someone broke in to steal <i>your</i> helmet? You're watching too
much TV.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Yeah,”
L-7 argued, “but this old guy, right? Maybe somebody disguised as a
security guard wearing my helmet let him in?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “A
little far-fetched, no? You seen any Basilikon guard wearing <i>just</i>
a helmet?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-2,
listening in on the telecom, wondered if other uniform parts were
missing. He couldn't shake this idea of some insider. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
he suggested L-8 check the security accesses to the entrances – had
anyone come and gone at a time that would correspond to this
intruder's appearance? – they discovered someone <i>had</i>,
coincidentally, done just that. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-8
asked, “Hadn't that been the hallway where the intruder was
initially apprehended?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Maybe
check what time that report was filed.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Odd,
though: that access had only been made a few minutes ago, several
minutes after the alarm had been sounded, but it wasn't unusual for
that agent to be in that area. “Check, anyway.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Piltdown
and the young lab assistant she kept calling Abattoir – he'd given
up correcting her – checked through each of the four interconnected
labs, hers, Krahang's, Dawson's, even Harádov's, especially all the
closets and cabinets. They remained silent, the better to hear any
suspicious sounds like the breaking of glass or the shutting of a
door. Once members of the L-Squad arrived on the scene, they divided
into pairs and checked each lab, circling around from one to another,
going over each others' work which struck Piltdown as ridiculously
redundant. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “We
could keep this up all day,” she snorted, then suggested she and
Abattoir should let the guards do the reconnaissance – after all,
they were armed: no one really knew if the intruder was. She tried to
imagine that old man “armed and dangerous”; he seemed such an
unlikely threat – unless it was a disguise. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Abathur
suggested they just stand in the hallway or go to the lounge for
coffee and wait for the “All Clear,” somewhere safe he thought
they're not likely to get caught in any cross-fire. The important
thing was to let Security do their job, now that they've shown up,
and keep out of their way. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
L-Squad guards had said nothing to them about what was going on:
nothing about how the intruder – or maybe <span style="font-style: normal;">intru</span><i>ders</i>?
– had gotten in or why he didn't show up on any security cameras? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
that reminded her as she stopped, stood up to her full height and
looked around. “Where's Krahang?” Abathur didn't know. They'd
been so busy checking potential hiding places, they hadn't noticed
Krahang's absence. Where had he gone after the alarm sounded?
Presumably, he'd gotten dressed, but in the excitement had she seen
him again? About to stride into the men's decontamination room, she
thought, as long as Abattoir was there, maybe he'd better check it.
He smiled and nodded, pleased to be given some responsibility by a
superior. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was no one in the locker room, but he checked the showers, even
opened all of the lockers. The only thing he found was Krahang's
iPad, left out on one of the benches. “That was sloppy: any
intruder could've stolen it. At least, it's password protected.” He
returned to the lab, shrugging his shoulders. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Maybe,
Piltdown thought, as she and Abattoir passed on into that long, empty
hallway again, it wasn't actually a technical glitch, not that that
wasn't likely, given the precarious state-of-the-art of their
security system. Whoever designed the renovation, the joke going
around was Osiris didn't want to blow the budget on flashy gadgets
like that. She'd overheard other scientists in their down time
laughing about stickers found on some of the cameras, bought
second-hand through E-Bay. If it were true, it was unlikely these
security cameras had extended warranties.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was also possible, as she and Abattoir strolled uneasily toward the
lounge, one of the most dismal rooms on the planet, they never really
<i>installed</i> cameras in that hallway, only <i>said</i> they had.
Was it the result of cost-cutting moves or did somebody in
Basilikon's inner circle line their pockets skimming off the
difference? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But,
her mind continued, any conversation with Abattoir beyond boring,
what if it hadn't been a glitch, or a self-induced one? What if
someone had tampered with the system, enough to make it crash? What
if this whole thing – the security glitch, the appearance of a
mysterious intruder – had all been managed by an insider? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
hadn't been surprised by that old man's unexpected appearance in the
hallway to raise an alarm (neither had she, though). And she didn't
believe that stuff about his Dance Club membership card, either. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
Krahang <i>was</i> surprised he'd seen that intruder in the hallway
(“why would they send an old man?). Not like this was the best
time, either, too early by at least a few days. Even if this intruder
wasn't “real” – (had somebody from town just wandered in
through some unlocked door?) – he'd have to act. He couldn't very
well say, “wait, you're ahead of schedule” (by several days, in
fact), “Time Out, I'm not ready yet!” And if he failed to act,
he'd likely risked his life for nothing. Whatever's going on, his
only option was, basically, to improvise his ass off, so if there's
some new wrinkle to the plan, he hoped they'd brought enough back-up
behind it to make it work. The point was, and he knew this
implicitly, he <i>was</i> ready but there were things he wanted to
think through better. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Rudyard
Kipling losing his head came to mind, whether the others, apparently
losing theirs, would ever blame it all on him (besides, what would
Kipling do?). “Keep calm,” he told himself, “take deep
breaths.” If, he considered, they did <i>this</i>, then he must do
<i>that</i>, respond accordingly. It was a dance; dancers needed to
breathe. He needed to take full advantage of the mayhem this break-in
has created, fan the pandemonium, ratchet everything up a notch. The
important thing was to make these clichés seem planned, every bit
intentional. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “More
time,” he'd've argued, going over everything point by point (watch
the sequence), “everybody wants more time, another rehearsal,
additional proofreading, let's try a different fingering there (less
awkward), maybe switch these two passages...?” He hadn't gotten the
full security guard outfit yet, either, with the one helmet that fit
him back in his apartment. He needed to hijack a gurney, grab Ripa's
body from the morgue (wait, had Agent Xolotl already started on the
autopsy?). He needed a disguise to look like this intruder (wasn't
there a mop...?). </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Since
he couldn't circumvent the access readers, he'd pilfered Piltdown's
ID badge and copied it only last night (phew!). Now he'd logged into
his iPad and launched the code bringing down the security cams.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Okay,
everything's in place.” He thrust his shoulders back, hunched over,
muttered a prayer and dashed off toward the morgue. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Showtime!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> What
if he ran into someone: wouldn't his attempt to disguise himself as
The Old Intruder draw them to pursue him rather than just say “Oh,
there's Agent Krahang, he's searching for the guy”? Wouldn't the
likelihood there were more guards and other agents running around
looking for him be greater than on normal days? Even though the
cameras were down (again) – which meant no one in Security was able
to see him anyway – he still wanted them to think whatever's being
done here was done by that intruder. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ripa's
body was just where he'd left it earlier, on a gurney not yet prepped
for his autopsy, the final indignation. With Xolotl nowhere in sight,
he pushed the gurney into the hall, out through the “secret tunnel”
to the old warehouses where they'd dump Ripa in a construction trench
off the lab's northwest corner. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> No
guards in sight. He avoided looking at the cameras, just in case,
made it into the warehouse, but rather than head left to the
construction site, he turned right down a slight incline. There were
police cars already nearby – excellent. He dumped the body,
glinting the sun off the gurney to get their attention. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Good,
they'd seen him. He made a quick call and someone picked up. “Icarus!
Everything's in place!” Then he hung up.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
missed the other voice's surprised reply. “Wait, what? No, you're
too early!”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was no time to lose. He only hoped someone noticed him, thought it
odd, and decided to go investigate. Who knows how long it would take
for someone outside to find the body? He wiped the white powder off
his face and stowed the mop-head and left the empty gurney in the
abandoned warehouse. If he ran into anyone coming to check the back
exit, he needed to be Agent Krahang without benefit of disguise, but
he hadn't brought his own ID since they could still track him. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Hiding
Piltdown's fake ID in a pocket lining after accessing his way back
into the building, he broke into a brisk trot just to make it look
realistic in case he'd run into anyone. After his mad dash, he
hurried into the locker room, reactivated the security cameras and
changed into his own lab coat. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
out in the hallway, Krahang nearly collided with another security
guard who, according to his ID tag, was Agent L-5, his only
identifiable feature a trim auburn beard barely noticeable beneath
the mask. Krahang, still breathing heavily after his run, had no
problem pretending he'd been out searching for the intruder: “Not
in there.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-5
scanned Krahang's ID while nodding his helmet. “Actually, Agent
Krahang, I'm looking for Agent Nephil. Maybe you have seen her?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Dr.
Piltdown? Why?” Krahang, nodding back, pretended to be confused and
hesitated slightly. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> When
the guard didn't respond, Krahang remembered, “Why, yes – just as
the alarm sounded. She ran into the lab with Abathur.” Then he
decided to add, “have you checked security footage on the cams?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> L-5
grumbled the cameras had once again failed, probably hacked by the
intruder. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “I
just came through the lab – nobody's there.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> After
the cameras had gone back on-line, Krahang checked the lab to see if
the system's green lights had come on. They had, and he noticed no
sign of Piltdown, Abathur, or anyone else.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “And
in the meantime,” L-5 asked, “where were you, if I may ask?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Krahang
quickly responded, waving his hands around, “oh, here, there, and
everywhere, I suspect, like everybody else, looking for that
intruder.” First, he'd checked the back exit but saw no sign of
forced entry.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
didn't see Agent Nephil?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Should
I have?”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = =</span></span></p><p>
</p><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-28.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p><br /></p>Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-54728908968276602492022-10-04T08:00:00.015-04:002022-10-04T10:16:32.363-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #26<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_7InSKfbXDRZp51IjHDF0kL1eeJUU6XOZ4hnpCznveHaprbRvV-q4bJZINFj-aqhvHO4l8yPfWXZAqqbTBCpPXZGIleWuGVM4OE-jFE6XwYOwDTTCwO2GBAwHtZZIlxZvDyvbReN5KDjzRqeCJ817Ei-phduxgvXuTSOnFas327XiyIc-g/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_7InSKfbXDRZp51IjHDF0kL1eeJUU6XOZ4hnpCznveHaprbRvV-q4bJZINFj-aqhvHO4l8yPfWXZAqqbTBCpPXZGIleWuGVM4OE-jFE6XwYOwDTTCwO2GBAwHtZZIlxZvDyvbReN5KDjzRqeCJ817Ei-phduxgvXuTSOnFas327XiyIc-g/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a><i>It was <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-no-25.html" target="_blank">just another typical day at the lab</a>, according to the previous chapter, where the Aficionati worked on their latest project of killer drones. After a successful experiment on a live human subject (now deceased), several scientists seemed to be running into each other in this long, otherwise empty hallway, comparing notes, posturing with age-old power rituals, and gearing up for various sexual harassment complaints (in other words, like any other day at the office in America). In the men's locker room, then, Agent Krahang had another confrontation with the self-assured Dr. Piltdown when an alarm went off and Krahang's new assistant burst in with news there's been a security breach.</i> </p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>=
= = = = = =</b></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="widows: 4;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><b>CHAPTER
18</b></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
Tom was a child, when there'd been more of a yard (unless it was just
because he was smaller then), the edge of these woods, encroaching
nature, had always been a magical zone, the boundary between
something open and visible, easily known, a world where he felt safe,
and someplace darker, invisible, more mysterious. It was the realm of
creativity, that kingdom where his imagination slipped away from the
adults, especially his father's watchfulness, and allowed him to roam
free and unencumbered, limited only by the turning paths. He could
face the sunrise and look toward the house – they always called it
“The Cabin” – to see the adults' world, notice if anyone there
was watching him or was even aware of him. Then he could turn his
head to look between the branches of the trees and into the denser
bushes and disappear. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
morning, however, was different, despite the fine weather, when there
were no adults around to watch him or even care, and he debated the
wisdom of going to the Stones on his own. Regardless of using two
canes for better balance, he didn't feel secure in his own safety on
uneven ground, not yet. Plus he was worried – no, more like
“concerned” – and needed time to think, and what better place
was there to think? Maybe the pond, but the climb down was steep, the
return too risky. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
were Burt's stories from those idyllic summers – his memories now
colored them “idyllic”; he wasn't so sure, back then – which in
hindsight lacked too many important details other than they'd been,
mostly, scary. Some were tales Burt heard from the adults talking by
the fireplace after all the younger kids had gone to bed. Others were
stories he'd been sure Burt made up, maybe from watching too much
television, tales of ghosts and “unexplainable events” which
scared him and thrilled him, but also kept him awake at night. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Maybe
the reason he wanted to reconnect with them now was more out of historical curiosity, finding himself in possession of a house
– <i>cabin</i>... – and living in a place that just might be
haunted. If he could sit and think at the pond, maybe he could hear
Burt's voice more clearly and find some explanation.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> To
Tom as a child, Burt's stories were comic books come to life – the
ones about ghosts and unexplainable events, not the ones his
mother preferred for him about Disney characters like Donald Duck. To
Tom the adult, some simple logic was behind it: creaking floorboards
and windy nights, not centuries-old curses and restless spirits.
