The Salieri Effect: Installment #25

Earlier, after Toni had her weird dream with everyone out in the garden, she woke up recalling her even weirder experience at the Amadeus 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.

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[Chapter 17, concluded...]

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“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.

Okay, Krahang thought, the last two 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-that” 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.

As both a scientist and an artist trained in the ritualized fights of Thailand's ancient “Dance of the Monkey King,” 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.

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.

“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?”

Krahang didn't relax his expression or his pose as his mind tried to translate the word louche – “didn't it mean “disreputable”?

“I understand they serve a very good pot roast with mashed potatoes,” she continued, “or a Caesar salad if you'd prefer?”

(He'd used the word only once before, about a friend's “rather louche morals.”)

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.”

“I doubt our absence would be noticed in the Basilikon Commissary this evening. We'll say we're having dinner in our rooms.”

His eyes were distracted by sudden movement further down the hall. “Who's that?”

“An old trick, Agent Krahang. You expect me to fall for that?” Piltdown was ready to press him into the wall.

“No, seriously,” he said, stepping away from her to break the lock. “Look.”

Piltdown stepped back also, immediately squaring her shoulders.

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.

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.

“Is that him, d'you think?” Piltdown, surprised, indicated the man headed their way.

“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.”

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...”

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

“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.

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).

“Damn it!” Headed her way was Dr. Yetzger Harádov who was smiling broadly. The extra wrinkles made him look even creepier.

He nodded. “Ah, Dr. Piltdown, a most pleasant surprising. You did forget something?”

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.

“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?

Háradov was congratulating her on the “realization” of her research, developing the toxins for the killer drones. “Most impressive,” he said.

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.

“Most impressive,” Háradov mumbled again and stared at her breasts. His breath stank.

She'd tried stepping backwards but instead of following her, he had reached out to place both hands up on her shoulders.

“From a friend I have heard at a fine lab of China where your research into batrachotoxins would place you highly.”

When she tried to step back again, his grip on her shoulders tightened.

“With superlative recommendation from me, so, I open for you impressive job, very big salary. I think you understand me, yes?”

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.

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).

She'd considered carrying a syringe of Pumiliotoxin tetrodinol that could render an attacker immediately immobile (possible side-effects: massive heart attack and death) which she'd market as Tazofloxin – TZF, for short – and become unspeakably rich.

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?

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.

“Join tonight for nice quiet dinner with me in the apartment, lacking of other scientists; no boring shop-talk to distracts us.”

“Apparently, you misunderstand me, Dr. Harádov,” she said, pulling her arm sharply away. “But I'm not interested in pork for dinner.”

Without a handy syringe, she decided to knee him in the groin instead.

“Hey, Dr. Piltdown, funny I should find you here!”

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.

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.

“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.”

Háradov cleared his throat. “I was to ask of Dr. Piltdown had she got invitation.”

If she had, she'd ignored it.

An awkward silence as Háradov waited for Dawson to leave but he didn't.

“M... – er, I mean Dr. Piltdown – I wonder if you would consider perhaps sitting with me at dinner in the Commissary?”

Without waiting for the tedious Dawson to finish, she'd already rolled her eyes.

“It's just there are certain details about this research I'm developing I'd like your opinion about...” but she cut him off.

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 Misterioso.

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?”

“Oh, no,” Dawson said, “he's off retrieving those deactivated drones. Nasty job, too. But somebody's got to do it, right? Onward!”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

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.

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.

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.

Krahang heaved a sigh of relief when he'd realized the old man they saw turned out not 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.

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?”

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?

He'd barely reached for a towel when someone did burst into the room.

“You can't hide from me now, Agent Krahang!” Piltdown's eyes, filled with malice, took in everything there was to see.

Everything...

He shouted something she assumed was Thai and which needed no immediate translation, probably the equivalent of “what the bloody fuck...?!”

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.

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.

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 one of those crazy demons he'd seen in some of his grandfather's khon dances.

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.

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!”

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.

She was the Turandot of the 21^st Century, ready to wreak revenge for all the abuse her sisters suffered in the past, but it wasn't In questa reggia 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.

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?”

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?”

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?

