The less said about the hours before the first Deseret concert the better. Llysette was as touchy as a caged cougar, not that I expected any less, with all that was riding on her performance.
The fewer words I offered in such circumstances, the smoother matters went. So I massaged her very tight shoulders and then confined my conversations to inquiries about what and when she wanted to eat, any chores I could run for her, and reading the favorable story in the Deseret News.
“The headline is good—‘World-Renowned Pair Open Concert Reason.’”
“They did not write our names?” said Llysette from the piano bench, where she looked at the music.
“The rest of the story is good, too.” I began to read:
“‘Great Salt Lake City (DNS). With one of the world’s top vocal piano and vocal duos in Llysette duBoise and Daniel Perkins, the Salt Palace performing complex opens its fiftieth consecutive season tonight.
“‘Perkins, recently awarded the Rachmaninov Award by Czar Alexi, is also the recipient of numerous other honors, including the Hearst Arts Medallion and honorary degrees from the Curtiss Institute, the University of Virginia, and the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. His arrangements and compositions have been played by every major symphony orchestra in the world. He is the composer in residence at Deseret University.
“‘DuBoise, most recently featured at the Columbian Presidential Arts Awards dinner, where she won rave reviews, has returned to an active performing career, interrupted for several years as a result of the instability in France. Former First Diva of France and featured soloist at the Academie Royale in Paris, she has appeared in most of the major opera houses of Europe. With a doctorate from the Sorbonne, she is director of vocal studies and opera at Vanderbraak State University in New Bruges, Columbia. Last year, she married former Columbian Subminister for Environmental Protection Johan Eschbach.
“‘The program will feature works by Mozart, Strauss, and Handel, as well as several new arrangements of Perkins’s own work written specifically for Fraulein deBoise. The concert will begin at 8:00 P.M.’”
“About the Debussy they said nothing.”
“They didn’t,” I agreed. “That’s one of your best pieces.”
“You do not like the An die Nacht?”
“You know I love that, and you do it beautifully. But,” I sighed, “you do so
much so well that I’d spend all day categorizing them.” I shouldn’t have mentioned anything by name, not before a performance.
“I am difficult. Je sais ça. Mais …”
“I know. There’s a lot at stake.”
“Trop …”
We had eaten a late breakfast—room service—and from what I knew, a late lunch/early dinner would be the order.
“A short walk might do us good.”
“Peut-etre.” Llysette didn’t sound convinced.
“There were some shops on the other side of the street from the Temple, a woolen shop for one.”
She pursed her lips. “A short walk?”
“Three blocks each way.” ,
“Three. I can do that.”
We stopped by the concierge’s desk and converted 300 Columbian dollars into Deseret dollars. The two red hundreds also had the “Holiness to the Lord” motto, but the face on the bills was of someone called Grant.
It had snowed or rained earlier, and the streets were wet under high gray clouds. A steady cold wind blew from the northwest. Llysette fastened her collar.
Another pair of young and bearded Danites followed as we walked eastward on West Temple South.
Deseret Woolen Mills occupied a small red brick building practically across from the Temple grounds. In the window were woolen coats and brown and black woolen scarves.
Llysette wrinkled her nose. “Brown is for cows.”
“They might have other colors inside.”
“Peut-etre.” That was one of the more dubious “perhapses” I’d heard, but she consented to turn toward the door, which I opened for her.
“The ladies’ section is to the right,” offered a woman with braided gray hair, although I doubted she was much older than I.
Llysette marched in the direction indicated, as if to determine quickly that the Deseret Woolen Mills had little to offer her.
I paused by a small rack of men’s coats—jackets without matching trousers, almost blazers, except they were tweed and the upper part of the chest and back were covered with soft gray leather.
“Those are popular with the ranchers.” A gray-haired bearded man eased up beside me.
“Ranchers?” I hadn’t thought there were many left, with the energy developments.
“They do wear jackets, but they’re particular about what they wear. Why don’t you try one on?”
The jacket was comfortable and probably warm—definitely necessary in New
Bruges. In the end, though, somehow I just couldn’t see myself wearing tweed and leather to class or anywhere else.
I replaced the jacket on its hanger, put my own suit coat back on, and went to find Llysette.
She was in the rear corner of the store, holding a woman’s suit. She glanced at the pale green woolen skirt, then finally took off her own coat and tried the jacket.