Later, in high school, when he'd read <i>The House of the Seven
Gables</i>, he wondered if Burt hadn't read it, too. Maybe some older
cousins had made up things “in the style of Hawthorne.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Hawthorne.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> A
cloud passed overhead and momentarily hid the sun. Everything turned
chilly. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Had
he made the connection before – the author and Phillips T.
Hawthorne, alias “Pip,” a.k.a. “Trazmo”? He chuckled at the
coincidence.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> What
he was searching for were connections that <i>weren't</i>
coincidences between Burt's old stories, the family legends, and Mrs.
Danvers' stranger. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Mrs.
Danvers couldn't've imagined a ghost: she saw it walking, heard it
walking, talked to it and it talked to her. There'd been nothing
non-corporeal about it and she'd been perfectly matter-of-fact
describing him. She also had a long association with the cabin,
herself; wasn't her mother supposed to be one of the ghostly
suspects? It's likely Mrs. Danvers knew the stories – legends –
Burt's family had talked about when the children weren't supposed to
be listening. Why shouldn't she make the associations his imagination
had so easily leapt to? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
were so many stories from those summers, he'd never sorted through
them or thought to categorize them; in the hindsight of adulthood,
none of them were believable, yet he'd believed all of them. Tom
considered Burt, older and, besides, a direct cousin of the Norton
Family who'd inherited everything from Cousin Emaline, the expert.
Over fifty years had passed since that summer he'd turned 12, so he
didn't expect he could remember much of them. Maybe, by sorting out
the different types of stories, he could remember enough. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Last
night, then, starting with “family legends,” Tom began a Venn
Diagram with different circles for “household legends” and for
“woodland stories” like those involving the Standing Stones or
the woods around the pond, stories which might include family or
might not, and see which ones and especially which characters ended
up in the center. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Easily
the most memorable were those centered around Cousin Emaline's
husband, Jeckelson Hyde. Nobody in Uncle Max's family'd ever seen
him. </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Few
cousins mentioning Emaline ever talked about him, as if he'd never
existed. No photographs of him had been left lying around when Max
inherited the cabin after Emaline died, adding to the mystery. In
several old family albums, they found numerous photos of her famous
cousin, the opera singer Lilian Nordica, Edwin Norton's
granddaughter. Did anyone notice how there were no wedding photos of
Emaline and Jack?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Jack
Hyde – rarely Jeckelson, never Cousin Jack – was described as “a
negative character” which, Tom was led to think, meant he was
entirely black-and-white, not quite grasping the nature of a
photograph's reverse image. Tall and thin, dark haired and pale
complected, his most evident feature, aside from the wheelchair, was
his piercing green eyes. It never occurred to Tom until now, if none
of Uncle Max's family had ever seen him when he was alive, how did
they know what he looked like if there were no photographs? </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
were probably Norton Cousins who'd grown up with Emaline who would
have attended their wedding, who'd known them in the early years when
they lived, almost completely isolated, in Cornelius Norton's
woodland retreat. There were no doubt those who'd heard about Hyde's
tragic accidents and passed the stories down to their children and
grandchildren.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The spooky stories
were the ones that left the strongest imprint, the sightings of a man
matching the description of Jack Hyde prowling around the grounds,
peering in windows, inexplicably free of his wheelchair. None of them
ever involved Hyde being seen <i>inside</i> the house, only hunting
around outside, maybe looking for something or someone. One story
described Hyde's wheelchair rolling over the cliff at the Standing
Stones. Emaline left him to enjoy a peaceful afternoon, but when
she'd returned shortly, the wheelchair was gone; presumably, the
brakes failed.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> If
that wasn't enough to deal with – she became increasingly
reclusive, family summers dwindled to only a few cousins on occasion
– Great-Grandmother Margaret caught wind in the village of rumors
about an illegitimate son, Edward, born to Emaline's former maid
Hetty Poole, let go after her husband's death, innuendos identifying
Jack as the boy's father. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
were rumors that went around among the Nortons about a “bad-news
tomboy” everybody called Jake who was born Jacqueline Poole; wasn't
her father this same Eddie Poole who'd disappeared before World War
I? To make things worse, in 1938, the Nortons were concerned Jake, in
her mid-20s, “had eyes for” Max's younger brother, Robert. She
ended up marrying Max's father Hiram's gardener, a man named Mr.
Henry. Burt had heard somewhere he, too, “had eyes for” Robert,
though neither he nor Tom knew what “had eyes for” meant.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> What
did any of these details have in common with Mrs. Danvers' stranger?
Was it a coincidence her intruder had “piercing green eyes” just
like Jack Hyde? Plus she'd called him a “daguerreotype
come-to-life.” She only said the stranger reminded her of someone
but she never mentioned a name, never said “it was Jack Hyde.” On
the one hand, had she ever seen a photo of Jeckelson Hyde to know
what he might have looked like? Had any of the Nortons ever described
the ghost haunting the surrounding woods? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Besides,
Tom reminded himself, this stranger, seemingly real enough, spoke to
Mrs. Danvers, told her he was looking for a box Kerr said he'd left
behind and wanted him to retrieve it for him. With Burt's stories on
the one hand, there was the reality that ghosts, on the other,
weren't real. Who was he? </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Never
stepping more than a few feet down the path, he looked back to see
the view from this vantage point – the windows in the kitchen,
others over toward his study, the upstairs bedrooms. It still amazed
him this was his, a place recalled fondly from childhood and now, in
his old age, his home. Unfortunately, along with it came memories of
ghosts and legends that, as a child, never bothered him because in a
week or two he would leave; but now, he shared this home with them.
It began to cloud over again and the wind became chilly: it was,
after all, April and this passed for normal. If he wandered too far
and it started to rain, he'd catch cold. As a boy, he'd only ever
been here during the summer: what would it be like in the depths of
winter? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Tom
walked slowly across the lawn along the back, then turned around
toward the driveway though the kitchen door was closer. He'd peered
into his study, half-expecting to see Mrs. Danvers' stranger browsing
around. It was Thursday, so if Mrs. Danvers wouldn't be in again
until tomorrow noontime, he shouldn't see anyone inside, should he? </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
went in, didn't find any intruders rooting about (he'd let out a sigh
of relief), got another cup of coffee, then noticed the clouds were
gone, the picnic table again in full sun. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
felt wonderful, basking in the sun like a lizard. Why waste it? It
was such a pleasant change from his home in Marple with all its
unpleasant memories beyond Aunt Jane's old backyard. He hadn't dwelt
on it much, but that too had associations with his childhood,
alongside his inheritance after his aunt's death. Now here he was in
a new home, with its different flashbacks, sometimes turning a corner
to find Burt as a child ready to head outside with Mippy, his little
Boston terrier tagging along. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sitting
in Aunt Jane's backyard was pleasant if you could ignore the cemetery
beyond that stone wall, or didn't look over at the decrepit farmhouse
that belonged to the Ripas which loomed next door. And that was even
before all that business last fall with Amanda's death, the fire, his
stroke. He'd needed to escape. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
drummed his fingers on the table and checked the time on his phone
too frequently in the past few minutes. Yes, he was impatient; yes,
he wished he'd told Cameron to call earlier. If he'd had Cameron's
number, he'd just call him, but he didn't, so he sat waiting and
hoping he'd call soon. <span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">If
that business with the intruder wasn't enough, now there's this
business with that video he found on-line in the middle of the night
when he was trying to take his mind off everything. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sorting
out Burt's tales before he'd put them into his would-be Venn Diagram,
Tom decided to look for some music videos to distract him, not that
he was a big fan of background music. It was late at night, it had
been raining (again), and he was still spooked by every little sound
he heard. The music wasn't meant to “accompany” his mental focus
– did he really want to reminisce about Jack Hyde's ghost at 2am? –
but he thought maybe it would cover up all these little nighttime
noises. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
video came up as a random recommendation, an orchestral piece maybe
15 minutes long by some 20-something Missouri-based composer whose
name, Dexter Shoad, sounded like it came out of a John Steinbeck
novel. It wasn't being well played – the orchestra lacked good
intonation and any sense of conviction – but the piece itself
showed promise. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> At
one point, he found himself putting the notepad aside, listening more
attentively to the music despite the conductor's bland
interpretation. A lot of new pieces, especially by young,
inexperienced composers (often those by old, overly experienced
composers) made excellent background music, but something about this
piece grabbed Tom's attention and he wasn't sure why. He'd never
heard it before, nor the composer's name; never heard of this Allegro
Conservatory where the lad's a star pupil. Tom recalled what it was
like to be a conservatory's 20-something star pupil. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> (How
much would it have helped his career if one or two of his works the
Faber Orchestra read through during those “new music workshops”
had been uploaded onto some 1970's equivalent of YouTube? He'd write
better stuff later – that's the point of being a student – but
kids these days had it so much easier.) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Presumably
this was one of those reading sessions, a quick, cursory rehearsal
and then plowing through it without it breaking down, never enough
time to iron out ensemble problems or intonation or interpretive
issues. Yet there was something about it that struck him as... well,
all he could think of was it sounded “oddly familiar.” <span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">Lots
of students in this period of their lives where they'd absorb
anything they liked could be accused of being “derivative.” Was
this kid guilty of imitating something Tom found familiar but
couldn't place?</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He'd
listened to the video with fresh ears, accompanied by nothing more
than a fresh cup of coffee, no other distractions, putting aside any
connections Jeckelson Hyde and the stranger had with his reality.
With any luck, the original would pop up in some back corner of his
brain and march forward to identify itself. It wasn't until he'd
listened to this one bit over and over again that he was finally able
to place it. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “That's
<i>me</i>! It's from that thing I wrote in... – a long time ago!”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
wasn't just an odd occurrence of a vaguely similar handful of notes –
there are only so many to go around. As extensive as this was, no, it
was much more than spinning out a motive that took up time and space.
All of it was familiar, taking on more of a quotation – basically,
plagiarism. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was what he'd called the Main Theme for that new piece he'd started
to work on back in the early-1980s, originally the opening for a
piano trio that morphed into another orchestral piece. But he didn't
need another orchestral piece that wasn't likely to get performed and
it wasn't working as a piano trio. So, with some sadness, given
temporary life as a cello sonata out in Iowa that fateful spring, he
set it aside. But he never came back to it, found the right fit
for it. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> If
he'd never finished it, and certainly never published it – it never
sounded quite right again after he'd gone through a dreaded
middle-aged Style Change – how could he prove to anyone it was his?
He'd quite proudly played it for a few friends at the Colony, but
how'd this kid ever find out about <i>that</i>?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
it hit him – “gobsmacked” was the word coming to mind. There
were other bits that sounded familiar, too, <i>not</i> his. They were
from pieces these other friends had shared with him, as well... </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Still
drumming his fingers on the table, urging Cameron to call, he decided
to go inside and get lunch ready: that's when his phone would ring
(whatever these days they called a phone “ringing”). Reluctant to
leave the warmth of the sun, he wondered what surprise Mrs. Danvers
might have left him for lunch today. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
had been an unsettling night after the break-in at the Doylestown
Historical Society's new (and not yet completely unpacked) Basker
Hill Annex at the new (and not yet completely renovated) Shoscombe
Place Center. When Mr. Vole, its myopic proprietor, had returned
home, he was kept awake much of the night by a fearsome headache.
