1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (21 page)

And Samson said unto her, If they bind me with seven green withies that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and be as another man.

Then the lords of the Philistines brought up to her seven green withies which had not been dried, and she bound him with them.

Now there were men lying in wait, abiding with her in the chamber. And she said unto him, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he brake the withies, as a thread of tow is broken when it toucheth the fire. So his strength was not known.

Simon listened to Ursula read the story. As Delilah continued to ply Samson and Samson continued to respond to her, it crossed his mind more than once that Samson did not seem very smart.

Finally the story wound to the now-obvious climax.

That he told her all his heart, and said unto her. There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother’s womb: if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man.

And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines, saying, Come up this once, for he hath showed me all his heart. Then the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand.

And she made him sleep upon her knees; and she called for a man, and she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head; and she began to afflict him, and his strength went from him.

And she said, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he awoke out of his sleep, and said, I will go out as at other times before, and shake myself. And he wist not that the Lord was departed from him.

Ursula stopped.

“That can’t be all the story,” Simon exclaimed.

“I thought we could read the rest tomorrow.”

“No!” He leaned forward. “Please, I need to hear what happens.”

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “All right,” and resumed reading. Simon listened as the end of the story rolled out.

But the Philistines took him, and put out his eyes, and brought him down to Gaza, and bound him with fetters of brass; and he did grind in the prison house.

Then the lords of the Philistines gathered them together for to offer a great sacrifice unto Dagon their god, and to rejoice: for they said, Our god hath delivered Samson our enemy into our hand. And when the people saw him, they praised their god: for they said, Our god hath delivered into our hands our enemy, and the destroyer of our country, which slew many of us.

And it came to pass, when their hearts were merry, that they said, Call for Samson, that he may make us sport. And they called for Samson out of the prison house; and he made them sport: and they set him between the pillars. And Samson said unto the lad that held him by the hand, Suffer me that I may feel the pillars whereupon the house standeth, that I may lean upon them.

Now the house was full of men and women; and all the lords of the Philistines were there; and there were upon the roof about three thousand men and women, that beheld while Samson made sport. And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.

And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood, and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand, and of the other with his left. And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.

Simon sat back on his stool. He had never imagined it would end that way.

Ursula put her Bible away and took out her embroidery. “Not a very happy ending, is it?”

“No,” Simon muttered.

“I don’t like to read that story much because of that.” She pushed the needle through the cloth. “But sometimes, you know, we need to be reminded that the things we choose to do don’t always end up the way we intend for them to.”

Simon took a deep breath. “Yah. I see that.”

“Good.” Ursula focused on her work.

It was obviously time for him to go find work. He opened the door, but looked back at Ursula before he stepped through. Ursula’s head was bent over her embroidery. She didn’t look up when he left.

* * *

“Come in, Marla.” Mary Simpson herself met Marla at the door of Simpsonhaus. “Have a seat, dear. Coffee?”

Marla settled into a chair in Mary’s parlor, nodding to Andrea Abati, Heinrich Schütz, and Amber Higham as she did so.

“Coffee would be nice.” She hunched up a bit in the chair. “It’s still cold outside.” It wasn’t just the cold. Today was not one of her better days, although she had managed to hide that from Franz. He had a major rehearsal with the orchestra today, but he would have called it off if he had seen her starting to waver.

Within moments a cup was passed to her. Marla cradled it in her hands for a few moments to savor the warmth before taking her first sip.

“Ah.” She felt the warmth trickle down her throat and spread through her body. “That helps.”

Marla set her cup on the nearby side table, picked up her document case, and pulled out the manuscript of
Arthur Rex.
That she placed on the coffee table centered between all the seats. Then she sat back and picked up her coffee cup, still appreciating the warmth of the cup. She
really
hated being cold. And the warmth helped with her other problem as well.

“So, what do you think?” Amber Higham asked, interlacing one hand’s fingers with those of Heinrich Schütz, her husband.

Marla took a sip before she replied.

“It’s good.” She saw a line appear between Amber’s eyebrows, and hastened to say, “It’s very good.”

“Do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” Heinrich asked with a smile.

“Well…” Marla dragged the syllable out.

Heinrich chuckled. “Masses I have written, and motets. Opera, however, is a somewhat new thing for me, especially one of this…magnitude, shall we say. You, despite your youth, know more of them than I do. So, please, give me your thoughts on this. I promise not to rage if you butcher my sacred cow.” He chuckled again.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Marla protested, in the face of everyone else’s smiles. After a moment, she smiled as well. “All right, but I need more coffee first.” She leaned forward and held her cup out for Mary to refill.

Settling back with a freshly filled steaming cup wafting warm vapors past her nose, she began. “My main observation is I think it needs more passion and tension, especially between Merlin and Guinevere early on and between Guinevere and Nimue in the last act. Second, the vocal styling is too…too restrained, too soft. It needs more bite, more edge to it. The last thing is, am I correct you are thinking of me for the role of Guinevere and Master Andrea,” she nodded at him, “for the role of Nimue?”

“Yep,” Amber replied, “you called it.”

“The music is too similar for those roles,” Marla said. She sipped at the coffee again, trying to get the butterflies in her stomach under control. Despite her acquaintance and friendship with Amber, she felt intimidated by Schütz. She was still getting used to the idea, even two-plus years after she arrived in Magdeburg, that someone who was in the encyclopedia as “The Father of German Music” would value her opinions. “There needs to be a distinct differentiation between the styles, the themes, and the timbre of their music.”