“Security tapes,” Krahang whispered back to her, chuckling, “they will be my proof.”

Piltdown laughed, immediately concerned it sounded too much like a stock villain's cackle from a library of prerecorded special sound effects.

“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 women's 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.

“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 Robot International, Spying with Drones, and Playbot?” The image this conjured up did not appeal to either one of them.

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, Krahung? 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.”

No, Krahang thought, but after creating virtual ballets from traditional Thai dance characters, he knew he had the skills to do that, too, or better yet restore anything doctored back to its original state.

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!”

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!

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.

It attracted her because she couldn't read it since it was in Thai and the logo included a typical Thai-looking dragon.

Krahang tried to hide his concern that, of all the cards, she had to find that one, further increasing her suspicions.

Was this a secret organization he belonged to? Was he an undercover agent?

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.”

In truth, it said nothing of the kind.

A deafening siren began to squeal as the inside lab door flew open.

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.

“The old man in the hall,” Krahang told Piltdown.

“Agent Abattoir, your assistant?” Piltdown stood back, self-conscious.

“No, this 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.

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to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train

 

The Salieri Effect: Installment #24

In the previous installment, 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?

= = = = = = =

[Chapter 17, continued...]

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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).

One thing confused her, beyond the informal seminar-like gathering between teachers and students – it made her think of The Symposium 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?

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?

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, Don Giovanni. 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.”

Coming back early from Italy had clearly been a mistake. A few weeks in Provençe and Venice had been “tremendously pleasant” (she was so 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.

Memories of last night's rehearsal, disastrous on any level, threw this whole dream into confusion. “Debut, 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.

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.

The director waved the playbook. “Your character is 'genderless,' a theatrical convention who merely has a few lines to spread gossip.”

“In this scene, they've got names: #1 is called Karl; when he tells #2 to hold her, he calls him Friedrich.”

The odd way Bridges looked at her she could only describe as “creepy.”

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.

“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?

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 poof!,” Underhill quipped, adding in a stage whisper, “flighty bitch!” (“Speaking of 'poof,'” Fielding laughed.)

Further irritated by on-stage giggles, the director bellowed into the wings, “Angela! – now!” only to be met by echoes and silence. They waited several seconds in icy stillness before Grahl went to find her.

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 Abduction'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).

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

“There's a movie? Cool. I'll look on NetFlix.” Otherwise he just stood there.

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.

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.

“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 pages late...”

Angela paged through her playbook, not in the least concerned she'd brought the rehearsal to another screeching halt. “Where are we?”

“In the middle of a rehearsal. Where are you?”

Fielding strolled further off.

Toni tried to look anywhere but at Angela or Mr. Bridges, and watched Ben, now thoroughly confused, skim through his script.

“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?

“Well, Angela, dear, you've missed your scene, brief as it was: we'll get back to it later. Continue! Venticelli – your entrance?”

Indignant Bridges didn't want to do her scene now, she stomped over to a chair near the edge of the stage, flopped herself down and, ignoring everything and everybody else, paged through a magazine.

“Right.” Pete Grahl waited till the Venticelli were back in the wings and Salieri was alone at center stage. “Aaand... – action!”

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.

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.

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.

Why were the Italians so frightened of a little complexity in their music?

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.

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.

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 – too – simple. Obviously Salieri. The second was a dramatic chorus straight out of Magic Flute. Mozart – absolutely!

Cameron, who knew better, sat back and smiled: he suspected this would happen.

The dance, Kerr revealed, was one of those little insignificant contradances Mozart wrote for the Imperial Court (she forgot which one).

The tragic-sounding chorus, which Cameron realized was in French (she hadn't noticed), had been composed for Paris: Salieri's opera, Les Danaïdes.

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.

“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 behind them, where he became so adventurous and where he...”

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.

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 that!” (He's done this play before, right?)

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.

He broke out in a tirade of childishness 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“You did that on purpose, you blithering moron!”

Underhill yelled in his best stage voice “You tripped me, you did this!”

“How could I – I'm way over here!”

Angela got up and walked away.

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.

Toni thought the way Bridges looked at her was more unsettling than creepy.