Given the state of affairs with boxes and cartons piled everywhere
(the word “willy-nilly” had come to mind, yet another
embarrassment), it was hard to tell if anything had actually been
stolen or misplaced. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
his assistant, young Helene Kennesen, out sick most of the past week,
the finer details of sorting and re-filing, gradually emptying these
myriad boxes and cartons, was in a precarious state approaching
chaos. His finding something Dr. Kerr wasn't sure even existed was a
stroke of luck, what with the place's temporarily chaotic state. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
valiantly plodded onward first with this box then, after a break, the
next one, but the whole time, between his lack of sleep and general
aches, he realized he was so painfully slow, he really could use Ms.
Kennesen's help, deciding he would call to ask her when she might be
able to return. “Such a bad time to become ill, poor girl, missing
most of the packing up, the move, and now the <i>un</i>packing.”
Generally reliable and a dedicated assistant, Helene wasn't the type
to shirk responsibilities. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Things
became a little more unsettled this morning after he'd reached Dr.
Kerr who hadn't answered his phone the night before, and discovered
not only had he <i>not</i> stopped by and taken the file with the
daPonte Letter in it after all, he was, as he put it somewhat
euphemistically, “out-of-town on an unrelated assignment.” He
hated to suspect his friend, a truly scholarly individual like Dr.
Kerr, and an honest one at that: had he been so impatient as to break
in and steal it. “But who else?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
hanging up the phone (whatever people today called disconnecting a
phone call), Vole sat there in a state of shock. “So, if Dr. Kerr
didn't have it, well, then... where was the letter? That would mean
someone else must have it and if someone else has it that means
they'd attacked him. But why?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> With
another box out of the way and another small section of shelving
filled with manila folders and old leather-bound books, Vole
continued thinking about who could've broken in especially without
waking up Norbert. He wondered if Helene felt a bit better, had come
in and then started in on some re-shelving before giving up. If she
did, why was the only thing not where he'd left it last night that
file from the Trappe Bequest? She wouldn't know Vole wanted those few
delicate pages to be photocopied, right? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Hmm...”
He stopped in his tracks, carefully gloved hands frozen in mid-air
over the next box. “Now that's something to consider.” Norbert
would've challenged someone he didn't know: he hadn't yet met Ms.
Kennesen. “Had one of the young moving men perhaps come back in,
passed the Norbert Test, and taken the file? But why?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> If
Dr. Kerr was right and the letter was Lorenzo daPonte's, it could
prove quite valuable, especially if it mentioned Mozart. Knowing how
cutthroat the world of rare documents could be, Vole felt uneasy. It
occurred to him, stopped him quite figuratively in his tracks, if Dr.
Kerr was aware he might be in danger?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He'll
consider this later, after he's talked with Ms. Kennesen. He
remembered taking her home that time her car was in the shop. Since
she's unfamiliar with Basker Hill's location, perhaps she's gotten
lost?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
a few more unsuccessful tries, Vole decided he'll just take a longer
lunch break and drive over to Ms. Kennesen's apartment to check on
her. Maybe she's at a doctor's appointment and unable to answer her
phone (she should've called him back by now). Maybe, he thought,
she's had a set-back and needs help. It's unfortunate she lived
completely across town, closer to the downtown office but now quite a
commute to the Shoscombe Center. In rush hour traffic, he figured it
would probably take a half hour. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
pulled into the parking lot at her building, a wing of some garden
apartments on the edge of a park. “Pretty, in springtime.” Her
place was on the second floor around the back. He called her phone
again as he approached her door at the end of the hallway – he
could hear it ringing. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
disconnected the call with a sinking feeling about this, then grew
suddenly weak-kneed when he saw the door slightly ajar. He didn't
notice any signs of forced entry: had the lock been picked? An
archivist by profession and a big fan of TV crime shows, he
immediately pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Peering cautiously
through the crack, he could see the place had been ransacked. Should
he enter or call 911 first? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Hello...?”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
really should wait for the police. But what if Helene needed help? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Pictures
and posters that once hung on the wall were scattered around the
floor. Books had been flung off the shelves. He was grateful whoever
broke into the archives hadn't done anything like this. But why do it
to Helene's things? What was it they're looking for? And more
importantly, he worried, where was she? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Helene?”
He called out timidly, looking past the living room into the kitchen.
Was he being unprofessional? So he corrected himself. “Ms.
Kennesen, are you here?” That was when he saw the misplaced chair. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> That
chair with the empty restraints hanging limply from its arms and legs
was bad enough but when he saw the bloodstains on the tiles, he
nearly fainted: “What had they done to her?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
called 911 and gave them the particulars. “Please tell the police
Ms. Helene Kennesen, my assistant, has been found missing.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “'Found
missing'? What d'you mean, 'found <i>missing</i>'?” Sgt. Sweeney
was the same officer who'd responded to the “alleged burglary” at
the Shoscombe Center the night before. “Has she been found or is
she missing?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Outside
Ms. Kennesen's apartment, Vole, worried more about his assistant than
a matter of simple semantics, tried to explain it again. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “When
I called, she didn't answer; I came to see if she was okay or needed
help – she's been off sick since last week – and when I arrived,
I discovered the door was ajar.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Thinking
that, too, might sound confusing, since he now had no great respect
for Sweeney's general intelligence, he explained, “By that, I mean
it was partially open, not that it was 'a <i>jar</i>,' literally –
and when I went inside I discovered – that is, I 'found' – she
was missing. I'm afraid that's all I meant, officer.” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sweeney,
who had no great respect for the old man's smart-alecky superiority,
pressed his lips together wondering if he'd just been called a moron.
“And I notice you're wearing gloves, professor: why is that?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I'm
not a professor, Sergeant,” Vole explained. “I'm a research
historian working as the director of the Shoscombe Center's archival
library.” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> He
stopped himself before adding, “as you would know had you been
paying attention last night,” but caught himself in time.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Gloves...?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “A
professional habit, handling old manuscripts to protect them from
various skin...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You're
wearing gloves <i>here</i> because...?” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,
I didn't want to contaminate the scene since it clearly looked like a
crime scene with all the books on...”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Or
you didn't want to leave fingerprints behind?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,
no, I didn't want to touch anything, not knowing what happened or if
the intruder was still inside – oh, dear...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “'Oh,
dear' <i>what</i>, professor?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Vole
peered over his shoulder through the half-open doorway, as various
crime scene people examined the room.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I'm...
it hadn't occurred to me 'what if' the intruder... <i>were</i> still
inside.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sweeney
duly noted the shift to the subjunctive. “Would you say, in
general, Miss Kennesen is usually such a sloppy house-keeper?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I've
never been here before. As my assistant, she's very neat and
methodical.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Then
he wondered what, if any, might be any potential connection between
this and last night's break-in at the Shoscombe Center. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Definitely
missing, Sergeant,” one of the other officers told him, peering out
from the doorway. “No sign of her, I'm afraid.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sweeney
checked his watch, jotting down, “def-i-nite-ly... <i>misssss</i>-ing,”
he said, dotting the 'i's.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “To
answer your question, no, I'd doubt it. What could you possibly have
there that'd make someone do this to <i>her</i>?” </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Do
<i>what</i> to her? Is she okay?” Vole tried to hide his alarm.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,”
Sweeney said as he flipped his notebook shut, “for one, toss the
place.” He pointed his pencil toward the apartment. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Vole
tried not to turn around, thinking of that chair with its restraints
and what looked like blood on the floor. “And for another...?”
His shoulders sank even lower at the thought of it.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Just
for the record, Professor Vole,” Sweeney continued, ignoring that
last bit, “can anyone vouch for your whereabouts earlier this
morning?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> His
whereabouts? Vole straightened his back slightly. “I was alone in
the archives, mostly; there were workmen upstairs who might've seen
me come in or when I left for lunch. And there was Norbert.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Sweeney
did remember Norbert, the Center's security system.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Oh,
and I phoned a friend – I'd have to check the time. 9:00?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “If
you'll wait around, professor, you can give your statement to Officer
Lovett...?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Alas,
Vole thought, regarding Ms. Kennesen and any clues as to <i>her</i>
whereabouts, his mind was utterly and completely a void. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = = =<br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-27.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-1865075750586185692022-09-29T08:00:00.000-04:002022-09-29T08:00:00.196-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #25<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhjUj9e0WsgvHbpeqK4Ch3SnVaYhCbsM_dBEqLEwtj1la-JAnhIPkIjWucxiWhlXagYK92USqvRTeeCB5SNrXHsKX5r39UVVX-wtOgPUppRDBbDwXxhADs_YOAui5OGJlIXRA0VnVFiUjvMRVUyLXYfVZV1DfSOGU2ZTTPStzyQP8csNAog/s713/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="713" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhjUj9e0WsgvHbpeqK4Ch3SnVaYhCbsM_dBEqLEwtj1la-JAnhIPkIjWucxiWhlXagYK92USqvRTeeCB5SNrXHsKX5r39UVVX-wtOgPUppRDBbDwXxhADs_YOAui5OGJlIXRA0VnVFiUjvMRVUyLXYfVZV1DfSOGU2ZTTPStzyQP8csNAog/w200-h133/SalieriEffect_CoverBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-24.html" target="_blank">Earlier</a>, after Toni had her weird dream with everyone out in the garden, she woke up recalling her even weirder experience at the </i>Amadeus <i>rehearsal the night before in which she seriously wondered what exactly she was doing there... the old guys starring as Mozart and Salieri were one thing, but the director, washed-up has-been Lawrence Bridges, was just plain creepy.</i></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = = = = = = = = <br /></span></span></p><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">[<b>Chapter
17, concluded...</b>]</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Normally,
hallways were long, boring affairs, the most efficient way to travel
between two points with as little distraction as possible – even
the narrow, elongated windows were too high for anyone to see out –
so in that sense Basilikon's recently renovated laboratory succeeded
in having some of the most boring no-nonsense hallways she'd ever
encountered. Unfortunately, a boring hallway with boringly off-white
walls prompted even more boring conversation between people who,
headed toward the same goal, felt the inexplicable urge to fill the
empty space with equally empty words. </span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Moments
after the successful completion of their experiment testing the
lethal impact of the Mobots' toxins on a once-live human subject, Dr.
Piltdown and Agent Krahang saw another tiresome hallway stretch out
before them. They made an unlikely, oddly reticent pair as they
worked their way toward the back entrance of the Main Engineering
Lab. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Piltdown
was clearly working up to something she wanted to mention, perhaps at
the inevitable follow-up with the other scientists, not that she, the
only woman there, was ever shy addressing her male counterparts. But,
sadly, Krahang broke through the pervasive silence with several
unnecessary comments about his obvious plans in place for the
afternoon. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> His
responsibility with the manipulation of the drones included going in
to retrieve the deactivated bots left lying on the floor and identify
those that could be re-used, then recycling the others for parts. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “In
the real world, they would've just been left on the battlefield,
until al-Zebani and Haradóv can develop their Dissolution
Application.” Recently, he had suggested to them it wouldn't be a
good idea to leave complete drones scattered about like dead bees for
the police – or worse, the IMP – to get their grubby hands on. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> With
the help of the finely balanced “panning trays” he'd developed,
Krahang could now sift through thousands of bots per hour, but he
argued the attack force should disintegrate once they've served their
purpose.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
understood economizing during this experimental phase, but he
couldn't wait to assign this task to his new assistant, Agent
Abathur. Al-Zebani'd said he had nearly completed new software that
would recharge the tiny drone's even tinier batteries which could
also speed up the process of “injecting” Piltdown's various
toxins into the bots' minuscule tanks.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
did make Dr. Piltdown smile to imagine poor al-Zebani, an engineer
used to working with large-form animatronics like amusement park
dinosaurs, having to contend with the nano-like particles real
scientists concerned themselves with. Without any emotion in her
expression, however, she asked if Krahang knew anything about
whatever was next on the testing schedule. She knew full well what
was expected of her and her assistants in the toxin lab, but
al-Zebani kept everybody compartmentalized. This annoyed her since
she didn't like missing out on the Big Picture. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “How
many more experiments will we have to subject ourselves to before the
Old Man is satisfied we've realized his idea?” Osiris had become
increasingly sensitive about being referred to as “The Old Man,”
especially “in the wheelchair,” despite his obvious situation,
and it gave her something of a thrill to brand him with it. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “There'd
be adjustments we'll need to make,” he said, “and quite likely,
given our success so far, Osiris might even come up with some new
ideas as long as it didn't compromise his deadline. He's determined
to bring down SHMRG's smug little empire with a well-orchestrated,
completely unexpected attack at their first summer cross-over
concert.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang
thought Piltdown was asking a lot of questions for one supposedly
loyal to The Leader, pumping him for “need-to-know” information.
