The next morning, while Llysette was still sleeping, after running through my exercises as quietly as I could, I sneaked down to the lobby and bought copies of both Great Salt Lake City papers, each one in its polished wood stand. No plastic or metal in Deseret, almost a throwback in some ways to the New Bruges of a half-century earlier.
The news stories—if there were any—should have been favorable, but I’d learned a long time ago that critics were a species alien to reason, common sense, or public appeal.
Llysette was still asleep when I got back to the suite, and I eased the bedroom door closed and sat down in the wide-armed and overupholstered chair that almost resembled a padded throne. After opening the Deseret News, I turned to the Arts section, holding my breath as I saw a picture of Llysette and Dan Perkins just after taking a bow, Llysette with one bouquet of flowers in her arms. I’d been there, but
I hadn’t even seen those flowers. Then I read, slowly, waiting for some bombshell. There wasn’t one. Were the Great Salt Lake City critics a species slightly less alien than their Columbian brethren?
GREAT SALT LAKE CITY. “Magnificent is too weak a word to describe the performance of Llysette duBoise and Daniel Perkins,” said Salt Palace concertmeister Jensen. For once, if possible for a man who praises everything, Jensen underpraised the artists he hired for the Cultural Series.
“Never has Deseret heard such a presentation of classic and art songs!” added Grant Johannsen, conductor of the Deseret Symphony. They were both right, even conservative, in their praise.
DuBoise offered depths, shadings, tones, textures in a shimmering and seamless weave of sound that melded perfectly with Perkins’s sure touch on the keys. So perfect was the match of keyboard and voice that every number ended with stunned silence—followed by thunderous applause.
My eyes burned as I struggled to the end. It hadn’t just been me. Everyone had sensed and felt that impossible energy, that emotional torrent encased in sheer perfected discipline.
The Star commentary was of the same timbre, and both ended with the recommendation that would-be listeners sell their dearest possession, if need be, to get one of the few tickets remaining.
Like all critics, the News reviewer did have a few nasty digs after the one at Jensen:
While the concert itself was an unimaginable improvement over past offerings, so much that Jensen will be hard-pressed to repeat such a triumph, even should he live so long as Methuselah, the Salt Palace management still manifests a carelessness of detail in other ways. There were far too few souvenir programs, and the concession areas were grossly understaffed. Likewise the warning bells for the intermission were weak and lost in the hubbub as listeners rhapsodized happily about the music. Fortunately, the warning lights were adequate, if barely.
The Star reviewer attacked the parking and the lack of concert-related transport and the lack of programs. I was just glad that everything about the performance itself was glowing.
I took a deep breath.
The bedroom door opened, and Llysette, tousled and beautiful in her robe, stood there. She squinted against the light pouring through the wide window. Then her eyes went to the paper.
“What said they?” She frowned. “Non. Do not tell me.”
I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. “No one has ever gotten a review this good. Ever.”
“You jest.”
“Not about this.” I folded back the News review, stood, and handed it to her, then went to heat water for the chocolate that was apparently the only warm morning beverage permitted in Deseret. The suite had the powdered kind, but it was better than the alternative, which was nothing at all.
“Non, c’est impossible.”
“That’s what they wrote. It might even sell a few of those disks your friend Doktor Perkins is having recorded.”
“He is having all three nights recorded.”
“That’s good, but he won’t need them—unless it’s because of technical problems.” All problems were technical in one way or another, as I’d learned in the Spazi.
The wireline chimed.
“Hello,” I answered cautiously.
“Minister Eschbach … this is Orab on the front desk. Ah … we’ve received a considerable number of flowers… .”
“How considerable?”
“Fifteen arrangements, but the florist said there would be more coming.”
“Could I wire you back in a moment? I’ll need to talk to Fraulein duBoise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now does someone want what?”
I turned to Llysette. “You were a hit. The concierge reports that you have more than a dozen flower arrangements and bouquets downstairs.”
“Oh.”
“That many flowers… .” I paused. “And the florists told him more were coming.
