1635: Music and Murder (18 page)

The Italian gave an elaborate bow as she reached him, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Signora Simpson, when I realized that I would in Magdeburg be at this time, I swore to attend. Maestro Giacomo drove me, reminding me that I would to Magdeburg go soon at any event, and begging me most piteously to hear Signorina Linder's concert tonight and plead with her to hear her practice of his
Lament
. The poor man is almost prostrate with nerves. Chewing his mustache, chewing his pens, chewing his lace he is, waiting for her to return to Grantville so he can hear how she will sing his new work." Zenti chuckled. "It is
divertente
. . . how you say . . . humorous, to see him fret."

"You are an awful man, Signor Zenti," Mary laughed.

"
Si
, so I am told many times," he said equably, turning away as others came in the door and claimed her attention. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he headed for the buffet tables at the back of the room. Zenti collected a glass of wine, but was diverted from the food tables by a stack of programs. The program text was in German for the most part, listing the pieces to be played, the composers and the 'dates' of composition. For the vocal selections, especially those from opera and theatre, there were brief paragraphs establishing the context of the song and the related story.

Just then, Amalie, landgravine of Hesse-Kessel entered, which gave her a swift sense of relief. With Amalie and the Abbess on hand, the success of this evening's event was assured. They quickly clasped hands, and delivered the obligatory kiss to each other's cheeks. Then the landgravine released one hand, and turned to face the man following her, drawing Mary with her.

"Mary, may I present to you our guest, Signor Andrea Abati. Andrea, this is Frau Mary Simpson, of whom we have told you so much."

Mary felt her composure start to slide as she faced her friend's guest; and she was forced to grasp it quite firmly. If Signor Zenti had made a definite entrance earlier, this man trumped that in spades, posing as if he were an up-time model. Signor Abati presented quite a figure, and from the slight smile on his face he obviously knew it. Tall even by up-time standards, he was lean, with a face framed by thick, long, curly red hair, that from the way it floated when he moved his head was not a wig. And the face—heavens, the man was beautiful!

Signor Abati was obviously not one to keep a low profile. His sartorial selection for the evening was a statement designed to attract maximum attention. Starting at the ground, the shoes were the soberest part of his ensemble, being a gleaming black with large buckles that were obviously gold. The stockings on his well-formed calves were an almost gleaming white silk, while the
culottes
that ended below the knee were of bronze brocade. Overlaying the britches was a long waist-coat in white, which was elaborately embroidered in gold thread. This was, in turn, overlaid by a silver brocade coat which reached almost to his knees. Lace spilled, fountained even, from his collar and sleeve cuffs. Atop his head was a flat-topped, high-crowned blue hat, out of which sprang plumes. Mary saw an ostrich plume, a peacock feather and a third that she did not recognize. The final component was an ebony cane with an ornately carved ivory head on it, held casually to one side.

On someone else, Mary would have sworn that an up-time pimp had somehow been in Grantville when the Ring fell, only to find a new career as a fashion consultant for the tailor involved. Signor Abati, however, had such panache, and exuded such an aura of self-confidence, that on him it worked.

Mary shook her head slightly, then extended her hand to the Italian. Signor Abati gave an even more flourishing bow than his countryman had earlier. When he took her hand to kiss it, he looked up at her through thick eyelashes and she felt like a doe in headlights. She railed at herself for acting like she was sixteen, but the feel of his lips on her hand sent her heart racing nonetheless. Clearing her throat, she said, "I . . . I'm pleased to meet you Signor Abati."

"
Enchanté, madame,
" he murmured in flawless French. His voice gave her another shock, for it was pitched higher than her own.

At that moment Landgrave Wilhelm stepped up and Mary forced herself to turn away from the Italian. After exchanging greetings, the landgrave suggested to his guest that they find the wine.

Mary turned to Amalie, and hissed, "
Who is that?
"

The landgravine gave a wicked little grin, and whispered, "He's from Rome. They call him
Il Prosperino
, and until recently he was
il gentilhuomo premiere
in that city, and the pope's favorite singer."