Knowing more than he could afford to tell her, he shrugged his
shoulders.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Half-way
down the endless hallway, Piltdown put her arm out in front of him as
if she's reluctant to touch him, and Krahang, as cautious about
touching as being touched, stopped in his tracks. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Enough
small talk, Engineer.” She was also reluctant to call him “Doctor,”
assuming technically he wasn't one, which reinforced her advantage.
Her expression, devoid of anything remotely emotional, could only be
described as intense, towering above him with more than arrogant
superiority. The last thing Krahang wanted her to sense was fear.
Fear – and loathing. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Okay,
Krahang thought, the last <i>two</i> things he wanted her to sense
were fear and loathing, not to mention cautious curiosity. Despite an
inquisitively raised eyebrow and his “well-I-didn't-expect-<i>that</i>”
expression, Dr. Piltdown said nothing. Krahang had previously checked
this hallway for surveillance cameras but knew just because they
weren't visible didn't mean they didn't exist.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
both a scientist and an artist trained in <a href="https://youtu.be/E4tWHYfbuhg?t=1195" target="_blank">the ritualized fights of
Thailand's ancient “Dance of the Monkey King</a>,” Krahang quickly
processed, as any well-trained agent would, his list of advantages
and disadvantages. A small-built person against a considerably larger
adversary, woman or not, he could still out-maneuver her depending on
her next move. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> From
her perspective, Piltdown, sure of herself, looked down at the little
man, confident she could crunch him like a bug. Her expression alone
should convince him not to even think of resisting her. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Perhaps,”
she said, her voice even as she stared him down, “after we're both
done here tonight, you will join me for a pleasant dinner at this
louche little diner in Greenfield called Brummagen's?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang
didn't relax his expression or his pose as his mind tried to
translate the word <i>louche</i> – “didn't it mean
“disreputable”? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “I
understand they serve a very good pot roast with mashed potatoes,”
she continued, “or a Caesar salad if you'd prefer?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> (He'd
used the word only once before, about a friend's “rather louche
morals.”)</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Looking
back at her with his steely gaze never wavering, he responded, “you
know it's against company regulations for us to mix socially,
especially outside with the local population after hours. We'd be
disciplined.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “I
doubt our absence would be noticed in the Basilikon Commissary this
evening. We'll say we're having dinner in our rooms.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> His
eyes were distracted by sudden movement further down the hall. “Who's
that?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “An
old trick, Agent Krahang. You expect me to fall for that?” Piltdown
was ready to press him into the wall.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “No,
seriously,” he said, stepping away from her to break the lock.
“Look.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Piltdown
stepped back also, immediately squaring her shoulders. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Neither
were especially interested in a witness who might tattle to al-Zebani
or, worse, Shango, their newly arrived Director of Security. Whoever
this guy headed toward them might be, he could definitely mean
trouble. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> As
a rule, Piltdown was uncomfortable enough with small talk without
making Fake Small Talk, something she imagined anyone with enough
sense could sense from a mile away, so instead she maintained her
silence. Krahang kept up a running commentary about his new
assistant, Agent Abathur, whom he hasn't had the chance to meet yet. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Is
that him, d'you think?” Piltdown, surprised, indicated the man
headed their way.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “God,
no,” Krahang laughed, “well, I hope not...” He'd not seen the
guy's file before, apparently highly recommended by Osiris'
head-hunters. Whoever it was, he seemed highly distracted and
decidedly uncomfortable at the idea of running into them. “I'd
better say something.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Her
one chance to corner Krahang and ask him out to dinner was ruined by
the inopportune appearance of this stranger. “What was his name,”
she wondered, “Abattoir? You'll pay for this, Agent Abattoir...”
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Dr.
Piltdown, her irritation increasing, suggested they ignore the guy
simply on principle as they resumed their walk which, at this rate,
felt like there were miles to go before they'd reach their
destination. She also offered up a curse on whoever suggested her for
this job: she'd given up New York City for this? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang
became uncomfortable, trying not to feel prejudiced, but wondered if
the guy could handle the finely detailed work he'd require? After
all, the man appeared to be well past the verge of retirement. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
wasn't only the uncombed white hair or the grizzled-looking beard
that gave him the air of a visiting absent-minded professor. If he's
already a staff member, why wasn't he wearing a lab coat? Maybe he
was on break – or was he one of those “second shifters” and had
not yet been to his locker? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Without
any sign of recognition, the old man turned down a side hallway
which, though it was unmarked, Krahang knew led to the main
engineering lab's back entrance, next to the scientists'
decontamination room. Whether that's Abathur or not, at least he knew
where he was going. Time will tell. He'll be meeting him soon.
Besides, how could Krahang complain to Osiris this man was too old
for the job? Osiris was the one recommending him! However old Osiris
was, though, he wasn't doing the lab's most delicate work. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
wasn't the most pleasant work, either, retrieving and sorting spent
test mobots. The risk aside, the sorting process was tedious. Since
it had nothing to do with his “aerobatic mobility enhancement,”
he assumed they'd assigned this to him because he's Asian.
Surprisingly there weren't any other Asian scientists working here –
not in mid-level positions. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Now,
he thought, they've saddled him with this ancient duffer who'll muck
up the entire process so whatever he'd been able to accomplish with
his dancing drones would be overshadowed by this one “mistake.”
Could he “nip the bud” and protect himself without sacrificing
the old man – or foil their blatant racism without sacrificing
honor? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Well,
this is my stop,” Krahang said lightly, pointing down the same
hallway. “Time to change into my Mobot-proof hazmat suit.” He
knew she'd disarmed them, but it's always possible some hadn't been
deactivated.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
could not linger and had no place else to go – “why would she
walk all this way with Krahang if she wasn't going into the lab?”,
someone might wonder – so she turned around. Shuffling through some
papers cradled in her arm, she thought surveillance might think she'd
forgot something (not itself a good sign). </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Damn
it!” Headed her way was Dr. Yetzger Harádov who was smiling
broadly. The extra wrinkles made him look even creepier. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
nodded. “Ah, Dr. Piltdown, a most pleasant surprising. You did
forget something?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
she'd checked earlier for security cameras and hadn't seen any, she
knew that didn't necessarily mean there weren't any there. Not
surprising. Wasn't this an emergency exit leading from the main
engineering labs? Anything would've been aimed into the side hallway
and down the other direction, toward the back exit. She'd need more
research. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Damn,”
she thought, standing as tall as she could, “he's not within range
of where I think the cameras would be.” Could she back up and lead
him into some camera's field of vision? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Háradov
was congratulating her on the “realization” of her research,
developing the toxins for the killer drones. “Most impressive,”
he said. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
imagined standing on a brightly lit stage, wearing a dark blue
off-the-shoulder gown, making an acceptance speech thanking all the
little poison-dart frogs from the Amazon who'd died in order she
could succeed. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “<i>Most</i>
impressive,” Háradov mumbled again and stared at her breasts. His
breath stank.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She'd
tried stepping backwards but instead of following her, he had reached
out to place both hands up on her shoulders.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “From
a friend I have heard at a fine lab of China where your research into
batrachotoxins would place you highly.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> When
she tried to step back again, his grip on her shoulders tightened. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “With
superlative recommendation from me, so, I open for you impressive
job, very big salary. I think you understand me, yes?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Of
course, she understood him. Looking down into his beetle-browed eyes,
she could read beyond the lust which required no translation. It was
the age-old script of a man who, because of his position and status,
naturally expected this of her because it was his privilege and there
was nothing she could do about it. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
could knee him in the groin, but Piltdown wondered what it would do
to her career at Basilikon – and beyond. A world famous scientist
in high demand, Harádov had mentioned future projects in China
though naturally he'd said nothing about the details, even what
disciplines they might entail (highly secretive, this world of
science). </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She'd
considered carrying a syringe of <i>Pumiliotoxin tetrodinol</i> that
could render an attacker immediately immobile (possible side-effects:
massive heart attack and death) which she'd market as <i>Tazofloxin</i>
– TZF, for short – and become unspeakably rich. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
and her assistant, Dr. Phyllis Bates, had already begun researching
the combination, trying to figure out the suitable dosage it would
take to stop a hormonal bull. The experiments could prove most
interesting. As she imagined Harádov dropping to the floor, doubled
up writhing in agony, Piltdown wondered how impressive he'd find her,
then? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Breaking
loose from his grasp, she flinched as Harádov reached out and
grabbed her elbow, a little too tightly this time. Syringes are
impractical: better, a ring with a built-in needle scratching his
face.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Join
tonight for nice quiet dinner with me in the apartment, lacking of
other scientists; no boring shop-talk to distracts us.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Apparently,
you misunderstand me, Dr. Harádov,” she said, pulling her arm
sharply away. “But I'm not interested in pork for dinner.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Without
a handy syringe, she decided to knee him in the groin instead.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Hey,
Dr. Piltdown, funny I should find you here!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Chuck
Dawson turned the corner from the lab's back hallway. “I was
wondering, if you'd have a moment...?” then added formally, “Dr.
Haradóv, good afternoon.” Dawson didn't need something to
concentrate on in order to be distracted and realized, Dr. Piltdown
aside, Háradov's presence flustered him. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> After
writing up some reports following the morning's experiment, slipping
back into Agent Ossian Mode, Dawson felt a little more confident
after his programming “Color Perceptivity” into the Mobots'
attack mechanism had worked flawlessly. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Oh,
right, almost forgot,” he said, bobbing his head in his
embarrassment, “I'd gotten a text from Al Zebani” (he always
pronounced it like the man's first name was 'Al') “about a staff
meeting? He wants us all in the Main Conference Room in ten minutes
to go over our findings from the, uh... experiment.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Háradov
cleared his throat. “I was to ask of Dr. Piltdown had she got
invitation.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> If
she had, she'd ignored it.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> An
awkward silence as Háradov waited for Dawson to leave but he didn't.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “M...
– er, I mean Dr. Piltdown – I wonder if you would consider
perhaps sitting with me at dinner in the Commissary?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Without
waiting for the tedious Dawson to finish, she'd already rolled her
eyes.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “It's
just there are certain details about this research I'm developing I'd
like your opinion about...” but she cut him off. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Dawson
thought Piltdown the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even more
perfect than the last beautiful woman he'd seen which, admittedly,
had been a few years, before he'd started working for the Aficionati.
He knew her first name was “M,” just M the letter, not “M-period”
like an abbreviation for something to be avoided. He'd asked her then
how he should address her, since that was the chivalrous thing to do:
Em or maybe Emmy? She said, “Dr. Piltdown will suffice.” For him,
“M” always stood for <i>Misterioso</i>. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Looking
back beyond Dawson toward the lab's hallway, Piltdown tried to keep
any sense of wistfulness from her typically austere expression.
“Shouldn't we wait for Agent Krahang to join us – out of
collegial courtesy?”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Oh,
no,” Dawson said, “he's off retrieving those deactivated drones.
Nasty job, too. But somebody's got to do it, right? Onward!”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 4;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">*
* ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> In
the locker room, Krahang zipped up his hazmat suit as Dawson's voice
dripped with generations of White Privilege. “It's a nasty job, but
somebody's got to do it, right? Better you than me.” At the exit,
Dawson turned and mentioned Zebani's text about the staff meeting.