“With so many, I will sneeze and not sing.” Her eyes went to the pale white roses, barely opening, that I’d placed in a glass pitcher taken from the minuscule corner that substituted for a kitchen.
I nodded.
“What will I do?”
I shrugged. “Keep the cards or notes. Maybe you could donate the flowers to a hospital or home or something.”
“You do what you think best, Johan.” She reached for the Star, stopping short of the paper.
“It’s just as good,” I reassured her, picking the handset back up.
“Concierge.”
“Orab? This is Minister Eschbach.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fräulein duBoise is overwhelmed at the thought of all those flowers. Unfortunately, she’s also somewhat allergic to many of them. She wondered if she could have any cards or notes that went with them, but if we could send the flowers to a hospital—for children or for older people?” I paused. “We’d be happy to pay the florists or the hotel for the transportation. It’s just not something we can do personally, and it would be a shame to waste such a lovely gesture.”
A brief silence followed. “Why, yes, sir. I’m sure we could arrange that. Would you want to send cards from Miss duBoise?”
“No. Make it anonymous.”
Llysette nodded from across the room, her eyes lifting from the Star Entertainment section.
I took the liberty of ordering breakfast that was half-lunch from room service, getting another nod as I did.
Llysette read each review several times.
After a meal that was probably too hearty, Llysette decided to immerse herself in hot water. She liked it hot enough almost to boil lobsters. Once she was safely in the tub, I experimented with the videolink set. I did find a noon news program after a half hour or so.
“… speaking on behalf of the First Presidency, Counselor Cannon was clear about the path Deseret must follow.” The screen shifted to the white-bearded Cannon.
“Deseret deplores the Austro-Hungarian action in further militarizing Tenerife, but neither can we condone the seizure of the Cape Verdes by New France… .”
I winced. That action hadn’t gotten into the papers yet.
“In related news, another squadron of the Columbian navy has been deployed to the Bermuda Naval Station. The Austrian ambassador to Columbia made his protest to Columbian Speaker Hartpence simultaneously with a protest by Ambassador Rommel to British Prime Minister Blair. Schikelgruber’s protest came immediately upon his return to the Federal District. Austro-Hungary claims the action violates the Neutrality Treaty of 1980 between Great Britain and Austro-Hungary.” The videoscreen showed a Columbian cruiser, accompanied by two frigates, in a blue expanse that could have been any warm-water ocean.
Abruptly the screen shifted to a happy family, five children gathered around a table, with a clean-scrubbed woman serving them and the beaming bearded father.
“For that special family time …”
From the family image, the screen shifted to a blue book lying on a white cloth. The gold letters proclaimed The Book of Mormon, Another Testimony of Jesus Christ.
“Help your family better understand the eternal truths of the Book of Mormon.”
The screen shifted to an oblong box, bearing a stylized figure in a white robe and another set of gold lettering: The Book of Mormon Family Game.
“Bring the values of faith into your home in a fun and cheerful game the entire family can play. The Book of Mormon Family Game. Sold at LDS Bookstores everywhere. Here’s how to bring the Scriptures to life for the whole family.”
Another oblong game box appeared on the videoscreen, one with what seemed to be two stylized cobalt roads meeting at a golden intersection.
“The Missionary Game! Exciting and entertaining for Saints of all ages. A fun way to teach your younger children about missionary work. Everyone will catch missionary fever from this entertaining new game for the whole family.”
I had to wonder where the Saint missionaries were going. It couldn’t be to Europe. Ferdinand and his crew had treated the Saints as badly as the Gypsies and other dissidents. There were some Saints in the western parts of Columbia and in New France and in Oceania and South America. But were they trying to convert New France? Or would the loosening of relations with Deseret mean an influx of Saint missionaries?
Another video cut revealed still one more family, this time with four children, two boys and two girls, all blond, all seated around a table, caught laughing with bowls of popcorn in their hands, and an open blue-covered book on the table. A set of chimes rang, and a cheerful voice proclaimed: “Family … more important now than ever.”
