Grantville Gazette Volume 27 Read online

  Johann's eyes never strayed far from Fraulein Staci. She pulled on a faded blue jacket while she chattered to Marla and Casey, then picked up a cap of the style the up-timers called baseball and placed it on her head. It was black, with a large orange P symbol on the front of it. It occurred to him that she looked even more like a boy than before. She caught him looking at her, and grinned at him.

  He pointed to the cap. She looked puzzled and pulled it off.

  "What does the letter stand for?" he asked, stepping closer.

  "Pittsburgh." Staci put the cap back on and tugged it into place.

  "Pittsburgh." He rolled the word around in his mind, and made the obvious translation. "Fort Pitt?"

  "Yep. That's what the first structure was for a city in the up-time state of Pennsylvania. Became a very large city, about a hundred miles north of where Grantville was before the Ring fell. This," Staci touched a finger to the bill of the cap, "is from the city's baseball team, called the Pirates." She started closing snaps on the front of the jacket. Casey stepped up beside her and they started toward the door.

  Johann fell in on the other side of her. "Did someone in your family play for this baseball team?" He'd been to Grantville. He congratulated himself on knowing what baseball was.

  Both the young women broke out in laughter. "No, no," Staci gasped after a few moments. Johann held the door open and followed them out into the night air. "Not that my dad didn't try to get my brothers interested in the idea. No, Dad is a big fan of the Pirates." She tilted her head and looked over at Johann. "Actually, I guess was a big fan is the way to say it. About the biggest in Grantville, and that's saying something. And he and all his baseball buddies went into mourning when the shock of the Ring of Fire wore off and they realized they'd never see another Pirates game. No more games on TV, no more weekend trips up to Pittsburgh to see them play. It was downright gloomy around the house for a long time. They picked up on the local games when those started, but it wasn't the same. That was one of the reasons why I took the teacher's job here in Magdeburg."

  "One of them," Casey snickered.

  Staci shoved her friend's shoulder, causing her to stagger a step or two. "You should talk. You were the one egging me on. You just wanted a roommate so you could be closer to Carl Schockley."

  "So you teach?" Johann prompted.

  "Yeah, that's my day job."

  "Day job?"

  "It's what I do to feed myself and pay my expenses. It's not who I am, though. I don't want to be known at the end of my life as a teacher. Not that there's anything wrong with that," she hurried to say. "It's just that I'd rather have something on my tombstone besides 'She taught grammar to five thousand four hundred and ninety-seven snot-nosed little girls.'"

  Casey laughed again.

  "I'm serious," Staci maintained. She looked around as they wandered down the street. Johann knew more or less where they were, but wasn't sure where they were going. He was content to let them guide his steps.

  Staci shivered. "I still have trouble getting used to how crowded the houses are here in Magdeburg."

  Crowded? Johann looked around. Everything looked normal to him.

  "I mean," she continued, "they're all built right next to each other, walls touching. There's no yards, there's no space. You've been to Grantville," Staci appealed to Johann, "you know what I mean. Even in the downtown district there's room. Here, except for the new boulevards, most of the streets are so narrow I can stand in the middle and almost touch the buildings on both sides."

  Johann tried to see through the eyes of an up-timer, and began to understand what she was talking about. He remembered all the open spaces in the town, all the wide avenues and large lawns and gardens. He also remembered thinking that the up-time must have been very rich for everyone to live on private estates. Now he looked around with that vision, and understood why Staci shivered. The only wide open spaces in Magdeburg were the space around the Dom, and Hans Richter Square and the Gustavstrasse that led into it. Well, and the places where buildings that had burned in Tilly's sack of the city had not been rebuilt yet, but he supposed those didn't count.

  "It is the way it is done here and now," he said with a shrug. "Perhaps in time it will change, but not soon."

  Staci shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and kicked a stone down the street. "Oh, I can deal with it. It just makes me feel claustrophobic sometimes, is all." She raised her head up and the moonlight lit her smile. "Of course, having everything built close together like this does mean that no place in town is very far away from anyplace else. It's easy to walk."

  And so the three of them continued walking. "Where are we going?" Johann finally asked.

  "Home," the young women both said at the same time, which occasioned another spurt of laughter. "Not too far," Casey added.

  Staci nodded. She looked up at Johann again. "So, Johann, have you figured out yet how you're related to Johann Sebastian?"

  He shook his head. "No, the report from Grantville hasn't arrived yet. But soon, soon I will know."

  "What's so important about him, anyway?"

  Johann stopped still, astounded. The two young women went a step or two further, then turned and faced him.

  Casey laughed, he presumed at the expression on his face. "You'll have to forgive her, Johann. She's a dancer. To her, real music begins with the Romantic era composers, a hundred years after Master Bach."

  Staci slugged her friend in the shoulder again. "I'm not that bad! And you're a dancer, too."

  "Are too!" Casey slugged her back. She looked over at Johann. "I already told you I'm not much of a musician, but I know this much. Do you want to tell her, or do you want me to?"

  Johann shook his head. "How can I say this to make you see?" It amazed him that someone with Staci's talent for music didn't immediately grasp this understanding. A thought occurred to him. "Let me state it like thus: if music were a religion, Johann Sebastian Bach would be its Moses—no, Saints Peter and Paul combined."