Checking his phone, Krahang'd received no such text. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Undoubtedly,
al-Zebani had scheduled the meeting for now because he'd assigned
Krahang to what everyone considered “cleaning up after the
elephants.” Like his research, he figured they considered him
immaterial, too, just for show. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
took them almost a half-hour, him and his assistant, to shovel up the
debris left behind in the Experiment Room, made creepier since no one
had bothered to dispose of Ripa's body yet. Now Abathur could deal
with sorting out the drone chaff on his own after they'd gotten the
sifting mechanism to work. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang
heaved a sigh of relief when he'd realized the old man they saw
turned out <i>not</i> to be his assistant. Abathur turned out to be
in his 20s, straight out of engineering school, a major in robotics –
and Black, another token. At least he didn't have to do the worst of
the work alone. The young man, pleased enough to be working with him,
didn't mind their assignment's tediousness – “science,” Krahang
admitted, “is 90% tedious” – but they also didn't know who
should take Ripa's remains to the morgue. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> After
stripping off the hazmat suit, a hot “decon” shower always felt
like a car-wash for humans, and proved oddly relaxing. Krahang stood
on the slow-moving conveyor belt to glide through different stations
as certain chemicals and foams were sprayed over his body, then stood
for several minutes rinsing off under a soothing, steady spray. He
looked at his body in the mirror as his mind-wandering meditation
continued. Not surprisingly, these thoughts usually centered on his
having been lonely too long. “If only I could meet someone – but
here?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
always seemed to him his personal life (much less his romantic life)
was dominated, usually canceled, by his professional life. He was
still young, his body lithe as a dancer, trim and well-muscled. He
glanced around to guarantee his privacy and carefully fondled
himself: what would Abathur think if he walked in on him? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He'd
barely reached for a towel when someone did burst into the room. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “You
can't hide from me now, Agent Krahang!” Piltdown's eyes, filled
with malice, took in everything there was to see. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> <i>Every</i>thing...</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
shouted something she assumed was Thai and which needed no immediate
translation, probably the equivalent of “<i>what the bloody
fuck</i>...?!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
stumbled backwards and knocked over the pile of street clothes he'd
placed on the bench, scattering them to the floor. He noticed cards
and photos from his wallet spill out against the lockers. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
knew he'd kept nothing on him which anyone here, especially in
security, would think suspicious, stuff that could prove
incriminating, except maybe this photo taken at the beach with a
handsome young man. Peeping out from behind his Basilikon ID was his
ex-lover's smiling face, the man he always explained was his little
brother. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> There
hadn't been time to tie the towel safely around his waist and clearly
Piltdown wasn't about to turn her back on him so he could quickly
pull some clothes on. What to do? Taking a step closer, he realized
he couldn't pick up his wallet and manage to maintain what dignity he
had left. He also didn't think it was safe to turn his back on her
while he dressed: she reminded him of <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5d/Phu_Yak.jpg" target="_blank">one of those crazy demons he'd
seen in some of his grandfather's <i>khon</i> dances</a>.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Piltdown
screamed, her eyes more urgently ablaze, and lunged forward with an
athletic dive that matched her height and general self-assurance. His
dance training tempered his reflexes and he swerved but, unsure which
side was better, he couldn't dare drop the towel. A rough-and-tumble
brawl was not the sort of thing he'd envisioned doing naked. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
grabbed him by the balls in a vice-like grip, slamming him up against
the bank of lockers, and squeezed again. “It would be such a shame
if these were to accidentally become sterilized!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Glaring
down into Krahang's face – “how little fear he showed,” she
thought; “perhaps he is enjoying this?” – she held on tight.
“Don't worry,” she continued, hissing into his ear, “it's okay.
I am your superior in rank and this is my right.” Her inference was
perfectly clear, turning age-old tables on millennia of male
privilege. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
was the Turandot of the 21<sup>st</sup> Century, ready to wreak
revenge for all the abuse her sisters suffered in the past, but it
wasn't <i>In questa reggia</i> Krahang heard blasting through his
brain. “There's no reason in our modern world why a woman who wants
something can't just take it,” she insisted, intently ice-cold. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> She
threatened him with far worse if he reported this to the authorities.
“You have no witnesses, no evidence. 'Oh, boo-hoo, what to do?' Cry
to management?” She laughed. “Don't you watch the news?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> With
this, she squeezed again, pressing her fist as if ready to go deeper
inside, prepared to disembowel him, but Krahang refused to squirm or
whimper, staring just as intently back in her face. She had hoped to
sense some kind of response, physical or emotional, whether it was
pain or pleasure or maybe both. She almost released her grip once she
realized these Asians were so inscrutable, they showed nothing.
Where's the fun in that? “Besides, who would believe you, a mere
man, given my superiority in education?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> With
no response from the family treasure she had in her immediate
possession, she began kneading her fingers with increasing roughness,
but again there was no response, nothing caused by either fear or
arousal. It occurred to her, if she kept going at this rate, they'd
fall off first and what's the fun in that?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Security
tapes,” Krahang whispered back to her, chuckling, “<i>they</i>
will be my proof.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Piltdown
laughed, immediately concerned it sounded too much like a stock
villain's cackle from a library of prerecorded special sound effects.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “There
are no security cameras in the men's locker room,” releasing her
grip to sweep her hand around the ceiling's perimeter. “Now, in the
<i>women's</i> locker room, that's another story,” she said, her
head thrust back to stand at her full height. She had no concrete
proof but she didn't need any to know better. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Certainly,”
Krahang nodded. “Imagine Old Háradov reviewing the film footage
every night after we've all taken our ritualized decon showers? How
else do you think he spends lonely evenings in that apartment of his?
Reading <i>Robot International</i>, <i>Spying with Drones</i>, and
<i>Playbot</i>?” The image this conjured up did not appeal to
either one of them. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> With
her research into toxins and their effects on humans, she could
easily inject him with something to make his genitals shrivel up.
“How's it hanging now, Kra<i>hung</i>? Not that that's any great
loss. Plus I could alter any surveillance file to make it look like
you're assaulting me: I'm not just a pretty toxicologist.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> No,
Krahang thought, but after creating virtual ballets from traditional
Thai dance characters, he knew <i>he</i> had the skills to do that,
too, or better yet restore anything doctored back to its original
state. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> In
the greater hierarchy of all things today, in the world of science as
in any subculture of society, it may be his word against hers but her
word, these days, counted for more. In most cases it was clear,
especially in the United States, the media believed the woman in lieu
of any evidence. All she had to do, she explained slowly, was “merely
suggest it” and everybody's paranoia would take care of the rest.
“And who are you, Agent, but a lowly engineer who makes drones
dance!” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang,
instead, smiled broadly, and it bothered her she did not know why.
Because he knew she didn't know he'd set his phone to record a video
of him toweling off after his shower, one of those kinky things he
liked to do in private and share with a friend on-line: but it was
evidence!</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> To
distract her, Krahang looked uncomfortably toward his wallet, but as
he went to grab for it, she kicked it out of the way, scattering more
cards about. One in particular caught her attention.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> It
attracted her because she couldn't read it since it was in Thai and
the logo included a typical Thai-looking dragon. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Krahang
tried to hide his concern that, of all the cards, she had to find
that one, further increasing her suspicions.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Was
this a secret organization he belonged to? Was he an undercover
agent? </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> He
laughed as she held it up to him. “That? It's my membership card in
the Royal Thai Khon Society of Bangkok, Grandfather's dance company
at the king's court. I've studied there for years.”</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> In
truth, it said nothing of the kind.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> A
deafening siren began to squeal as the inside lab door flew open.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> Abathur
burst in, peeling off his hazmat suit, somewhat surprised to see a
woman in the men's locker room, and only less surprised to find Agent
Krahang naked alone in the room with her. He explained the siren was
some kind of security breach, an infiltration.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “The
old man in the hall,” Krahang told Piltdown. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “Agent
Abattoir, your assistant?” Piltdown stood back, self-conscious.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> “No,
<i>this</i> is Abathur. The old man must've gone in through the lab.”
Krahang, quickly pulling his clothes on, grabbed his phone and
carefully pocketed it.</span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"> = = = = = = =</span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">
</p><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-salieri-effect-installment-26.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 129;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-82808857219291806472022-09-27T08:00:00.063-04:002022-10-12T16:42:09.009-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #24<p>
</p><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0GneJ0pZhvKANlgh_TLFEF-RFxvA6MzDVophQ415IekYsAznQGjIT6GaHysqmUMrAzBcO2xjbzvThiwS8MNoRJOYFwGyW0zk-_gToHBiH_lw6khaAF87ufGiwgV_neVmZLrfXeXZqWvSPunmOYPS0g8_VTsNAR89Xsj8dt0kmZJwYxUb_g/s713/SalieriEffect_BlogBanner_Final.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="713" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0GneJ0pZhvKANlgh_TLFEF-RFxvA6MzDVophQ415IekYsAznQGjIT6GaHysqmUMrAzBcO2xjbzvThiwS8MNoRJOYFwGyW0zk-_gToHBiH_lw6khaAF87ufGiwgV_neVmZLrfXeXZqWvSPunmOYPS0g8_VTsNAR89Xsj8dt0kmZJwYxUb_g/w200-h104/SalieriEffect_BlogBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>In <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-23.html" target="_blank">the previous installment</a>, Toni, a composer and child prodigy unaware of the secret lurking in her family tree, was having a strange dream in which her great-something-or-other grandmother, Frieda F. Erden who died recently, was letting her know she was still "around," in case she needed advice though, truth-be-told, the whole purpose of teaching someone was to teach them how to think for themselves, solve their own problems, become self-reliant. But part of the dream was a conversation she had with her "Uncle" Terry (her teacher, Dr. Kerr), Cameron (a fellow student and would-be composer), and Frieda about creativity and inspiration. Ultimately, the dream led her to hear some music she wanted to write down, imagining the various instruments were all friends of hers, maybe six or seven of them. But the people, the conversation, the music she heard them playing inspired her to start planning a new work she wanted to compose. Who would she cast as the various instruments?</i><br /><p style="font-weight: normal; text-align: center;">= = = = = = =<br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; widows: 132;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>[<b>Chapter
17, continued...</b>]</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> But
the dream evaporated as pale light began to break through nighttime
clouds beyond the tree that guarded her bedroom window, whether or
not she dreamt she'd been dreaming or was lying there half-awake,
how, if she looked out on the garden below, beyond the yews, no one
would be having tea on the lawn. There was something she never quite
got used to these past few years: this incredible place was now her
home. “Home...” Their stay in Italy proved refreshing, but she
was glad to be back. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing the
window, and rubbed the last bits of sleep from her eyes. Toni hoped
she'd remember enough of the dream to make sense of it, and reached
for the little notebook on her bedside table, ready to jot down any
surviving ideas for this dream septet.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was, after all, a dream which she considered not the approximation of
an actual event but the symbolic meeting of disparate and possibly
unrelated characters in perhaps unrealistic situations. Yes, Frieda
was dead. Toni heard her voice often enough when she's alone; why
shouldn't Granny appear walking around in her dreams, advice or not?
Frieda firmly believed logic was a fine starting place but it was a
touch of the irrational that gave it sense. “Without the other, the
one is only as good as any inanimate object.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
glow from the lamp, too dim to read in bed, made it difficult to see
what she tried to write – names, instruments (she could always
match them up later), helpful hints like “picnic.” She didn't
need to reconstruct the dialogue completely – this wasn't for a
novel – but certain topics might eventually suggest eventual
themes. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> She
took it over to her little desk (it still amused her to have a little
desk as well as a big one where she could compose); the lamp there
was a bit stronger. </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Quick
strokes like an artist roughing out a sketch – action! save the
details for later – turned into a crude seating chart. Symmetrical
pairs seemed obvious, instruments aside – Frieda and Kerr; she and
Cameron – but Mozart and Salieri might strike others as odd, all
under the umbrella of Beethoven (beneath which she'd written “Op.20,”
his Septet). </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> One
thing confused her, beyond the informal seminar-like gathering
between teachers and students – it made her think of <i>The
Symposium</i> though Kerr told her she was too young yet to be
spoiled by Plato: why were Underhill and Fielding in this dream
especially in full stage make-up and costumes (they hadn't gotten
that far, yet)? Not that one should expect logic when it came to
dreams: it could easily have been Jesus and the Easter Bunny. But
since she detested the pair of them (the two actors), why them? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> She
looked out between the branches and saw the sun begin to rise. Never
good at interpreting dreams (she rarely remembered them, less often
could reconstruct them), they meant something, something “symbolic,”
but what? Watching the dawn helped clear her mind. Symmetrical pairs:
teachers and students; Frieda and her; Kerr and Cameron – Mozart
and Salieri? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Or
not the composers (certainly not the actors) but what they stood for,
the role they played in Toni's dream seminar. Salieri was
old-fashioned, “establishment,” compared to Mozart who was an
outsider and “liberal.” Kerr often said Mozart was the First
Romantic – things like the G Minor Symphony, the D Minor Piano
Concerto, <i>Don Giovanni</i>. If the symmetry here was Kerr's
favorite “Dionysian/Apollonian Divide,” maybe she should
represent Mozart by the cello which she viewed as a more expressive,
“Romantic” instrument. Salieri could make a decent flutist,
“Classically proper.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Coming
back early from Italy had clearly been a mistake. A few weeks in
Provençe and Venice had been “tremendously pleasant” (she was <i>so</i>
starting to sound like some pathetic refugee from Downton Abbey) but
she hated LauraLynn's having to accompany her because Toni couldn't
travel alone, separating her from Burnson while he remained behind.