“Looks good.” I tried to keep my voice enthusiastic, even as I saw the Danites on the sidewalk, waiting. “Why don’t you put on the skirt?”
“I do not know. The skirt is long.”
“Try it on. I think it would look good.”
The saleslady, the only other woman in the store, nodded.
While Llysette was in the fitting room, I walked toward the front of the store and studied the pair outside. Young, short-haired, but bearded, wearing the dark green overcoats, eyes hard with that look common to all too many fanatics.
At the creak of the ancient fitting room door, I turned and stepped back toward the women’s section.
Llysette pirouetted in front of the full-length flat mirror. Although the skirt was long, slightly below midcalf, the lines flattered her.
“You look spectacular.”
“Le prix, that also is spectacular.”
“You deserve it.”
“I do not know.”
“I’ll buy it.”
She shook her head. “Now … should I wish, I can purchase my own clothes.”
The outfit took most of our cash, but I had pressed because it was warm and looked good on Llysette and she needed both, particularly with another cold New Bruges winter nearing.
The streets were still damp as we walked back to the Lion Inn, but the air seemed even colder.
After hanging up the green woolen outfit in the closet, Llysette took out the music again and sat on the piano bench.
My stomach growled.
After checking the menu and running it by Llysette, earning a raised eyebrow for interrupting her, I ordered the plainest form of pasta from room service, with the sauce on the side, to be safe about the whole thing.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, Llysette glared at me. “Le dejuener … it is where?”
“It’s supposed to be here.” I picked up the wireset and dialed in the number.
“Lion Inn, room service. May we help you?”
“Yes. This is Johan Eschbach. I ordered a dinner nearly an hour ago, and we still haven’t seen it. Suite six-oh-three.”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
I waited.
“He’s already left, sir. Let us know if he’s not there in five minutes.”
“I will.”
I turned to Llysette. “It’s on the way.”
“On the way? And how proceeds it—by airship from Paris?”
“By Brit rail—wide slow gauge.”
“Humorous that is not.”
A rap on the door saved me from having to make further attempts at humor. The server wore the livery of the hotel and pushed a cart table.
“I’ll take it in,” I told him.
“But—”
“I’ll do it.” I smiled.
He backed away.
Llysette watched as I set up the table, then went to the cooler and extracted a bottle of wine and set a glass beside her plate.
She looked at the wineglass, then shook her head. “A half a glass, that is all.”
“You can have the rest when you celebrate later.” Unwind, that would be more like it.
“Then, I will need the wine.”
After we ate, Llysette started on her hair.
In the end, I opted for the formal concert dress, black coat and black tie. As the consort to the star, it was better to be overdressed than underdressed.
I still brought the plastic blade, and the calculator and pens, as well as a few other items, such as the dart gun sections in my boot heels.
Llysette warmed up and did her makeup. She didn’t put on the performing gown at the inn but wore a plain dress. I carried the garment bag, and we walked the block and a half through the gray gloom to the hall—a good hour before Llysette’s curtain time.
Her dressing room was marked—in large red letters—and there were two flower arrangements there.
She read the cards and handed them to me with a smile:
Break a leg, or whatever—Bruce.
Best wishes. Jacob Jensen.
Then I helped her into the gown, and she went back to a few slow warmups. I stood in the corner, slightly away from the waist-high and oversize ventilation grate, half-wondering if that much cooling were necessary in the summer in Great Salt Lake. I shook my head. The big grate covered an air return. The inbound air
register was near the ceiling and about one-tenth the size of the big return duct.
I’d seen several of the large grates as we wandered around looking for her dressing room, and I supposed, with the heat from the stage lights, at times there was a need to suck out that hot air quickly.
A knock echoed from Llysette’s dressing room door. I walked over and eased it ajar to see who was there.
The brown-bearded Jacob Jensen stood outside, wearing a formal outfit. I was glad I’d worn my own formal dress. Jensen bowed, then extended an envelope to me. “Your tickets, Minister Eschbach.”
Strange as it seemed, I hadn’t really thought about tickets. For a moment, I just stared.
“The fifteenth row. After I heard your lady …” He paused and shook his head. “Her voice is too powerful to sit too close. There are two tickets. That’s so you don’t have to sit next to anyone if you’d rather not.”
“Thank you.” Why two and not three? Still, it was Llysette’s show, and I wasn’t about to upset anything.
“Does she need anything?”
I looked toward Llysette. She shook her head.
“No.” I added, “But thank you for the flowers.”