  In an age where what religion a man professed might determine whether he was breathing by the end of the day, that was a strong statement. He could see that Staci was impressed.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll have to take your word for it. Casey's right. If I can't dance to it or sing it, I don't pay much attention to music. But that . . . if that's how important that old man is to you, then go for it. Build your organ and play his music."

  "I intend to," Johann said, pleased at her encouragement. "It may well become my life's work."

  They wandered on in silence for a space, until the ladies stopped in front of an ornate door. Johann looked at the imposing building, then back at them. He tilted his head to one side, and they laughed.

  "I'd call it our rooming house," Staci offered, "but it's actually the school, and we have an apartment in it. Thanks for seeing us home."

  Johann gave a slight bow. "It was my pleasure, frauleins. Good night to you, and until another time." He dipped his head again, then watched as they stepped up to the doorway and entered the house.

  * * *

  Casey closed the door to their room and whirled on Staci. "You, girlfriend, have got an admirer."

  "Do I?" Staci took her cap off and tossed it on the wash stand. She started unsnapping her denim jacket.

  Casey threw her hands in the air. "Staci, the man spent the entire evening watching you. Almost everything he said while you were performing were questions about you. I could barely get him to look at me."

  "What of it?"

  "What of it?" Casey snapped. "What of it? He's literate, he's educated, he knows the arts well enough that he has a chance of understanding you, and he doesn't come across as a down-time Lothario looking to conquer an up-time maiden. You might consider giving him a bit of encouragement."

  "Mmm." Staci hung her jacket on a peg in the wall, then turned back to her roommate. "First of all, you're not supposed to be flirting with other men. You're pretty locked in to Carl, as I recall. And second of all .
. . look, I admit the man is presentable, if not exactly handsome, and I'm flattered that he's asking about me. But he's years older than I am, and he's a down-timer."

  "So?"

  "So, I'm not sure he's flexible enough to accept me for what I am. I'm a dancer, I'm always going to be a dancer, and any man who comes into my life has to accept that. No, he has to do more than accept that—he has to support that."

  Staci crossed her arms and looked at her roommate. "I'll give Bach points for not being a down-time version of a jock. He's polite and well-mannered. And he appears to be everything you say he is. I'll even give him points for being passionate about his art. If anyone can understand that, I can. The question is, will he allow me to be equally passionate about my art?"

  Casey saw the expression on Staci's face shift through fleeting impressions of loneliness and fear before settling into one of resolution.

  "Can he understand me?" Staci asked.

  Although it was not a rhetorical question, Casey had no answer.

  * * *

  For a long moment Johann observed the closed door, then gave a sharp nod and turned away.

  Staci, he mused to himself. She was a woman of passion, he decided. A woman who knew what she wanted and was not afraid to say so and to work to that end. He liked that she understood his passion in turn.

  Thoughts crossed Johann's mind of Barbara Hoffmann, daughter of Johann Hoffman, Stadtpfeifer in Erfurt, his former employer. He knew there was an assumption on the part of the father and daughter that he would marry Barbara. It was such a common thing, that an ambitious musician would find an assistant's place with such a man as the Stadtpfeifer, marry one of his daughters, and eventually assume the place of the father when he died or retired.

  Johann tried to bring Barbara's visage to mind: round face, almost doughy in complexion, framed by limp brown hair, with weak short-sighted eyes peering out at the world in constant confusion and startlement. Another's face kept forming in his mind: heart-shaped, with golden hazel eyes shining dancing gleaming above smiling lips.

  His steps slowed, then stopped. Could he even think of returning to Erfurt now? Could he even think of returning to Barbara—poor, placid, insipid Barbara?

  He became aware of someone standing nearby, and looked over to see a city watchman scrutinizing him. "Are you drunk, fellow?"

  "No, merely reaching a decision."

  The watchman looked at him some more, then nodded. "Be on your way, then. Night streets are not for good citizens."

  Johann took his advice and headed for his lodgings.

  Grantville, Johann mused as he wandered, such changes you have wrought. You have rocked the crucible of Europe, winnowed the ranks of the mighty, disconcerted the minds of the philosophers and scholars and pastors. Yet even in the midst of that you have deigned to reach down and touch the life of one poor musician.

  His steps slowed, then stopped again. "God," Johann whispered. "You are indeed an Escher. What would have been my life is now revealed to be merely a figment, a parody, of what will now come to pass. I do not know your will for me for the future, but I pray that it includes both the music of Sebastian and the presence of Anastasia Matowski."

  * * *

  Two Left Feet

  Written by Iver P. Cooper

  January, 1635

  Mac Washaw had thought that after all this time as Mike Stearns' Chief of Staff, that nothing would surprise him.

  And then Federico Ballarino, Princess Kristina's dancing master, came to see him.

  * * *

  Federico took a deep breath. "I wish to make sure that Prime Minister Stearns, and his wife, are fully cognizant with all of the down-time dances which they would be expected to perform at a ball. Specifically, the inaugural ball. For the next Prime Minister."