Uncle Terry and Cameron would be back from America soon enough, so
they'd all spend a few more weeks doing nothing but composing
uninterrupted in the midst of the prettiest landscape she'd ever
seen. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Memories
of last night's rehearsal, disastrous on any level, threw this whole
dream into confusion. “<i>Debut</i>, indeed,” as Kerr would say.
She'll back out before it gets worse and return to Italy. Besides, it
wasn't fair to her mother or good for her father for them to be
separated like this, not on her account. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> There
was that scene where both Venticelli stuck their heads up Constanze's
skirts after the game of Forfeit, measuring her thighs. Toni didn't
think this was proper for a girl who was only 16.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
director waved the playbook. “Your character is 'genderless,' a
theatrical convention who merely has a few lines to spread gossip.”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “In
this scene, they've got names: #1 is called Karl; when he tells #2 to
hold her, he calls him Friedrich.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
odd way Bridges looked at her she could only describe as “creepy.”
</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Her
dream had been to gain some behind-the-scenes experience, insights
how a play was put together so she'd have a better grasp when she'd
set one to music some day, another dream of hers. It's unlikely she'd
be about to write an opera any time soon: she could afford putting
this off for a while. But really, wasn't it the in-fighting between
those two old actors who had ruined the experience for her, Underhill
and Fielding, not to mention that whole business last night that cut
the rehearsal short. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Okay,”
she'd rationalized as Vector drove her home, “maybe the playwright
wrote it that way, but wasn't Underhill a bit over-the-top?” She
could hear Frieda's distant voice: “why would you do something so
stupid?” Was that Bridges' idea or had he given Underhill free rein
to improvise? Was that Salieri rolling his eyes – or Fielding?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
hadn't begun well, either, that rehearsal, already off to a late
start. Once everybody finally arrived, the director announced they'd
start with Act One, Scene 8, but then Angela Tiepolo missed
Constanze's entrance. “She was here one minute, then <i>poof</i>!,”
Underhill quipped, adding in a stage whisper, “flighty bitch!”
(“Speaking of 'poof,'” Fielding laughed.) </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Further
irritated by on-stage giggles, the director bellowed into the wings,
“Angela! – <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">now</span></i>!”
only to be met by echoes and silence. They waited several seconds in
icy stillness before Grahl went to find her. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> When
his assistant came back with no Constanze, Bridges decided they'd
continue with the scene between Joseph the Emperor and Mozart
backstage after the <i>Abduction</i>'s premiere and its famous line
about “too many notes.” Bridges would read Constanze's few lines,
but Fielding jokingly refused to kiss his hand, but then kissed
Underhill's instead (more laughter). </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
Mozart argued with the Emperor – “no more notes than necessary”
– there's a confrontation between Salieri and Mozart who insults
Gluck's memory and makes a tasteless joke about the bathroom habits
of certain statues. Then the Venticelli tell Salieri that Mozart's
married Constanze Weber, the very first words Toni ever spoke on a
theatrical stage. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> So
far, everybody's reading from their playbooks, including Underhill
who's supposedly performed this role for years (or so his bio says).
Toni's the only one not holding a playbook: she'd already memorized
her lines. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> While
they had waited backstage, Toni asked her fellow Venticello, Ben
Tishell, a young man barely out of school, what Bridges may have
suggested for him, what he's developed so far for his character. He
looked at her blankly then shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno, do I?
Only my third rehearsal. Just run a few scenes.” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
asked him if they were expected to, like, mirror each other, create
poses, retreat into inanimate stances when not involved? “The
Venticelli aren't in the movie and I've never seen the play before.”
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “There's
a movie? Cool. I'll look on NetFlix.” Otherwise he just stood
there. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
two of them were supposed to run on, fresh from a party, but Ben
shambled out, stiff as a post. Not only didn't he have his few lines
memorized, he couldn't even read them properly, and stumbled over
every other word. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Ben
struggled over the street name (again) where the newly married
Mozarts set up housekeeping when a woman in a flouncy skirt bounded
onto the stage and congratulated Mozart who was nowhere in sight. She
stopped suddenly, seriously confused. Toni assumed this was Angela
Tiepolo, their Constanze. Bridges was about to explode. Nobody else
breathed. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You're
late, Angela,” was all the director said, walking out toward them,
a wilting tableau in the middle of the stage. Fielding turned his
back to stifle his amusement. “Actually, you're several <i>pages</i>
late...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Angela
paged through her playbook, not in the least concerned she'd brought
the rehearsal to another screeching halt. “Where are we?”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “In
the middle of a rehearsal. Where are <i>you</i>?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Fielding
strolled further off.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
tried to look anywhere but at Angela or Mr. Bridges, and watched Ben,
now thoroughly confused, skim through his script.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “I
was in the little girls' loo,” Angela pouted. She was chewing gum.
Could it be her way of channeling Constanze's spirit, a bit flighty,
an air-head, or was this just Angela being Angela?</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Well,
Angela, dear, you've missed your scene, brief as it was: we'll get
back to it later. Continue! Venticelli – your entrance?” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Indignant
Bridges didn't want to do her scene now, she stomped over to a chair
near the edge of the stag<span style="text-decoration: none;">e,
flopped herself down and, ignoring everything and everybody else,
</span>paged through a magazine.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “Right.”
Pete Grahl waited till the Venticelli were back in the wings and
Salieri was alone at center stage. “Aaand... – action!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
their entrance, Ben still muffed the same lines the same way, Toni
tried a few extra nuances to define her identity (since Venticello #1
had none) and Fielding gave her an appreciative nod. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
next scene began with a lighting change, designated for now by
Bridges clapping his hands, and Mozart entered with Strack. The
Venticelli had only one line each, delivered to Salieri standing
downstage, observing. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> After
that, the Venticelli had nothing to do, so she watched everybody
indifferently, didn't react when Mozart cracked his “marble-shitting”
joke, though Ben let out this great guffaw like it was the first
time. Then Mozart complained about all the foreigners dominating the
music at court, a comment Toni herself had long wondered about, too. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Why
<i>were</i> the Italians so frightened of a little complexity in
their music? </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
first time she'd heard any of Salieri's music, she wondered what it
lacked compared to the Mozart she's familiar with. Mozart complained
about the same things: the simplest harmonies, the most unimaginative
modulations. Salieri's music sounded like it possessed nothing
substantial.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Something
similar she'd have said of Verdi and Puccini, compared to what Wagner
and Strauss had written around the same time. The main difference was
they weren't boring like Salieri, but beautiful and emotional. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dr.
Kerr had quickly “adjusted” her dismissive attitude about Salieri
and his music. Given the little she'd heard compared to all that
familiar Mozart, was it fair to reject Salieri because he wasn't
Mozart? He then played two pieces for them, her and Cameron, and
asked them to identify which was Mozart and which, Salieri. One was a
pretty innocuous but pleasant dance she said couldn't have been
Mozart's, it was so – <i>too</i> – simple. Obviously Salieri. The
second was a dramatic chorus straight out of <i>Magic Flute</i>.
Mozart – absolutely! </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Cameron,
who knew better, sat back and smiled: he suspected this would happen.
</span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
dance, Kerr revealed, was one of those little insignificant
contradances Mozart wrote for the Imperial Court (she forgot which
one). </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> The
tragic-sounding chorus, which Cameron realized was in French (she
hadn't noticed), had been composed for Paris: Salieri's opera, <i>Les
Dana</i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><i>ï</i></span><i>des</i>. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> This
difference Mozart complained about went back centuries: “simply
put, Italians grew up on Gregorian chant; Germans, immersed in
Lutheran chorales. Palestrina's contrapuntal masses aside, Italian
operas from the very beginning were simple and direct, melodies to
get the words across over harmonies that wouldn't obscure the melody,
and lots of clichés to ensure popularity. The contrapuntal
complexity the Germans had learned in Italian cathedrals, once
transplanted to northern soil, evolved into Bach and from there to
Beethoven and, in a nutshell, eventually to Wagner, to put it
simplistically. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “But
in Italy, their love of opera produced, along with Vivaldi concertos,
all those numbers operas of the Bel Canto with their emphasis on 'the
beautiful song,' and on to Verdi's and Puccini's arias. Mozart loved
beautiful melodies: it was the harmonies beneath them, even <i>behind</i>
them, where he became so adventurous and where he...” </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Dr.
Kerr's typically discursive explanations, like this one, usually
ended when he'd say, “of course, it's always more complicated than
that,” and Toni awakened from her revery, standing there pretending
to be a doorway. After Count Rosenberg entered, Toni bowed and
extended her arm, before Rosenberg retreated behind the baffling
onslaught of Mozart's boorish insults. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Bridges
took a moment to remind Underhill he must go instantly from this rude
child telling potty-mouthed jokes to an ass-kissing beggar pleading
for a job – “like <i>that</i>!” (He's done this play before,
right?)</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> They
started the scene again, from Rosenberg's entrance, whom Mozart
greets as a toad because the man's supposed to wear something bright
green (and the actor playing him was appropriately on the chubby
side). Many great personalities may be unpleasant people, but, Toni
wondered, could such great art come from such a jerk as this? Mozart
went from a moron cracking puerile jokes to an abject fool on his
knees, then rose to towering arrogance (“you do know I'm the
greatest musician in Vienna?”), all in one short page. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> <span style="text-decoration: none;">He
broke out in a tirade of childishness</span> aimed at Rosenberg's
retreating back (Toni ushered him off, glanced over her shoulder)
when Underhill and his signature giggle became almost demonic with
his ensuing tantrum. He stomped and jumped about, pointed, thumbed
his nose toward the empty doorway, while Fielding rolled his eyes in
helpless disgust. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Instead
of trying to rein in Underhill, Bridges made “calm down” gestures
to Fielding, as if later he'll tell Mozart to “tone it back a
notch.” Fielding responded with a flurry of Italian hand-gestures.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Underhill,
howling “wop-wop-wop,” hopped across the stage, then whirled
about, tried an air-kick caper but, landing, tripped over some
non-existent furniture. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> It
was a pratfall that would have done any old vaudevillian proud until
this intense scream of pain shred the air. Underhill grabbed at his
right leg, cursing. Angela looked up from her magazine. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> For
a moment, everyone seemed suspended in time before pandemonium
exploded out of their disbelief. A few rushed toward the fallen actor
as if they could help but would only get in the way. With great cries
of agony, Underhill ensured he'd become the center of attention which
seemed to make Fielding even more angry.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “You
did that on purpose, you blithering moron!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Underhill
yelled in his best stage voice “You tripped me, you did this!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> “How
could I – I'm way over <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">here</span></i>!”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Angela
got up and walked away. </span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Somebody
called an ambulance, Underhill, writhing on the gurney, was hauled
off to the hospital, and Bridges canceled the remaining rehearsal.
