1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (25 page)

Logau leaned back to make sure that none of the spew landed on his clothing. He frowned at his friend. “Coffee is for drinking, not breathing. And what, may I ask, brought on this fit?”

Gronow held up a hand until he finally could clear his throat and get a breath of air. “It just dawned on me—she’s going to sing Guinevere in my opera!”

Logau began to laugh at the panic-stricken look on his friend’s face.

Chapter 30

Magdeburg Times-Journal

January 21, 1636

Editoria—On the Notes of Angels—by Friedrich von Logau

It was my extreme good fortune to spend a good part of my evening last Saturday night in an establishment called the Green Horse. I and some of my friends had gone there to hear the up-timer—no, she would object to my characterizing her in that manner—to hear that most accomplished of musicians, Frau Marla Linder, hold court. She and her band of Companions took the field, if you will allow me to mix metaphors, and salvoed song after song at those who were seated before her. Slow songs, fast songs; serious songs, funny songs. And she had us all in her hand, going where she directed, laughing and crying in turn.

Those of you who have heard
of
Frau Linder, but have not actually heard her, may think to brush aside the oft-heard statement that she sings with the voice of heaven. Do not do so. If you have been reading my columns here, you know that I seldom permit hyperbole to go unchallenged. Therefore, be suitably impressed when I say that to call her voice angelic or heavenly is not an insult to heaven or an overstatement of her gifts as a musician. I have been to Rome. I have heard the finest voices in the world there, and in Florence, and in Venice. And I say to you, that she is not their equal, but beyond them—
ne plus ultra
, if you will.

I could end this article at this point, with a paean to the good Frau Linder. But in all truth, I told you all of that in order to now tell you this story, with words that cannot help but be inadequate to the task. Saturday night, at the last, Frau Linder proved to be an outstanding general as she unveiled her greatest stratagem which had been held in reserve all evening. She sang a song: a song that was flavored with bitterness, and rue, and gall; a song that stirred the blood of everyone there and called for blood; a song that fired the soul and chilled the spirit; a song that, although no names were named, called for all the Germanies to stand forth; and she aimed it at Berlin. She aimed it at the heart of Chancellor The Ox, and the herd that has gathered behind him. Like Diana the Huntress she stood forth, aimed, and loosed. And she loosed no shaft of Eros, but rather of Eris; Mars himself would not be shamed by what was sent forth that night.

In the light of day, I marvel at Frau Linder: for her voice, for her passion, for the hard steel of her convictions. At the risk of evoking the anger of the pastors, I will paraphrase Our Saviour: “I have not found such passion, no, not in all the Germanies.”

As for Saturday night, let me end this rumination with another paraphrase, this time from the English playwright William Shakespeare:

And gentlemen in Germany, now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

“I was there that night, to hear Frau Linder sing.”

Andreas Schardius lowered the paper and stared at the wall opposite his desk. He laid a finger from nose to chin, thinking. After a moment, he removed it and nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “So the angel is not ignorant of where she is, after all.”

He leaned back in his chair and thought some more.

In his youth, Schardius had spent some time in northern Italy, mostly at Venice and Florence. He had enjoyed both cities and their societies greatly, but even now, years later, Florence called to him. It was there he had seen Francesca Caccini,
La Cecchina
, the nightingale of the Medici court. She was a few years older than him, and wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was a most exciting person to be around, in several senses of the word.

And he had lusted after her; there was no other word for it. He had wanted to possess her so badly he had ached. But even as a near-callow youth, and even in that state of constant arousal, he had retained enough wisdom to understand that she was under the protection of the Medici family, which was a line that he had dared not cross.

He had eventually left Florence with his lust unslaked. But to this day, the sound of an attractive woman singing could send a thrill up and down his spine. And now, in the person of Marla Linder, he might be able to attain his desire, his longing.

That thought caused his breath to come a little faster.