“I’m most grateful she’s here.” Jensen cleared his throat. “If she does need anything, let me know. I’m in the small office at the corner there.” With a nod and a smile, he walked briskly toward the back of the stage, behind the rear wall of the stage.
Llysette looked at me, and I got the message. “You’re ready to be alone.”
That got a nod.
I stepped over to her, hugged her, and whispered, “I love you. You’ll be wonderful.” Then I left, closing the door behind me.
I hadn’t realized just how big the concert hall was until I saw it lit. Llysette hadn’t been exaggerating, not much. There had to have been two thousand seats in the three tiers. Even a half hour before the performance, more than half were taken. It was strange to think that more people would hear her in one night in Deseret than had heard her in six years in Columbia. Strange and wondrous and sad all at once.
My seat was beside Jillian Perkins, who wore a maroon dress with a white lace collar. The seat on the far side of her was vacant, and I understood why I’d gotten two tickets, rather than three.
“Good evening,” I said as I eased in beside her.
She smiled, an expression pasted on under concerned eyes.
“Worried? They’ll do fine.”
“Dan … he’s worked very hard for this.”
I understood, I thought. Everyone needed the concert, for very different reasons. Llysette needed it to rehabilitate her career and give her leverage toward
more security and tenure … and financial independence. Dan Perkins needed it because … I suspected he and Jillian required the money for a growing family, and he needed another boost for his career, perhaps because his music wasn’t simple singspiel trash or lip-synch monotony, but complex composition based on good verse and possibly better music. The Saint theocracy needed the concert as an opening wedge toward wider relations with Columbia, and Columbia needed Saint oil and energy exports.
Then … there had to be others who needed a disruption, like deGaulle, or Ferdinand. I hoped the Danites and the others were up to containing anything along those lines.
Jillian blotted her forehead.
“He’s invested a lot in this?”
“Not in the concert, but in the recordings.”
“Llysette will sing well.”
“He says she is the only one who can do justice to his art songs.” She swallowed.
I patted her shoulder, just once. “She says he’s the only one that understands the music and the piano enough to let her sing her best.” Llysette hadn’t actually said it, but I understood that was how she felt. Llysette didn’t have to say it, not to me.
Either my words or gesture triggered the slightest frown.
“I wish I could play for her.” I laughed ruefully. “But I’ve got as much musical talent as a frog. It’s hard to watch her, to be able to appreciate it, and to add nothing.”
“You have done a great deal, Dan says. Weren’t you an important government official?”
“It’s not quite the same,” I protested.
“You love her … almost more than time and eternity.” Her words were not quite a question.
I nodded.
“That makes it hard. Very hard,” she said.
We understood, sitting there as the hall filled, each of us wishing for the best for someone we could do little to help. I’d liked Jillian from the moment I’d seen her—almost like the sister I’d never had, and never would.
The stage remained empty until nearly ten minutes past eight, when the doors to the hall were closed and the lights dimmed. The house wasn’t quite filled, but close to it.
My eyes took in the suspended microphones, and I swallowed.
Then two figures stepped forward and bowed. The applause was polite, modest, but certainly not overwhelming.
First there was a light, but florid, aria by Handel—light for Llysette, anyway, Lusinghe piu care. After a brief silence, the applause was strong, much stronger. Then came the Mozart, Exultate Jubilate.
Llysette’s voice intertwined with the notes from the piano yet remained separate, floated yet dropped inside my head, separated me almost from breathing. I
wasn’t the only one, because when she finished there was a gasp from the entire audience. The applause was thunderous, or close to it.
During the applause, more Saints filed in, filling many of the remaining seats.
Then came the Debussy aria, Lia’s air from L’Enfant du Prodigue, and there wasn’t any doubt about the volume of the applause. A few more listeners straggled in, and I began to wonder about Saint punctuality.
All in all, by intermission I was sweating, and the hall was still slightly chill. Beside me, Jillian was equally damp, and her teeth fretted on the linen handkerchief clutched in her hands. Then I understood. The Perkins pieces were after the intermission.
“They’re better,” I offered.
“What?” Her eyes weren’t really focused.
“Dan’s pieces. They’re every bit as good as the last Strauss and the Mozart. They could be better. You’ll have to see.”
She offered a faint smile and went back to worrying the linen.
I tried to listen to the whispers and low voices around us, despite wondering whether I really wanted to know what they were saying.