Everybody filtered their various ways off stage, leaving only Toni,
in disbelief, on one side, Bridges, in disbelief, on the other.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span> Toni
thought the way Bridges looked at her was more unsettling than
creepy.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span>=
= = = = = =</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-no-25.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p>Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33366214.post-52429067361214975272022-09-22T08:00:00.068-04:002022-09-22T08:00:00.197-04:00The Salieri Effect: Installment #23 <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeipFTeepiNWwpqezqkMxhBj3tQDW9O9WU3gsrBYt3lv9DO6cV9zmHFc0eRspGS4DyssptfoauQVRkkXaSoW_l9Kn-eY5C9qbkW1ciju_H1ueXvXnt5UEr6QG4bQudQddfSkOq3-raZf2h2OTgbZuJ3Gb_ERnp_XFPVDUZcBR33TTiSPK3AQ/s713/SalieriEffect_BlogBanner_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="713" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeipFTeepiNWwpqezqkMxhBj3tQDW9O9WU3gsrBYt3lv9DO6cV9zmHFc0eRspGS4DyssptfoauQVRkkXaSoW_l9Kn-eY5C9qbkW1ciju_H1ueXvXnt5UEr6QG4bQudQddfSkOq3-raZf2h2OTgbZuJ3Gb_ERnp_XFPVDUZcBR33TTiSPK3AQ/w200-h104/SalieriEffect_BlogBanner_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>With <a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-22.html" target="_blank">the previous installment</a>, we have reached the end of Part II or, more importantly, passed the novel's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_ratio" target="_blank">Golden Section</a>, marking not only the climactic turning-point of the plot but also of the novel's entire structure. When whatever happened happened in that dingy little motel room in Orient, IA, Dr. Kerr somehow found himself inexplicably (but not without numerous theories) wandering around an entirely different place. Through the powers of observation and logic and quite possibly more inductive than deductive reasoning, he assumes he's probably somewhere in that old abandoned-looking factory he'd noticed when standing out where that body'd been found. "How did he get there" was one thing. Once he figured out he was in the midst of Osiris' lab and they were once again experimenting with their killer Mobots, the important thing was "how the hell was he going to get</i> out!" <br /></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">= = = = = = = = = = = = =<br /></span></span></p><p>
</p><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">– <b>PART
THREE –</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><b>CHAPTER
17</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="CENTER"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;"> “So,
it is this very sense of '</span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">',”
Uncle Terry pointed out, “that's one of the most elusive things for
an artist to figure out – whether for a composer or novelist, even
a performer. It's something more intuitive, more visceral than
intellectual, something you can't </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">learn</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
except with hours and hours spent working at it.” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
couldn't remember where this was or when it took place: recently, but
her Great-Grandmother Frieda was there – hadn't she died before
Toni had this conversation with Dr. Kerr in the garden that
afternoon? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Uncle
Terry had been telling Cameron and her in one of his part-lessons,
part-conversations, about an interview he'd heard with the conductor,
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Tilson_Thomas" target="_blank">Michael Tilson Thomas</a>, who, he thought, always seemed to know just
where to put that moment of “<i>now</i>-ness” into a piece of
music, whether it was Mahler or Beethoven, Stravinsky or Elliott
Carter. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “This
knock-out passage was 'so <i>now</i>,' so in-the-moment in this
particular rock song he'd heard on the radio when he was a teenager,
he had to stop everything and concentrate on listening to it.” Kerr
forgot which legendary song, or who the rock star was Tilson Thomas
was telling this to (Terry was never good with pop music), “but
decades later he realized his job as conductor was to convince a
hundred other musicians where '<i><span style="text-decoration: none;">now</span></i>'
was – and this particular rock legend, whoever it was, smiled and
laughed, 'Exactly!'” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
realized she'd nodded before Cameron, stretched out across from her
on the grass, had frowned, not because he didn't get it but he'd
realized not only hadn't he understood it, she, clearly, had. It's
not that they're always competing with each other, but she was
conscious of treading carefully not to hurt his feelings. She wasn't
really sure she <i>had</i> gotten it; maybe she assumed she'd
understand it next time she'd come across it, like recognizing
someone when you'd see them but you couldn't remember who they were. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> So,
if Cameron wasn't about to ask it – he was always afraid of “stupid
questions” – she would ask Dr. Kerr why it was there and not
somewhere else: “how do you figure that out?” Why would a
composer, she wondered, decide it belonged here and not there; and
how could a performer tell the difference? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Like
a professor trying not to sound professorly, Kerr went on about “how
the precision with which all these component parts came together –
the performers, the music, the words and harmony, our awareness of
its structure, whether you the listener understand or rather
comprehend them intuitively or not – depended on one thing: their
complete sincerity.” He always came back to that ambiguous word,
“sincerity,” which he considered the hardest thing for a student
to grasp, whatever the inevitable pun about being made “without
wax” had to do with it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “If
you could see how Tilson Thomas built up these phrases with his
hands, how he'd pile different elements on top of another, stretch
them out, increase the tension, give motion to this tension; then
he'd reach a point and suddenly clap his hands together and – bang!
– he'd shout '<i>Now</i>!' His hands cascaded like fireworks.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
confused Toni when Kerr critiqued something she had worked hard on,
how she had grasped “the finer points of craft,” because she had
no idea how exactly she'd done that: she just did. He'd go on about
balance and the Golden Section (which he did a lot) but she just
wrote what she felt. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Craft,”
he stressed, “must be tempered by emotion: nothing made sense if it
wasn't a union of the heart and brain.” To Toni who loved
mathematics, this made perfect sense; Cameron looked completely lost.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
were others in this gathering, now that she looked around, all nearby
on the lawn – the great North Lawn not far from the hawthorn hedge
which was in full bloom and smelled heavenly – and she was glad to
see her great-great-grandmother Frieda Erden had joined them, walking
with only the aid of a cane. She was an immensely old woman and had
become increasingly frail over these last years since she'd been
introduced to her and discovered she was the great-granddaughter of
her long-lost twins, William and Gracie. There were fond memories of
Uncle Terry's few visits, especially in the springtime with the four
of them: she'd hold her Grandmother Frieda's hand while Dr. Kerr
pushed her wheelchair, Cameron strolling beside them. It was good to
see her walking on her own and maybe point her cane at Kerr to argue
some detail. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
can be as analytical as you please, Terry,” she'd say, not a bit
imperious but with considerable poise and finesse, dressed in shades
of violet, as she strolled toward them across the lawn, “but it all
boils down to the emotional response which, if it doesn't exist,
means nothing however much you analyze it. Really<span style="font-style: normal;">,
isn't this 'now' you so rhapsodize about, when both the intellectual
and the emotional coincide – perception or understanding – isn't
this the epiphany that is the result of previously made choices
fulfilling their consequences?” </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “But
isn't this all just another argument about the chicken and the egg?”
Cameron was, as usual, confused, taking this in. Toni tried to hide a
smile she was afraid he would think condescending. He always excused
himself, how this was new to him, stuff he'd never thought about
before, more holes in his training. “If it doesn't have any logical
foundation – like a building,” he went on, “wouldn't an
emotional response – 'oh, isn't <i>that</i> pretty...' – collapse
for lack of support, being only about its surface and therefore
superficial?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
could build something perfectly according to plan, do all the right
things, and it could stand for generations,” Kerr responded, “but
if the majority think it's ugly or, worse, don't even notice it...?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Well,
you always say how there's no accounting for popularity,” and
everybody laughed.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Their
little picnic continued and Toni was delighted. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="text-decoration: none;">The
</span>sky still dark beyond her bedroom window, Toni woke up, unable
to remember who'd been there or who'd said what. Something had just
interrupted Vector who, as ever, stood guard behind Miss Frieda. Even
though he'd retired since Granny died, he continued to look like a
butler who, unless beckoned, dissolved into the background. Toni
thought of him more as a grandfather in this new family of hers, so
many levels of generations to consider. Never knowing any of her
birth family, this was a whole new experience.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
didn't want to rub her eyes and become any more awake than she
already was, especially if she could go back to sleep for even
another hour – “What time is it? Almost dawn...” And would she
be able to pick up the dream where she left off or would it veer into
another direction? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Her
parents, Burnson and LauraLynn – her second pair of adoptive
parents (abandoned once, then orphaned when she was 13) – stood on
the periphery near the hedge and talked to some people she didn't
recognize. If she went back to sleep, would everyone in her dream be
killed by an onslaught of terrorists in black masks? She had no idea
why this was a recurrent nightmare. Her first set of parents were
killed in a car crash shortly after she'd left for England. There'd
been no terrorists involved, had there? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> For
all her vague talk of adventures, Granny – everyone else called her
Aunt Frieda, regardless – died of natural causes (she must've been,
like, a hundred years old); but, oh, how Toni missed her smile. She
would always smile at her whenever she walked into Toni's room, the
only room of her own she'd ever known. Everyone was so kind to her,
especially Dr. Kerr – Granny promised he'd look after her musical
studies – who treated her more like a niece than a student. And
Cameron was like a big brother. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
continued to lie in bed, hoping to stay absolutely still. The rest of
the house was silent but it was also mostly empty since Granny had
died and Burnson was still in Venice. It was a big, echoey house with
not that many people, mostly servants. Out of the silence, she heard
Frieda's voice.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Why
would you do something so stupid?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Granny,
who had always been strict when it came to her piano lessons, sounded
stern, and Toni looked over at her, as if asking “<i>what</i> was
stupid?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “There,”
she said, “that,” pointing at a spot in the music, tapping it
irritably with her long bony finger, three times. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
was two measures before a big cadence that modulated to the dominant.
She wasn't really sure she'd done anything wrong. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Not
wrong,” Frieda said, “but it didn't make any sense,” tapping it
again. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She'd
been working on this sonata, <a href="https://youtu.be/QaBrjn3Nn6M" target="_blank">Beethoven's C Major Op.2 No.3</a>, for a few
weeks and she was happy enough to get through that tricky parallel
thirds figure in the right hand without fumbling. If not a wrong note
or rhythm, was it the phrasing? “That's how you said I should play
it, last week.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “<i>I</i>
said? I did <i>no</i> such thing!” She definitely sounded imperious
and, finesse and poise aside, considerably peeved in the process.
“Here... and <i>here</i>,” she turned back a page and tapped
again, “you played it one way – good – but here, you played it
differently and it makes no sense. So why did you do that?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Music
consists of patterns. You make decisions to bring these patterns to
the surface. You must realize these decisions have <i>consequences</i>!
This... and that” (tapping again), “good; but this? Flies
drowning in soup! Again...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “The
thing is,” Toni reminded herself, “both Frieda and Dr. Kerr said
they had no interest in telling me how I <i>should</i> do it – what
to compose or how to interpret what I'm playing.” And for that, she
realizes, though she's only 16, she should be grateful except that
doesn't always make it less confusing. Once she's learned the basics
– how harmony works, why “form” does what it does – it's up
to her to consolidate their suggestions and questions to figure out
for herself the “why”s and the “how”s. Frieda wanted her to
figure out, like a painter, what the underlying anatomy did to make
sense of this “musical body,” beyond just a matter of playing the
right notes in the right place. It was a way of solving the riddle
each piece of music uniquely proposed to find the music <i>behind</i>
the notes. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
had realized now, now that she was getting beyond placing notes on
paper, notes that followed rules implied in harmony and counterpoint,
in form and the all-important process of developing them, Uncle Terry
was telling her the same things Granny'd told her in her piano
lessons almost as if he'd been there, too, listening. The principles
were the same and while she was introduced to them through the mind
of a performer, discovering what worked, she now applied them to her
composing, the creative and the re-creative process. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Unlike
the teachers she'd grown up with in America – she recalled Mrs.
Grinder (which was supposed to rhyme with “cinder” but behind her
back rhymed with “blinder”) – Frieda and Dr. Kerr, even her
other tutors here, were satisfied to give her an array of information
out of which she should eventually draw her own conclusions. There
were “fundamental facts” that required rote learning and
recitation like the times table, irregular verbs or lists of
historical dates, which before was what they'd considered “education”
but was really only the brickwork. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Once
she'd grasped the bricks, she could figure out what to do with them,
taking these facts, sorting out their implications and, “educated
guesses” aside, come up with her own observations, perhaps even
conclusions. Like math, she could now solve for <i>x</i>. Cameron,
she realized one afternoon – speaking of epiphanies – was still
learning the bricks.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
came up with the idea shortly after they'd arrived in Venice: she
would write a series of short duets for violin and piano, modeled
after Bartók's <i>Mikrokosmos</i>, which she and Cameron could play.