With that, the video flicked back to the news studio and a bespectacled man in a dark blue suit and a cravat wider than the Mississippi.
“That classical concert at the Salt Palace last night? The one featuring our own Daniel Perkins and Llysette duBoise. Some had questioned, quietly, just how good it was going to be, since Miss duBoise hadn’t performed before a large audience in more than five years.
“No one’s questioning now. This is the first time in five years a classical performance has generated the level of enthusiasm that approached—no, it almost exceeded that of gospel music in the Cannon Center. Word’s gone out, though. The remaining tickets were gone in less than a half hour after the box office opened this morning.
“She can sing, and he can play, and it’s just that simple. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful. Here … take a look.”
The image shifted from the announcer to one of Llysette before the interviewers.
“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.”
Llysette’s smiling image remained on the screen, frozen, as the commentator added, “For those of you who haven’t any idea of how beautiful this music truly is, here’s a brief excerpt.”
Of course, the excerpt was from Perkins’s Fragments of a Conversation, but even over the degraded videolink speakers, Llysette sounded gorgeous.
The one news announcer looked to the other. “She seems very gracious.”
“She is. After she sang last night, she signed programs and talked to admirers waiting outside in the snow. And if you think all entertainers are elitists, she walked—that’s right, walked—back to her hotel. No limousines. If you haven’t seen her and Doktor Perkins, beg a ticket if you can. You sure can’t buy one now.”
“Oh.” Llysette’s voice was somehow very small.
I turned and flicked off the set, then walked toward her, but she sat in the other armchair before I could give her a hug.
“Are you all right?”
“To get ready for the master class I must.”
“That, my lady, didn’t exactly answer the question.”
She smiled, wistfully, sadly, and with restrained happiness—all at once. “So many I … we … would have liked to see this, and now it happens in a foreign land. Only you understand, and that is sad.”
“Your father?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Your mother?” I didn’t ask about the deacon—Carolynne’s deacon. I knew.
“She loved me. She did not understand.” Llysette stood.
I did hug her—tightly—and for a moment, we clung together. Then she blotted her eyes. “Still I must ready myself for the classes.”
“What do you do at these classes?”
“I must listen, and then I must offer instructions. You will see.”
She dressed, and I showered and dressed, and we were ready about the same time.
We walked the short distance to the complex, and I held the map in my hand, occasionally noting that the Danites continued to trail us. How were they different from the Spazi? I wasn’t sure, only that it felt like we’d been shadowed for half our lives when, in reality, it had been something like two months. Or had it? Weren’t we shadowed by government most of our lives, one way or the other?
Outside, the sky was mostly clear, but the wind blew, far more than in New Bruges, but not quite so cold. Llysette still shivered within her coat.
An oval-faced woman was waiting in the lower hall outside the lecture room, neither pacing nor totally composed but worrying her lower lip. A smile of relief crossed her face as she stepped forward. Her long blue skirt nearly swept the floor, but I could see that she wore stylish boots that matched the belt that was mostly covered by the short suit jacket. Her cream blouse was silklike.
“I’m Joanne Axley, professor of voice at Deseret University.”
“Llysette duBoise,” I said for my diva, “and I’m her husband and escort, Johan Eschbach.”
“I’m so glad you could spend the time with us, Doktor duBoise. I’ve limited this group to graduate students in voice.” She smiled apologetically. “Doktor Perkins did prevail on me to let several of his graduate students sit in as well.”
“I would be happy to hear all, and offer what I might.” Llysette’s smile was professional, her voice slightly warmer than cordial.
The procedure was relatively simple. A student got up. Llysette was given a copy of the music and a little time to glance over it. Then the student went over beside the piano and sang one song and then stood and waited for Llysette’s comments.
Llysette wasn’t at a loss for words, not in teaching.
“Your dipthongs, you are letting them change the pitch.”
The blonde young woman nodded.