“… heard Rysanek once … said she was the greatest. Not anymore … and I’ll bet we haven’t heard the best yet… .”
“I don’t understand. Where did she come from? Why is she here?”
“Don’t fret, Jefferson. Just enjoy the music. You won’t hear this again, not when the rest of the world finds out.”
“… get tickets for your folks?”
“Never heard Debussy sung like that, and Debussy never did either, poor man.
My guts were tight, and I wished I had something to chew on. I wanted to go backstage, but that was the last thing Llysette needed.
Finally, I stood up, just before my seat, to stretch my legs. I looked at Jillian, but she didn’t even glance up.
Then the lights flashed, and people began to file back into the hall, and I sat down.
Jillian fretted with her handkerchief again and twisted in her seat, her eyes downcast.
The first song after intermission was from Puccini’s La Boheme, in Italian about Paris, and then came a short and humorous Wolf piece, Mausfallen spruchlein, before Llysette launched into the three Perkins pieces.
They got another resounding ovation, and she completed the concert with An die Nacht.
The last piece wasn’t the end, though, not after the audience kept applauding and standing and screaming.
Jillian and I just stood with them. I think we were both numb, in the way that you get when the emotional overload is too great to feel any more.
Finally, the audience sat, and Perkins settled himself at the piano.
The encore had to be partly Carolynne’s, although only two of us would have known that as Llysette finished and as the applause and cacophony cascaded around me.
Jillian and I didn’t speak. What could we have said that wouldn’t have been banal after the performance of our spouses?
Bright lights surrounded Llysette’s dressing room, and I had to ease around the crowd, but I wasn’t getting very far.
“There’s Minister Eschbach!” boomed a voice, and Jacob Jensen and his driver, Heber, pushed aside some of the well-wishers and their bouquets of flowers—just flowers; apparently chocolates weren’t de rigueur in Deseret—and escorted me behind the videolinkers and their lights, all focused on Llysette.
“Fräulein duBoise, why did you wait so long to return to the stage?”
“For many years I had no country. A person who has no country has few choices. I am happy now in Columbia. I will perform so long as people wish to hear.”
“Some people have said your husband was a spy, and that he still might be.”
“Mon cher … he is a very good professor, and he was a war hero, and he is a good man. He is no spy.” She offered a wide and sparkling smile, and I thought she had seen me.
“But do you know if he once was a spy?”
Llysette smiled. “You do not like my words, then you should ask Johan. He is there.” She gestured toward me.
I had to give one of the young linkers credit. He dodged around Heber and had the videocamera in my face.
“It’s said you were a spy. Is it true?”
“I don’t think it’s any great secret that I once was employed by the Sedition Prevention Service—that was a long time ago. I was also once a military pilot, and a government minister, and my family was killed, and I was wounded for that service.” I forced a smile. “But all of that was a long time ago, and I’m a professor of environmental studies married to one of the greatest singers of the age. She’s your story. You’ll see a lot of retired officials. There’s only one of her.”
Surprisingly, the young fellow smiled and turned the camera back toward Llysette.
“You’ve sung in two national capitals in less than a month after years of no public performances. How did this happen?”
“Doktor Perkins. He sent a student to a clinic. There I sang one of his songs. He sent me arrangements.” Llysette shrugged. “He is a great composer, and his student led to the concert.”
“Is there any message behind your concert, Miss duBoise?”
“Message?” Llysette laughed. “The beauty of the music will last when we are gone.”
“How do you like Deseret?”
“Many of the people, they are friendly. I have not seen much. I have prepared for the concert.”
“That’s enough!” announced a bass voice, and the lights dimmed, and the media scuffled away, slowly.
Blinking in the comparative gloom, I stepped forward and hugged my wife, gently, then kissed her cheek. “Magnifique!” I whispered. “And that’s understating it.”
A few steps away, Dan Perkins was hugging Jillian. Her eyes were wet. After a moment, they stepped toward us.
“There aren’t many nights … like this.” His voice barely carried over the noise of another group that seemed headed toward us and the mutterings of the departing videolinkers.
“Non.” Llysette squared her shoulders. “But twice more we must perform.”
Perkins nodded, then grinned. “We’d better enjoy it.”
“Here they are!” boomed the bass voice again, which I finally attached to a blocky man not much taller than my shoulder who gestured toward an older man at the head of the new group.
“This is the First Counselor, the Most Honorable J. Press Cannon.” The bassvoiced man gestured.