She would work out certain theoretical details as a composer;
Cameron, as a performer, would figure out how to play them. She
planned it like they'd dissect a watch and put it back together –
they'd turn them into short studies in analysis. But she wanted to do
this as a surprise, without Uncle Terry's supervision.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Keeping
them a surprise from Cameron might be more difficult – they were
always together – at least until she'd written three or four for a
trial run and figured out how to realize “a solution-in-progress.”
She considered calling them <i>Eine kleine Zergliederungsmusik</i>
(“A Little Dissection Music”), an occasional piece which had no
further purpose in life.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> It
became easier, once Terry'd gone back to America on some new secret
project, taking his ever-present side-kick Cameron with him.
Unfortunately, her own return to England and <i>Amadeus</i>
eventually got in the way. Fortunately, she could work on them in
complete privacy: she had wondered what she could write next,
something short and easy. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Unfortunately,
she'd turned them into something more challenging than being “short
and easy” because they had to be something worth analyzing. She
must set some structural problem in search of a solution – but how?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> There
was that afternoon last fall when Frieda grumbled after Toni made
some “lame excuse” about not being able to concentrate. “That's
no reason, because you waste my time and you waste Beethoven's time.
As a teacher, I won't have done my job until you can learn on your
own once I'm no longer here. But to get there, you must pay
attention, remember the questions I ask, how they connect to whatever
you're working on, then reach conclusions once you've asked these
same questions in the future and...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Frieda
assumed she'd gone too far, that the girl couldn't take the
criticism, judging from the tears she now fought back. “I'm sorry,
Toni, I didn't mean to sound so harsh, but it's true.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “It's
not that, Granny,” she said, reaching over to hug her. “It's
never occurred to me you wouldn't always be here.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
four months later, the inevitable indeed came to pass. Frieda had
died and Toni felt abandoned again, lost without her. LauraLynn tried
comforting her with the usual explanations – she <i>was</i> 96
years old, after all – but in the end, no, there was no logical
explanation why she had to die, not then, not ever. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Uncle
Terry told her Frieda would always be alive in her heart, with her
wherever she was, whenever she needed her. “Plus I imagine you will
still hear that voice every time you play.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
fact, the first time she sat down to play after Frieda's death, when
the others had gone up to bed – she'd chosen <a href="https://youtu.be/8LF0TPAWXV4?t=554" target="_blank">the Funeral March from
Beethoven's A-flat Major Sonata</a> which she loved – at one point,
barely able to see the music for her tears, a familiar voice
complained, “like flies drowning in soup!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
stopped and turned around. She was alone in the room, the only light
the floor lamp behind Frieda's empty chair. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Why
play it so freely?” the voice continued. “It's still a march –
<i>rhythm</i>!” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Whenever
Toni needed to sort things out about a new composition or some
problem that stumped her, she'd go walk in the garden and sense
Frieda, somehow, not far away.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
are the connections?”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> In
the background of their picnic as Freida discussed the “now” with
Uncle Terry, Toni could hear <a href="https://youtu.be/26o7w82DZn8" target="_blank">Beethoven's Op. 20 Septet</a>. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “You
have your basic set of chords available and there's a more or less
set order you can place them in.” Vector came around with the
teapot; Kerr held his cup out for more.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “But
how do you determine what that order is?” Cameron, as usual,
focused on the logical, more technical “how” of things.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “Mr.
Cameron,” Vector intoned, pouring him some tea, “that <i>order</i>
has been around since before 1700, well over three centuries' time –
sufficient for Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and to a large
extent even Wagner...” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “So
why did Wagner” – she knew Vector could barely tolerate Wagner –
“start breaking away from it, and why did Schoenberg” – whom
she knew Vector tolerated even less – “feel the need to replace
it completely?” Toni was one to ask more about the “why” behind
something a composer wrote; the “how,” typically, was a
mathematical given. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
conversation progressed quite musically with the statement of themes
or ideas which often turned in further directions, depending on
questions she or Cameron would ask or additional comments made by
Frieda or Kerr. There were solos and some duets, a melody with its
subject and response over an accompaniment, sometimes even an
argumentative fugue. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="text-decoration: none;">Listening
to these people so important to her</span>, watching how intent
Cameron was, how Dr. Kerr and Frieda explained things so simply
(well, Frieda, at least...), Toni decided to turn this into a
composition. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Uncle
Terry was always trying to expand Toni's awareness of musical styles
to acquaint her with music beyond her Belovèd Beethoven. One rainy
afternoon in Provençe, he played different recordings of Verdi's
quartet from <i>Aïda</i>, one with voices, another arranged for
winds, pointing out “each character's character” was in the
music, not just the words. Then he played (and talked about at great
length) two 2nd String Quartets – one by Ives, the other
by Elliott Carter – recreating discussions, where players
impersonated individualized characters, Ives' 2nd
Violinist even nicknamed “Rollo.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Other
than the hapless Rollo, you wouldn't know who they were or what they
had said or even what had been discussed or argued about and maybe,
in the long run, that wasn't important. But for once, she understood
the “why” and asked “how <i>did</i> they <span style="font-style: normal;">do</span>
that? – so Kerr went back to the Verdi. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> For
several days, she picked through Lady Vexilla's vast collection of
old opera recordings, especially Mozart's <i>Figaro</i>, once she
figured out how to operate a phonograph (much less why), and listened
intently to “characterizations.” She soon realized it was all
about counterpoint with its independent horizontal lines that also
created vertical harmonies, something called “voice-leading.” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> But
if she wanted to turn this picnic in the garden into music, how would
she differentiate the characters: a string quartet with Frieda and
Kerr, with Cameron and herself? But what about Vector? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
decided, no, she would <i>not</i> be part of the cast, not one of the
performers but just a listener, sitting back, a kind of musical
voyeur (was there such a word as <i>auditeur</i>?). </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
For that matter, there were others there, maybe less important to the
moment: who were they? How would she characterize them? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> This
was something Kerr had frequently harped on, this odd idea called
“voice-leading.” Granny had her run through several of Bach's old
Inventions, first the 2-part ones, then a few of the 3-part ones.
When she'd first learned them, Mrs. Grinder just wanted her to hit
the right notes. They were very boring to play. But Frieda, not
interested in “just the notes,” focused on how she'd shape each
line, first individually, then playing them together. Suddenly, she
found these old dry studies had become interesting – in fact,
delightful.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <span style="text-decoration: none;">But
this dream – </span>whether this was how her dream originally
unfolded or how, thinking back, she'd “misremembered” it, she
couldn't say – instead of words that Frieda and Dr. Kerr had
spoken, she heard music. Instead of Beethoven's familiar Septet, this
music was already morphing into something different, something maybe
she had drawn out of them. Except she hadn't created it herself, had
she? Each of these other people around her was creating it, one by
one. Musical motives, like groups of words, passed from one to
another, effortlessly spinning. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Others
would join in, filling out the texture to create a much richer sound,
and for the moment the discussion had become quite lively, beyond
just one or two of them at the forefront. Whatever they were saying
(she couldn't hear words) could become one of those “secret
programs” she could hang her music on. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">
It didn't have to be a long work but if it was going to become a
septet which seemed logical, given the Beethoven – would she quote
it, maybe embed it in her main theme? – it should be at least three
contrasting movements, not as many as Beethoven's had (seven
movements?) or a typical Mozart serenade. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
imagined the finale started off like a scherzo, a light-hearted third
movement based on a variation of that main theme but it would become
grander, ending with a restatement of that main theme.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
what instruments would she use? Most of these works, whether
Mozart's, Beethoven's, or Schubert's, were mixtures of strings and
winds, but they didn't include a piano and she definitely would want
a piano. Plus she wanted instruments that would reflect the various
people in her cast, fit their personalities like the music they
played. A septet could include three strings, three winds, and piano
– or pairs including percussionists (like Bartók's Sonata), or
maybe some brass? She remembered a French horn was also part of a
traditional woodwind quintet. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
imagined herself going through these different combinations in her
head, eventually deciding (for now) on pairs of strings and woodwinds
as well as brass in addition to the piano (but, alas, no percussion).
She wasn't sure who she could cast as percussionists in this
conversation which rapidly turned into more of a round-table seminar.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> This
reminded her of Frieda's old joke about the difference between a
French horn and an English horn (really, an “alto oboe”), how the
French horn was German and the English horn was French. But the sound
of the horn would be a good match for Grandmother Frieda's resonant
voice (she was, after all, German). During one of their earliest
conversations, Frieda told her new great-great-granddaughter it was
one instrument she wished she'd learned to play. “Young ladies
learned the piano. Heavens, why should any woman choose the horn?”
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> As
a girl, she'd fallen in love with a handsome horn player at a
performance of Brahms' Op.40 Trio (“the piece was much newer then”)
which may have had something to do with it. Plus the Brahms Trio,
regardless of her unrequited love, remained one of her few favorite
pieces outside the works of Beethoven. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> She
argued with herself, once she patched the sound of the horn onto the
line of music emanating from her grandmother, Frieda was really a
pianist, quite a good one, still, at her age. And wouldn't it be more
logical to cast her as the septet's pianist, since she had also been
Toni's piano teacher? But she felt Uncle Terry should be played by
the piano (thinking in terms of “cast”), always playing examples
for her at the keyboard even though he was primarily a cellist in his
day. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Vector,
more on the periphery of the musical discussion, was still an
all-knowing voice who offered sage advice, not just about music, and
he was certainly quite knowledgeable: she heard him as a bassoon.
Unfortunately that reminded her of the Grandfather in <i>Peter and
the Wolf</i>, so perhaps the English horn would be less
stereotypical. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Cameron
was more of a challenge, watching him in this
conversation-turned-seminar. He played the violin but not well and it
didn't really suit him. The trumpet (if used judiciously) might match
his personality better. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> These
were the four main characters in her little play, but shouldn't her
parents, both important, be part of the ensemble? They weren't part
of <i>musical</i> conversations beyond liking this or not liking
that, and she still had three other instruments searching for
characters: who played the violin, the cello, and, what... – maybe
the flute?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> And
the rest of the cast? She remembered it began with her and Cameron
listening to Dr. Kerr until Frieda came over and joined them,
strolling across the grass. Her parents had stood nearby. Others
milled about like an old-fashioned garden party with drinks and light
refreshments. Was that Mozart over there, near the yews? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Ah,
she realized looking more closely, not Mozart, he's too old for
Mozart. “Didn't he used to be Heath Underhill,” she heard
LauraLynn say, “who's starring in that local production of <i>Amadeus</i>
Toni's in?” </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> He
looked more like Mozart's grandfather, Toni thought. So, if that's
Underhill's Mozart there, then who's that fellow by the fountain? Too
portly for Haydn, she guessed it must be Rigley Fielding as Salieri.
How did they get invited to a garden party when Granny's still alive?
Toni only met them at last night's rehearsal. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> The
two actors quickly joined in the conversation but fortunately as
their characters, Mozart and Salieri, not the actors portraying them.
She assigned the flute to Mozart even though Mozart supposedly hated
the flute (he'd hate Underhill's impersonation of him even more).
Salieri, too pompous for the cello, could balance Mozart's flute as a
bassoonist. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> That
left the violin. No one else among the guests came to mind. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> “What
about the Ghost of Beethoven,” Frieda suggested. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Toni
agreed. “His spirit is everywhere, here. Plus Beethoven <i>did </i>play
the violin.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">= = = = = = =</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://dickstrawser.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-salieri-effect-installment-24.html" target="_blank">to be continued</a>...</i></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
</p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">©2022
by Dick Strawser for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Thoughts on a
Train</i></span></span></span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; widows: 1;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span>
</p>
<p style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</p>
Dick Strawserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10033692470502525123noreply@blogger.com0