* * *

Karl Honister finished reading the article out loud, and looked over the top of it at Byron. “Frau Linder is some connection to you, isn’t she?”

Byron shrugged as he signed off on a report. “Wife’s sister.”

“Is she always so…ah, direct?”

Gotthilf snorted. “Try strong-willed. She’s full-blood sister, after all, to the woman who married him,” he jerked a thumb at his partner, “of her own free will, and holds her own with him.”

“Point,” Honister said as Byron grinned. The other detective sergeant pulled a paper out of his coat, and unfolded a broadsheet. “But I have met Frau Linder the elder, and I don’t think she would have seen this come out from something she did.”

Byron took the paper, and Gotthilf read over his shoulder. The hair on his neck stood up as his eyes scanned down the lyrics on the page. “Wow,” the down-timer said.

“Nope,” Byron said after he handed the page back to Honister. “Jonni might be stubborn and hardheaded, but she’s never been in her little sister’s league. And even though she didn’t write the words, that’s pure quill Marla on that page. No give to her, once she’s decided.” He scanned over and signed another report. “I’m not much of a praying man, but from time to time I thank God for sending Franz Sylwester along four years ago.”

“What do you mean?” Gotthilf asked.

“You’ve met Marla. Try to imagine her without Franz in her life.”

Gotthilf considered, and twitched his shoulders in a sudden chill.

“Yah.”

Grantville

Atwood was so wrapped up in the music that when it came to an end, he had forgotten where he was. It was an occupational hazard for a disc jockey. It took a moment before he realized it was time for him to talk again. He quickly flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.

“Once again, that was the
Little Fugue in G
, written originally for organ by Johann Sebastian Bach and transcribed for orchestra by Leopold Stokowski. I hope you enjoyed that; it’s certainly one of my favorites.”

As he was talking, Atwood was flipping switches and checking that the cassette player was cued up. It still amused him from time to time that he was a radio disc jockey to half of Germany.

He flipped a last switch and spoke into the open mike. “I promised you something very special at the beginning of the evening. Tonight we have a recording of someone here in Germany, made only a week ago. I predict that you will either like it or hate it, but you will not be able to ignore it. So, here is Marla Linder and her friends, with ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’”

Atwood pressed the play button on the cassette deck. After a moment the music began to flow from the control room monitor speakers. He leaned back and just listened, a large grin on his face.

He had the professional musician’s ability to divorce himself from the effect of the music while he appraised the performance. It was especially hard to do for this recording, though, and not because he’d been involved in producing it. Marla’s performance was beyond her usual excellence; it was so spot on it was like it was the sonic equivalent of a laser beam. And for a live recording, with the equipment available, it was pretty darn good, if he did say so himself. His Sony rig was near top of the line when he got it, and for Marla he had opened his last virgin chromium dioxide cassette tape package, over which he would never record. That sound was as clear and as pristine as anything that would be produced for generations, probably. The folks at Trommler Records had practically slavered over it.

And wouldn’t it just set the fox in the henhouse, though? Most down-timers still didn’t get the full power and impact of radio. The nobility for sure didn’t get it. This recording would drive the point home like a ten penny nail smacked by a sixteen-pound sledge hammer.

Assessment over, he surrendered himself to the music. All too soon it was finished. He leaned forward again. “There is nothing I can say after that. I hope you enjoyed it. And if you did like it, you might drop a line to the folks at Trommler Records. They’re going to put out a record of that song. It should be available soon.

“Thanks for being with us this Sunday evening for
Adventures in Great Music
on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I’ll see you next Sunday evening.

“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”

Magdeburg

Gotthilf threw a hand up in front of Byron’s chest and brought his partner to a halt.

“What’s up?” Byron asked, looking around.

“Sssh,” Gotthilf whispered. “That’s Fraulein Metzger up ahead.”

Byron caught sight of the woman limping along the street, leaning heavily on a cane. “So it is. Want to go talk to her?”