“When you shift to the second vowel, the pitch changes. Stay on the first vowel… . Touch lightly only the second.”
That got another nod, but I wondered about the comprehension.
“One more time… .”
The blonde cleared her throat gently and then sang.
“Non! … Like this… .”
Llysette sang the same phrase, and even I could sense the difference.
After a time, Llysette gestured toward the next student. The dark-haired girl/woman almost trembled as she stood beside the piano. I could tell that the student’s tone was good, better than that of most of the students Llysette had at Vanderbraak State, but there was no life in the song.
Apparently Llysette agreed. “Stop!” My singer shook her head sadly. “What does this verse mean?”
“It’s in Italian.”
“Ca, we know. But what do the words mean? Tell me with your own words … what does this mean?”
“Ah … Doktor … she’s singing about how she is sick and everything is hopeless.”
“Do you sound hopeless?” asked Llysette with a smile.
The dark-haired student looked confused. In the background, Joanne Axley nodded, and I understood one of the reasons for master classes. After a while students tune out their instructors. When someone famous and important says it … then the teacher—sometimes—regains credence.
“You must sing the words and the emotions. A voice, it is not a piano. It is not … a drum.”
The next student had trouble with something that Llysette called “the anticipation of the consonant.”
“The body … it knows the next sound is the consonant, and it desires to sing that consonant. That closes off the vowel. You must stay on the vowel longer… .”
The comments continued with each student.
“You squeeze your breath too much here… .”
“A nice touch there … delicate, and that it should be… .”
“Do you know the style? How must one sing this style …”
“Your neck, it is tight like a wire cable, and you have no breath on the long phrases… .”
What got me was that these were good students. I almost shuddered at what Llysette—or most voice teachers—had to go through with the others.
She motioned to one of the young men, dark-haired. “You, have you a song?”
“Ah … yes, Doktor.”
“Then sing it for me.”
She nodded as he launched into some aria I didn’t recognize, but, then, I wouldn’t have recognized most of them.
The “one-hour” master class lasted more than an hour and a half before Llysette heard the last song from the last male graduate student and Joanne Axley walked with us to the door of the lecture room.
“You’ve been very gracious … and very helpful.” Joanne Axley’s smile was warmer than the one she had offered when Llysette had arrived. Another case of Jensen—or someone—leaning hard and people being surprised after the fact?
“I would try,” Llysette said. “You have taught them well.”
“Thank you. I try.”
“They do not always listen,” Llysette added dryly. “That I know.”
“You made quite an impression.” Axley smiled brightly. “Gerald and I will be at your recital tonight. We’re looking forward to it.”
“Thank you.”
We stepped into the hall, and Axley turned back to the group, perhaps for some summary comments.
“She’s nice, but a little on edge.” I was trying to be diplomatic.
“That I understand. She is a singer. She has worked hard. She has told her students much of what I tell them. More than that, I do not doubt. They do not listen toujours. I come, and they listen.” Llysette shook her head slowly. “The students, they are so stupid at times.”
“They are, and you need to eat,” I said as we walked up the carpeted stairs to the main level.
“I must rest, and I worry about the second piece of Doktor Perkins. Last night … I was not my best.”
For a singer, I’d decided, or for Llysette, nothing short of perfection was acceptable, even when a performance was close to fantastic.
So we walked back to the Lion Inn and the performing suite, where she sat at the Haaren with the music while I ordered a lunch/dinner from room service.
I did manage to drag her from the piano when the cart table was wheeled in, partly by starting to pour some wine.
“Half a glass. That is all.”
That was all she got. I took a full glass—just one.
Llysette went through several mouthfuls of pasta before she paused.
“That class took a lot out of you? Why did you agree to it?”
“The opportunity … the performance… .” She sipped the half-glass of wine she had allowed herself.
I understood that part. It had been presented as a package deal. “But did you have to work so hard?”
“How could I not? When I was their age, no one would listen to me, not someone … like I am now.”
“You?”