"Oh," Mary said, as the light dawned, "he's
castrato
."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh . . . my." Mary's thoughts whirled. "Well, what's he doing here?"

"He was invited to reside at the court of the Elector of Brandenburg for a season, to sing for them. Both of his coach horses took lame near here, however, and he came to Magdeburg until they can be replaced or restored to health. Horses are in scarce supply, however," for military reasons, Mary thought, "and his are slow in healing, so it appears he will be our guest for some time." Amalie flashed her wicked little grin again, and murmured, "There are the most
interesting
rumors about him."

Recalling both her history and the effect
Il Prosperino
had had on her, Mary said faintly, "I can imagine."

****

Girolamo was headed for the buffet when he heard his name called in a soprano that seemed familiar but couldn't be placed.

"
Signor Zenti! Signor Girolamo!
"

He turned, a smile forming on his face, only to freeze when he saw someone that was one of the last people he had expected to see in Magdeburg.
Il Prosperino!
What was he doing here? He quickly made a bow. "
Signor Abati. Signore stimatissimo ed illustre. Che sorpresa meravigliosa il vedervi!"

The other man bowed slightly, and laughed. "
Infine, un viso civilizzata in questo incolto terreno culturale."

Girolamo caught a motion from the corner of his eye as someone near them turned and frowned. He stepped closer to his countryman. "
Attento, mio signore estimato. Ci sono i presenti che capiscono l'italiano.
"

More laughter. "Shall we speak English, then?"

"
Si
, I mean, yes, esteemed sir."

Abati linked his arm through Girolamo's and they walked together as they conversed. "Do call me Andrea, and I shall call you Girolamo. We are almost brothers, are we not, in this cold, almost barbarous country?"

"Yes . . . Andrea"

"See, that was not so hard, was it? By the way, I must tell you that the harpsichord you made for the Holy Father was excellent, perhaps the finest I have played."

"Thank you." They were walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, with every eye on them. Girolamo was still somewhat nervous, and could not bring himself to say much yet, arm in arm with a man who was arguably as famous as the pope . . . at least in Italy.

"So," Abati said in his cool soprano tone, "this music we are to hear, will it be worth my while, or will I be as bored tonight as I have been on every other night of this trip?"

"I believe you will find it worthwhile," Girolamo said, mustering his assurance.

"Of course Maestro
Frescobaldi's works will be of interest, but what of this woman who will sing?" Doubt dripped from
Il Prosperino's
tones.

"Even so. Maestro Carissimi judges her accomplished enough to sing his newest work, a
lamento
."

Eyes wide, his companion stopped and said, "Maestro Carissimi is here? In Magdeburg?"

"No, he is in Grantville, where the
lamento
will be performed soon."

They resumed walking slowly. Abati said slowly, "I met
il Maestro
some time ago. He is a composer most gifted, and he writes such beautiful melodies. If he thinks that highly of her, then I will truly listen."

****

Marla peered out through a crack between the room dividers that screened off the end of the hall from the area where the guests were. Hermann had been playing music on the piano for some time, music from the down-time era. She could see the guests milling around and conversing, grazing from the buffet and soaking up wine. Hermann's music seemed to be providing dinner accompaniment. It still seemed strange to her that the concert would include food and drink, but Mary had explained to her that this was simply the way things were done here and now. Now that she thought of it, though, it really wasn't any different than singing in The Green Horse. If she could grab the attention of two-fisted drinkers in taverns, surely she could do it here.

She placed her hand over the gold cross hanging around her neck under the dress, remembering when Mrs. Simpson had given it to her earlier in the evening.

Marla was finishing dressing, using her mother's ebony combs to draw her long hair back from her face to let it cascade down behind her ears and down to the high waist of the Empire gown, when the older woman had entered the room carrying a small box. "Let me look at you, my dear." Marla had stood straight and turned slowly, coming around to face her mentor, who was wearing a big smile.