= = = = = = =

to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train

 

The Salieri Effect: Installment #23

With the previous installment, we have reached the end of Part II or, more importantly, passed the novel's Golden Section, 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 out!"

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

– PART THREE –

CHAPTER 17

“So, it is this very sense of 'Now',” 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 learn, except with hours and hours spent working at it.”

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?

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, Michael Tilson Thomas, who, he thought, always seemed to know just where to put that moment of “now-ness” into a piece of music, whether it was Mahler or Beethoven, Stravinsky or Elliott Carter.

“This knock-out passage was 'so now,' 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 'now' was – and this particular rock legend, whoever it was, smiled and laughed, 'Exactly!'”

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 had 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.

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?

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.

“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 'Now!' His hands cascaded like fireworks.”

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.

“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.

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.

“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, 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?”

“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 that pretty...' – collapse for lack of support, being only about its surface and therefore superficial?”

“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...?”

“Well, you always say how there's no accounting for popularity,” and everybody laughed.

Their little picnic continued and Toni was delighted.

The 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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

“Why would you do something so stupid?”

Granny, who had always been strict when it came to her piano lessons, sounded stern, and Toni looked over at her, as if asking “what was stupid?”

“There,” she said, “that,” pointing at a spot in the music, tapping it irritably with her long bony finger, three times.

It was two measures before a big cadence that modulated to the dominant. She wasn't really sure she'd done anything wrong.

“Not wrong,” Frieda said, “but it didn't make any sense,” tapping it again.

She'd been working on this sonata, Beethoven's C Major Op.2 No.3, 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.”

“I said? I did no such thing!” She definitely sounded imperious and, finesse and poise aside, considerably peeved in the process. “Here... and here,” 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?

“Music consists of patterns. You make decisions to bring these patterns to the surface. You must realize these decisions have consequences! This... and that” (tapping again), “good; but this? Flies drowning in soup! Again...”

“The thing is,” Toni reminded herself, “both Frieda and Dr. Kerr said they had no interest in telling me how I should 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 behind the notes.

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.

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.

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 x. Cameron, she realized one afternoon – speaking of epiphanies – was still learning the bricks.

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 Mikrokosmos, 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.

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 Eine kleine Zergliederungsmusik (“A Little Dissection Music”), an occasional piece which had no further purpose in life.

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 Amadeus 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.

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?

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...”

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.”

“It's not that, Granny,” she said, reaching over to hug her. “It's never occurred to me you wouldn't always be here.”

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 was 96 years old, after all – but in the end, no, there was no logical explanation why she had to die, not then, not ever.

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.”

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 the Funeral March from Beethoven's A-flat Major Sonata which she loved – at one point, barely able to see the music for her tears, a familiar voice complained, “like flies drowning in soup!”

Toni stopped and turned around. She was alone in the room, the only light the floor lamp behind Frieda's empty chair.

“Why play it so freely?” the voice continued. “It's still a march – rhythm!”

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.

“What are the connections?”

In the background of their picnic as Freida discussed the “now” with Uncle Terry, Toni could hear Beethoven's Op. 20 Septet.

“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.

“But how do you determine what that order is?” Cameron, as usual, focused on the logical, more technical “how” of things.

“Mr. Cameron,” Vector intoned, pouring him some tea, “that order has been around since before 1700, well over three centuries' time – sufficient for Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and to a large extent even Wagner...”

“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.

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.

Listening to these people so important to her, 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.

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 Aïda, 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.”

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 did they do that? – so Kerr went back to the Verdi.

For several days, she picked through Lady Vexilla's vast collection of old opera recordings, especially Mozart's Figaro, 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.”

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?

She decided, no, she would not 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 auditeur?).

For that matter, there were others there, maybe less important to the moment: who were they? How would she characterize them?

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.

But this dream – 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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 Peter and the Wolf, so perhaps the English horn would be less stereotypical.

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.

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 musical 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?

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?

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 Amadeus Toni's in?”

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.

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.

That left the violin. No one else among the guests came to mind.

“What about the Ghost of Beethoven,” Frieda suggested.

Toni agreed. “His spirit is everywhere, here. Plus Beethoven did play the violin.”

= = = = = = =

to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train