“Then, in France, in the provinces … every girl would be a diva. My parents could not afford the best in teachers, and I learned the piano too late.” She paused and took a mouthful of pasta.
“At what, age twelve?”
“Twelve,” she affirmed. “Eight, it would have been better. So you see, that is why I must teach—”
“And why you get irritated with students who aren’t serious.”
“Mais oui.... They waste my time, and that time I could give to others.”
Others like little Llysette duBoise had been dying for a chance. I just swallowed and took a small sip of wine.
Between one thing and another, we got backstage at the concert hall forty-five minutes before curtain time.
Dan Perkins met us with a smile as we went backstage. “Joanne wired me,” he said. “She was pleasantly surprised at your master class. Very pleasantly surprised.”
“She should not be surprised,” said Llysette.
“I told her that.” His smile widened to a boyish grin. “And I told her that I’d told her earlier that I’d be telling her just that.”
That got me smiling, and Llysette as well.
“James B. Bird, one of my students, wired me to tell me you were outstanding.”
“Your students were better,” Llysette said.
“Don’t tell Joanne that.” He glanced toward the stage. “I need to warm up.”
“Then you should.”
He bowed and departed.
Once Llysette was settled in her dressing room and once that look crossed her face, I kissed her and eased myself out. From somewhere, I could hear the sounds of a piano—Doktor Perkins warming up.
After hearing Llysette from the audience the first night, I decided to view the proceedings from backstage the second night, although I couldn’t quite have said why. A feeling, more or less. I hoped Herr, or Brother, Jensen wouldn’t be too displeased.
I found a stool, which I appropriated, and stationed myself in the wings on the left side of the performing area, on the left looking at the audience.
Of course, I couldn’t stay on it and found myself pacing in tight circles behind the angled partitions that provided slit views of the performing area.
Brother Jensen paused as he walked past. “Just stay behind the tape that marks the sight lines, Minister Eschbach.”
I glanced down. The stool was a good ten feet in back of the red tape on the stage. “I think we’re well clear.”
He nodded, then walked on to continue his survey of the backstage area. About that time, I heard the murmurs and rustles that signified that they’d opened the house to the audience.
In time, the five-minute lights blinked, and then the chimes warbled. But the murmurs continued from the hall as more Saints filed in—late—and it was nearly fifteen minutes later before Llysette came out from the corridor from the dressing rooms, accompanied by Dan Perkins. I smiled as they neared and got a warm but puzzled smile in return. “You are here?”
“I thought I’d watch from here. Less company.” I grinned. “Your admiring public is waiting.”
“Jillian didn’t come tonight,” said Perkins. “She said it was too nerve-racking, with all the crowds. It’s easier to perform than watch.” He offered that boyish grin. “For me, anyway.”
“I don’t know. I can’t perform.” I reached out and squeezed Llysette’s hand.
As they stepped toward the stage, I had to wonder why they’d both gotten tied up with people who weren’t thrilled with crowds. Then, my experience with the Spazi and in politics had inevitably led me to the conclusion that crowds tended to bring out the worst in people.
Llysette and Perkins stepped into the light, and the applause built and slowly died away. They waited until the hall was perfectly still before his fingers drew the first notes of the Handel from the big Steinbach.
I turned to my left, where a stagehand had eased up slightly more than a dozen feet away, partly shielded by one of the side partitions, apparently to watch the concert. He wore, like most of them, dark trousers and shirt and the ubiquitous leather equipment belt.
Llysette’s voice rose with and over the Steinbach, but I couldn’t concentrate on her singing.
The stagehand was dark-haired, and he watched Llysette intently. Too intently. Even with my poor sense of rhythm I could tell he wasn’t following the music.
He eased forward, still well out of sight of the audience.
My fingers felt like thumbs as I got out the calculator and fumbled the pen and pencil into the rubber-screened holes, even while I slipped from my stool and edged toward the blackshirted figure, slow step by slow step.
Llysette’s voice glided across the Handel and toward the end.
With the applause, the dark-haired stagehand took another step toward the stage, his hand straying toward the shirt that was too loose, Deseret or not.