"Oh, Marla. You look exquisite. You only need a few touches." She had set the box down on a table, opened it, and showed it to Marla, who gasped. "I will loan you these tonight to provide just the right accent of elegance." She lifted out the pearl drop earrings and handed them to Marla, who received them very gingerly. "John gave these to me on our fifth wedding anniversary. He was stationed in Viet Nam for a while, and was able to buy these over there, even on a lieutenant's salary." As Marla had put them in her earlobes, Mary had lifted out the necklace and unfastened it. "This, too. Here, let me help you put this on." Marla remembered lifting her hair out of the way and bending down slightly so Mary could fasten the necklace around her neck.

Mary had turned back to the box and lifted out a thin gold chain with a crucifix hanging from it. "The pearls are for the audience. This one is for me. My mother gave this to me when I graduated from college. We—John and I—only had one son, and we . . . weren't on good terms with Tom when he left." Mary had looked slightly forlorn. "I know . . . hope . . . we will eventually reconcile, but I don't know when. In any event, this isn't something for a man, anyway."

Mary had looked her in the eyes. "I know you lost your mother when the Ring fell. In a way, this would be your senior recital, so let me give this to you in her place." As in a dream, Marla again lifted her hair and let Mary fasten the necklace around her neck. "Tuck it under your dress, dear. This will be our secret."

****

The two Italians had collected glasses of wine and continued to drift around the hall, conversing about this and that. It occurred to Girolamo that perhaps
Il Prosperino
was keeping him by himself for familiarity's sake. The northerners in this room would be a strange audience to him, which, as hard as it might be to believe, just might be causing a slight amount of uncertainty. Certainly, he was making no attempt to capitalize on the many swooning glances directed at him by many of the young—and even not-so-young—women in the room. Most unlike him, according to his reputation.

"So, my friend," his countryman said as they drew up behind the instrument being played by the very short German. "What is this . . . this Steen . . . way?"

"Steinway," Girolamo corrected.

Andrea grimaced, and said, "Steinway, then. It looks like as if it might be
un grandissimo
harpsichord, yes? But it sounds nothing like one."

"It is," Girolamo declared, "a piano, and it will revolutionize music."

"Oh, come now," the other scoffed. "Surely that is very strong language for such a thing."

"That is not just my judgment, sir, but that also of Maestro Carissimi."

"Is it indeed?" Andrea's attitude returned to thoughtfulness. "So then, what or who is this 'Steinway'?"

"It is the name of the family who built it. They were Germans originally . . ."

"Surely you jest," the other said with a smile. "Can anything excellent come out of Germany?"

Zenti chuckled at the Biblical allusion. "Andrea, from what the up-timers tell us, the future of music was almost dominated by Germans not long after our time. Composers, instrument makers, orchestras, it was all in their hands."

His companion stared at Girolamo with wide eyes. "I find that very hard to believe, but I must take your word for it. So, this Steinway was a German, then?"

"The family name was originally Steinweg, but after moving to America they changed it to Steinway."

"Did they invent this piano, then?"

"No, it was invented by a Tuscan."

"I knew it!"

Girolamo smiled at the enthusiasm for things Italian heard in the other's voice. "But it was this Steinway who took a number of innovations and created the great instrument you see before you. Even at the time when this so-called Ring of Fire occurred, for 150 years Steinway was the standard of excellence for pianos."

"And why do you know so much about them?"

"Because I will make pianos, and I will learn from the best. I just concluded the purchase of the only other Steinway in Grantville, one that is in need of renovation, for that express purpose."

Andrea sniffed. "I do not care much for their cabinet ornamentation. So plain," he said disparagingly. "Even your journeyman work was much better."

"There is a certain Spartan elegance to it. When it is so simple, it must be absolutely flawless. However, those who will come to me will want more, of course. I think you will find that I have not lost my skill. But of all people, Andrea," Girolamo said gently, "you should know that the quality of the gems on the hilt say nothing of the quality of the blade in the sheath. So it is here. I will learn from the best."

And with that, they began walking again, with Abati whispering improvised scurrilous doggerel in gutter Italian about various random individuals in the room, reducing Zenti to almost helpless laughter.