  "I am not sure that there will be any such dances. There is a war on, you know."

  "But the war is no obstacle to dancing. Your Michael Stearns is the 'George Washington' of this United States of Europe, is he not? So I think that he will need to follow in George Washington's footsteps." He held up a biography he had borrowed from one of his fellow teachers at the high school. "It says right here that in 1779, while the Revolutionary War was still in progress, Washington and General Greene's wife Catharine danced 'upwards of three hours without once sitting down.'"

  "I wonder what General Greene thought of that."

  "I am sure that he accepted it as a courtesy to his wife, as a gentleman would. In any event, your George Washington was later honored with the first Inauguration Ball. It was held a week after the actual Inauguration, at the New York City Assembly Rooms. He danced two cotillions and a minuet."

  Mac scratched his chin. "We don't know yet whether Mike's party will win the election. Election day is February 22, and a lot can happen 'tween now and then. If the Fourth of July Party loses the national election, then it can't pick the Prime Minister.

  "And if Mike's not the Prime Minister, I don't think he would be invited to the new PM's inaugural ball. Back in America, the outgoing President and the First Lady went to the inauguration ceremony, and then left town. They let the incoming President dance the night away with his supporters."

  Federico wasn't impressed. "That may have been so in the late twentieth century. But Thomas Jefferson came to James Madison's inaugural ball in 1809. Marcus Wendell, the high school band director, told me."

  Mac's eyes strayed to the wall clock, and then back to Federico. "Marcus knew about the Madison inaugural?"

  "It was the debut of the Marine Band as 'The President's Own,' I am told." Federico snorted. "Even if there is a change of government, I am sure that Herr Wettin would invite all of the newly elected members of the USE Parliament. Not just the Crown Loyalists. And there isn't much doubt that Mike will be in the legislature. And if he wasn't, his wife would be; she's running unopposed.

  "Mike would be—what is that quaint American expression—a 'sore loser' if he failed to come."

  Mac fidgeted a bit, then said, "Well, I'll pass your proposal on. But I can't make any promises."

  "Of course not."

  * * *

  Federico decided to call upon Senator Rebecca Abrabanel. As a fellow down-timer, she would no doubt have a greater appreciation of the role of court dances in society. She might even know the dances already. Why, the Jew Guglielmo Ebreo of Pesaro had written one of the great dance treatises back in 1463.

  * * *

  But I have two left feet!" Mike complained.

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Really? A professional boxer? I thought it was about the feet and not just the hands."

  Mike put one hand on his hip, and the other forward, as if holding a cane. He stooped over, and hobbled about the room. "Eight pro fights," he moaned. "They take a lot out of a guy. Leave him a cripple, unable to dip, bob and weave. Let alone dance."

  Rebecca tried to look indignant, but cracked up instead. When she regained her composure, she declared, "Two left feet, you say? Well, then I will have to have two right feet, to match."

  * * *

  Federico bowed. "I am so glad you were able to find the time, Prime Minister."

  "Yeah, yeah." Mike toweled himself off. Galliards, he had discovered, were quite aerobic. He usually tried to get in a half-hour of exercise every day; he could mark today off, for sure.

  "You have really done quite well."

  Mike preened slightly. "I guess the boxing was good for something. So, we're done now? I can get back to running the country?" He lifted his water bottle to his lips.

  "Absolutely!" said Federico. "Same time next week?"

  Mike spewed out the water he had been drinking.

  * * *

  The dance lessons came to an abrupt halt after March 4, the day of the Dreeson Incident. A harried Rebecca sent Federico an apologetic note saying that they would reschedule after the funeral, but the days became weeks, and Federico eventually filled that slot in his schedule with another pupil.

  Mike went back
to the business of governing. He continued to exercise and, if he ever threw a caper or two from their galliard routine into his calisthenics, well, it was when he was working out in private, and no one else was aware of it.

  In April, the ball invitations went out, as Federico had predicted, to all of the members of the incoming Parliament. However, the Crown Loyalists were practically singing "Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead," which didn't inspire much enthusiasm for good sportsmanship on the part of the Fourth of July Party members.

  The Inaugural Ball was held in June, but attendance-wise it was a rather lopsided affair. Even the imperial court treated it more or less like a dead rat in the bed. The emperor was out-of-town on urgent military business; the Princess Kristina was "indisposed"; and General Torstensson's appearance was so short that Federico quipped that he remembered it only as a consequence of persistence of vision.

  Federico, as the imperial dancing master, had been obligated to attend. He eventually gave a full report on the event to a morbidly fascinated Rebecca. Which he ended with the line, "And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

  July, 1635

  Mike and Rebecca came down to Grantville for the Fourth of July festivities, of course. They saw Federico, and chatted it a bit.

  After he left, Mike said to Rebecca, "I hope you weren't too disappointed about not getting to dance that galliard."

  "A bit, yes. But the time and place, not to mention the people, weren't right. How about you? Any regrets, now that you know that you don't have two left feet?"

  "I suppose." Mike thought this to be a safe admission.

  "Good," said Rebecca. "Then we will go to the square dance tonight."

  "Square dance? Wait . . . you don't know how to square dance, do you. . . ."