With the glint of metal and the thundering applause, I jammed the calculator’s delete key.
The thump of his body and the dull clunk of the dropped revolver were lost in the applause, for which I was thankful. Bruce’s disassociator beam was so tight I didn’t even feel that shuddery twisting. I hoped Llysette didn’t either, but I hadn’t had much choice.
The calculator went into my jacket pocket after I reached the unconscious figure and bent down. I shook my head—another zombie.
A dark-suited figure appeared beside me, one with that air that signified professionalism. His fingers checked the prone stagehand. “Neatly done, Doktor,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t think you’d reach him in time. He’ll have quite a headache, I imagine.”
“Who are you?” I asked, keeping my voice low but straightening and stepping back. Who knew who else might be around?
“Danite Johnson. First Counselor Cannon asked us to keep a watch on the performances. This one slipped by.” His eyes continued to survey the backstage area.
Two more Danites appeared and quietly carted the intruder off.
Llysette went to the Mozart, apparently undisturbed—and that got another powerful ovation. So did the Debussy.
After the first half, I slipped out of sight, back along the rear wall, still watching Llysette’s dressing room, but placed so it would be hard for her to see me. I didn’t want to interrupt her concentration or to let her see me too closely. She’d know that I was upset. One of the uniformed guards remained by her door from the entire time she entered until she headed back toward the stage with Dan Perkins.
The audience got more and more enthused with each song in the second part of the program, and it wasn’t clear if the ovations after the encore would ever end.
I hugged Llysette once she cleared the stage. “You were wonderful.” And I meant it.
“I wasn’t sure how it could be better than last night,” added Perkins, “but she was. We’ve got some incredible recordings, if they didn’t have technical problems.”
That was about as far we got at that moment, because people began appearing from everywhere. There were more admirers and a lot more guards, both those in serge blue uniforms and Danites. And I could see the hidden and portable scanners. While I admired the efficiency, I got an even colder feeling, because it was clear someone had let the presumed Austro-Hungarian agent in. Then, he could have been one of deGaulle’s as well. Either way, his presence had been permitted, and that meant Deseret was no different from Columbia or anywhere else.
When the last admirers finally left and Llysette was beginning to sniffle amid another pile of flowers, I looked at her.
Should I tell her? If someone else did, that would upset her even more. I took a deep breath.
“You had another fan backstage,” I finally said.
“A fan?”
“I think he was invited by your former friend Ferdinand. He’s now getting a rest cure, courtesy of the Saints.”
Llysette’s eyes widened. “Backstage you were… . Was that why?”
“Just a feeling,” I admitted. “I didn’t think anyone would try something opening night. People let down their guards after opening night. So… .” I shrugged.
“There was a coldness after the Handel, but I sang.”
Brother Jensen, nearing with a pair of Danites, frowned at her words.
“I tried to be quiet, and I hoped it wouldn’t upset you.”
“What drew you to the intruder?” asked Brother Jensen.
“He just didn’t feel right.” What I didn’t want to say was that, for some reason, the Saint security had let him into the backstage area. Were they watching me? If so, I’d fallen for the trap, and that meant trouble … but how could I have risked letting Llysette get shot?
Someone clearly knew that, as well, and that left me feeling even more helpless.
“Tonight, you must take the steamer,” Jensen insisted.
Neither of us was about to argue and after Llysette changed, we followed him down a long ramp, flanked by Danites, two of them carrying more of the flowers. With Llysette’s garment bag over my shoulder and my fingers concealed by it, I checked the hidden belt knife, then the calculator components.
We needed neither. A shimmering Browning—brown, of course—waited below with Heber at the wheel.
We sat back in the dark leather seats of the Browning as it crept from the garage underneath the performing complex up a concrete ramp and around two corners and onto the street, going around the block to bring us in under the canopy of the Lion Inn.
“It is sad. One concert, and now I can no longer walk a few meters.”
It was more than sad. I nodded.