“Actually, I do,” Gotthilf admitted. “But by myself, I think.” Byron looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I might get more out of her that way.”

His partner shrugged. “Whatever. I’m good with that. I’ll head back to the station. I’ve got more reports to read anyway.”

They parted company, and Gotthilf trailed along behind the woman for about half a block, then he eased up beside her.

“Fraulein Metzger?” He gave a partial bow, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers.

“Oh!”

The young woman lurched in surprise, and Gotthilf hastily reached a hand out to grab her elbow and help her keep her footing. As soon as he could see she was stable, he released her and stepped back to give her room.

“Oh,” Fraulein Metzger repeated in a more normal tone of voice. “Sergeant Hoch, is it not?”

“Yes, Fraulein. I saw you in the street alone, and wondered if something was wrong.”

“No,” she replied. “I looked out a little while ago, and the sun was shining, and since it was, I decided to walk down to Frau Diermissen to get some purple thread.”

“Purple thread?” Gotthilf asked as he kept pace with her slow steps.

“Mm-hmm.” Fraulein Metzger didn’t say anything for a moment as she negotiated a tricky patch of the street where a puddle had formed across part of what would have been her best path. Gotthilf stood ready to help her, but she placed her cane carefully, and stepped with care across the slick gravel, arriving at the other side without mishap.

Once there, she resumed her conversation. “I do embroidery, you see, for Frau Schneider and other seamstresses.”

“Frau Schneider, you say?” Gotthilf tucked that connection away in his mind. You never knew when little bits of information like that could prove to be useful. “My mother speaks very highly of her.”

“And she should,” Fraulein Metzger said with a smile. “I think she is the best of them. Certainly she is the best I have worked with.”

“So, you needed some purple thread for work you are doing for the good Frau Schneider,” Gotthilf continued. “But could you not have sent your young friend Simon Bayer for it and saved yourself the steps?”

Fraulein Metzger stopped, and looked at Gotthilf. He noticed with part of his mind that her eyes were level with his, and they were not at this moment friendly. In fact, they seemed rather cold.

“Sergeant Hoch, I am a cripple. That does not mean I am stupid. You dance attendance on me for a reason, and it is not because of my fair face or form.” Gotthilf thought he detected a trace of bitterness; but only a trace. “If you have something to ask me, ask it.”

Gotthilf tilted his head and observed her for a moment, then nodded. “As you say. Yes, we…”

“The
Polizei
,” she interrupted.

Gotthilf nodded again. “The
Polizei
have been looking at your brother. Not that we suspect him of a crime,” he hastened to add as her eyes widened. “But he has been known to associate with men that we are interested in.”

“So why have you not asked your questions of him?” Fraulein Metzger asked, her voice oozing tartness.

Gotthilf shrugged. “Because the time is not right. We do not know enough to know what questions to ask.”

Fraulein Metzger stared at him with hard eyes for several moments, then faced forward again. “Men!” she muttered as she started down the road again.

Gotthilf continued to keep pace with her. They walked in silence for some time, until he said, “We have met before, you know.”

“Yes, at the tavern several days ago.” Her tone now bordered on acerbic. It was obvious that she was no longer enjoying their conversation.

“No, actually it was back before the sack. And perhaps I misspoke a bit; we did not actually meet, but we did see each other.”

Ursula stopped again, and the expression she turned on him was dark enough to be called thunderous.

“Do not attempt to delude me, Sergeant!”

He held his hands up in a peace gesture. “On my honor, our paths have indeed crossed on occasion when I accompanied my sister to her catechism classes.”

“Your…sister.”

“Margarethe Hoch. She is somewhat younger than you, I believe, but I do recall seeing you at least twice.” As he said that, the image of a younger Ursula Metzgerinin crossed his mind. “It was before the sack of the city, of course.”

An expression of sorrow and pain crossed Fraulein Metzger’s face. “Yes. Of course. So much there was before the sack of the city.” She faced forward and resumed her progress.