First Counselor Cannon had white hair and beard, a cherubic face marred slightly by childhood acne that had never totally healed, and warm bluish-brown eyes. He inclined his head. “You were absolutely superb, Miss duBoise.”
His voice was full and concerned, and I distrusted him on sight. He was the kind of man who was always honest, forthright, supportive, and able to use all three traits to his own advantage to be deadlier than most villains.
“I thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m thanking you for an experience that comes all too infrequently, if ever.”
Llysette flushed.
He turned to me. “You have had some experience with the media, I notice.”
“Me?” I shook my head.
Cannon laughed. “Minister Eschbach, someday we’ll talk.” He turned back to Llysette. “Unlike your president, I have heard many singers. I’ve never heard one like you.” He shook his head. “We have been truly doubly blessed with your presence. I will be here tomorrow and Saturday.” With a last cherubic smile he nodded, and he and his entourage marched off like some religious band ready for another revival.
Eventually, most drifted away, and Llysette changed back into the simple dress. I eased her performance gown into the bag.
The Danites, and there were four now, escorted us both back to the Lion Inn, right from the dressing room. One carried the half-dozen bouquets that had been pressed upon Llysette.
Outside the concert hall, a dozen people stood in the swirling snowflakes that weren’t sticking to the sidewalk or the street.
“Miss duBoise … please … would you please sign my program?” The girl barely came to my shoulder. “Please?”
I fumbled in my pocket and found a pen, not one of Bruce’s set, and extended it to her.
Llysette smiled and asked, “Do you sing?”
“After hearing you … I … I’m afraid to try.”
“So was I once, when I heard Tebaldi. Learn to sing, child.”
The girl looked down, then slipped away.
A white-haired woman eased a book toward Llysette—open to a picture of a much younger Llysette duBoise. “I never thought … You’re better than all of them, and I’ve heard them all.”
“You are kind.” I could see the moistness in my diva’s eyes as she signed the picture, moistness that glistened in the reflections of the street glow throwers.
When the woman closed the book, I caught the title—Prima Donnas: Past and Future.
Llysette signed all fifteen programs, with a kind word and a smile for each. But she was silent, withdrawn deeply into herself, as we walked the last half-block to the Lion Inn and took the elevator up to the suite.
The Danites followed silently, and I wondered why, half-musingly, still in a detached state myself, until we reached our door.
“Miss duBoise? The flowers, ma’am?” asked the Danite who had carried them all the way from the dressing room.
We both looked at the flowers held by the Saint. What could Llysette do with them?
Finally, she took the one bouquet with the pale white roses, barely more than buds, and looked at the young Danite. “Have you a wife?”
He nodded.
“And the others?”
“Some do, Miss duBoise.”
Llysette smiled. “I cannot have too many flowers around me. Perhaps you could take them … if you would wish … for all of you, and for watching out for us.”
“Thank you.” A momentary smile cracked the pale face under the blond hair.
“We thank you,” she said.
After they left, I closed the door and took Llysette’s coat, then hung up her gown.
She stood almost where I had left her, in the sitting room area, staring blankly in the general direction of the windows.
“Johan … you have not said much.”
I shook my head, and my eyes burned again. “What could I say? I’ve never heard … no one had ever heard …” I looked into her green eyes, saw the pride and the incredible pain. “I don’t have the words. I feel anything I say is so little to
describe how you sang.” What could I have said that would have been adequate to describe that incredible performance?
“You know.”
“I know.” And I did.
“Some wine. It might help.”
I filled her wineglass, and she took it and nearly drained it in one swallow.
I wanted to tell her to take it easy, but I didn’t. Instead, I set the bottle on the table and stood behind her and squeezed her shoulders, sort of an awkward hug, then kissed her neck.
“The critics, they are not the audience.” She stood, unsteadily, and walked to the window, looking out at the snow-flurried and misted lights of Great Salt Lake.
Well I knew that. The critics were like David and the dean, unable to do much, but always faulting everyone else. “Even the critics were impressed.” Enough, I hope … enough.
“Never like this … and I must sing tomorrow … and Saturday.”
I understood the pressure more, now. She had conquered, and she had to do it again … and again, never letting down, never letting up, and every critic would be wondering, first, if her performances were just a singular occurrence and, then, when she would fail.
“You’ll do it.” I put my arms around her, gently.
She sobbed softly, and I held her for a time, a long, long time.