“What do you mean?” Heinrich spoke up, gaze intent on Marla.

“As I read the libretto,” Marla began, then interrupted herself with, “and that’s a near-brilliant piece of work, by the way? Who wrote it?”

“I worked with Johann Gronow,” Amber said. “He’s the editor of—”

“
Black Tomcat Magazine
,” Marla interjected. “He’s also the friend of Friedrich von Logau, who just worked on a small project for me. They’re both good.”

She finished the coffee and put the cup down, holding up her hand in negation when Mary pointed to the coffee pot again. “Anyway, as I was saying, when I read the libretto, I was hearing Guinevere as earth and fire: very emotional, all strings and brass and percussion. Nimue, on the other hand, came across to me as air: ethereal, not particularly passionate, with woodwinds as her sound.”

“Ah,” Heinrich sighed. He sat in thought for a long moment, then said, “That is what I was missing. I need to contrast those two women more. I see it now, and I see how to rework it.” He gave a seated bow to Marla. “My thanks, Frau Marla. You have been of great assistance.”

Amber flashed a smile at Marla, and she relaxed a bit.

“My turn,” Amber said. “Any thoughts on staging?”

“You’re asking me?” Marla asked in confusion.
What is this, pick on Marla day, or something? Where does it say, I’m the expert here?
“You’re the professional director and stage manager. I should be asking you.”

“Come on,” Amber insisted. “I know something had to have popped up in your brain. Let me have it.”

“Okay.” Marla thought for a moment. “Only two things at this point in time: first, I think Nimue needs to be played in a very androgynous manner.”

“That won’t be difficult,” Andrea observed from his chair with a chuckle, joining the conversation for the first time. He looked toward Amber. “Much the same thought had occurred to me—make a virtue out of necessity, as it were.” His grin flashed for a moment. “I just hadn’t had time to bring it up yet.”

“Noted.” Amber actually did write it down in a small notebook. “What’s the other thing?”

“Please don’t make the costumes too heavy.”

From there they descended into a detailed discussion of costume designs and proposed staging. It was nearly an hour later that Mary finally brought the conversation to a close.

“All right, we’re good to go then. Master Heinrich will make his revisions as soon as possible, and we’ll get the parts passed out as soon as he does. We’re shooting to begin rehearsals by February 5th, and we have money from a supporter that will get the sets and costumes under way.”

There was a general bustle as the others stood and took their leave. Marla remained seated, staring at the coffee table where the manuscript had been, tired and numb.

There came a touch on her shoulder. She looked up to see Mary there, looking down at her. No words were spoken, but she could see the expression of sympathy on the other woman’s face, and the tears began welling up in her eyes to match the sudden surge of grief from the void under her heart.

Mary took a white linen handkerchief from a pocket and handed it to Marla, then sat down in the chair next to hers and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

Marla wept. She bit down on the handkerchief, but still small moans of grief escaped her. The tears coursed down her cheeks, and she trembled as if she were badly chilled. The thought touched the edge of her mind that she
was
chilled; not to the bone, but in the soul.

She had no idea how long she mourned within the curve of Mary’s arm. It felt like hours, but doubtless was not more than a few minutes. The tears slowed; her ragged breathing calmed.

Taking the handkerchief from between her teeth, Marla unfolded it and wiped the moisture from her face, rubbing fiercely to remove the feeling of the drying tracks of the tears. Then she clasped it between her hands in her lap.

Mary took her arm from Marla’s shoulder.

“Not many people here know it,” Mary said, “but Tom could have been a second child. I had a miscarriage before I had him.”

Mary’s voice was quiet. There was no sense of claiming some identity in a sisterhood of suffering; no sense of one-upmanship in her words. Just a simple statement of fact. But it was enough that Marla released her clasp and reached a hand out to Mary, who grasped it tightly.

“How…” Marla husked, “how do the down-timer women bear it, seeing half or more of their children die?”

“The same way I did,” Mary responded. “One day at a time; one hour at a time; sometimes one minute at a time.”

Marla looked at the older woman, saw the strength in her, and drew on that strength to stiffen her own resolve. She was going to make it through this torrent, some way, somehow.

“Thanks, Mary.”

“Any time, dear. I have lots of handkerchiefs.”

Chapter 27

Ciclope and Pietro were back in that same tavern. It was still filled with smoky haze from the fireplace at one end of the room. Ciclope missed the old man and his pipe, though. It would have made the haze a bit sweeter.

They bought their ale, then looked for a table. The one they used last time was occupied, but they found another where they could put their backs against a wall and watch the door.

Ciclope tried his ale. It hadn’t improved in their absence. It still tasted of mold and dirt. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn there was a bit of stable straw floating on top of it.

“So, when does he show up?” Pietro asked.

“Don’t start that,” Ciclope said. “Same as last time. The man will be here when he gets here.”

And in fact, it wasn’t long before their “patron,” wearing what looked to be the same ill-fitting clothes, slipped into the chair beside Pietro.

“That was a good start,” he said without wasting any time. “What will you do next?”

Ciclope took advantage of the moment to study him some more. His German was the local dialect, and under the baggy and slovenly clothes he was still too neat and clean for the kind of man he was attempting to portray. No ink on the fingers, so he was well-to-do enough to pay someone to do his writing. No hint of perfume
.
He didn’t walk forthright like a soldier, nor like an absent-minded scholar. So, he was a burgher, a merchant of some kind.