Ghosts of Columbia (56 page)

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Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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“Here we are.” The Deseret official gestured to a shiny brown steamer.
It was a make I’d not seen before, a Browning, and far more square and angular than my Stanley, but effectively the size of a limousine, even if Brother Jensen hadn’t called it that. Was it named after another development from the arms makers? I didn’t know. I wondered what else I didn’t know and would find out.
Jensen opened the square rear door and helped me load the bags. I laid the garment bag on top.
“Performing clothes, I’d wager.”
“To Deseret standards,” I added.
“Good. Some folks have trouble with that.”
“When in Rome …”
Jensen closed the rear door. I turned, wondering what to do with the cart, but a man in a brown jumpsuit had already collected it and several others and was wheeling them back inside.
A clean-shaven young man sat behind the steamer’s wheel. He wore a dark green jacket, almost a military blouse, but with no brass and no insignia.
Jensen opened the door and inclined his head to Llysette for her to enter.
“
Mercy.
”
The Browning had bench seats in the section behind the driver, the kind facing each other. I sat by Llysette, and Jensen sat across from us.
“I’m afraid that the route to the city isn’t the most scenic,” apologized Brother Jensen. “The aerodrome has to be here in the flat south of the lake. Because of the winds, I’m told.” He smiled. “I understand that neither of you has been here before.”
“You understand correctly.”
“I’d like to go over a few basics. It avoids misunderstandings. I assume you read the background materials I sent with the contract.”
“
Mais oui,
” said Llysette politely, not quite coldly.
“Yes.”
Jensen turned and nodded to the driver. The Browning eased away from the aerodrome building.
“Good. We won’t have to go over those. You’ll see women with hats—that’s a tradition, but not a requirement.”
“Unlike the business of no bare shoulders?”
Jensen nodded. “I should also point out a few other things. Profane language bothers people here, even if it’s casual and accepted language elsewhere. Also, although it’s common in Columbia, it would be better if”—he inclined his head to Llysette—“you were accompanied in public, by either Minister Eschbach or Doktor Perkins or myself, if they’re unavailable.”
Llysette’s face hardened ever so slightly, although she merely nodded.
“Now.” Jensen cleared his throat. “On to a few more mundane items. The city is on a grid system. All the towns and cities in Deseret are. The main north-south street is always Main Street, and the main east-west street is Center Street.” Jensen laughed. “Except here in Great Salt Lake. The north-south street is Temple, and the part north of the Temple is North Temple and the part south—”
“Is South Temple?”
“That’s right. So if an address is two hundred west, two hundred south, you can tell that it’s two blocks south of the center of the city and two blocks west.”
I nodded. That seemed simple and logical—too logical for a sect that was supposedly based on mystical revelations translated from golden tablets that only three or four people had ever seen, none of whom had lived past the Nauvoo Massacres.
Then again, given the hostility that had driven the Saints from Columbia out into Deseret, I couldn’t say I blamed them for some of what they’d done.
Jensen gestured out the window again. “There is the Temple. The building with the rounded roof is the Tabernacle.”
“Is that where the Saints’ Choir—?” ventured Llysette.
“Yes. They practice and broadcast from there. Also the General Conferences are broadcast from there as well.”
“Once I heard them, in Orleans.” Llysette nodded. “Many years ago when I was young.”
The Temple was all I had expected, its towers white and shimmering on the hillside, immediately surrounded by what appeared to be white walls, browned grass and leafless trees, and a few evergreens. The Saints had emphasized the Temple’s grandeur by keeping the buildings around it low.
The uniformed driver eased the Browning off the expressway and onto a wide boulevard heading north in the general direction of the Temple.
A series of interconnected white stone buildings appeared on the left.
“There’s the Salt Palace performing complex, where you’ll be singing. The Lion House Inn is where you’ll be staying,” offered Jensen. “It’s straight ahead, but I’m having Heber take you around the Temple just so you can get an idea of the area. The original Lion House is a museum. It was the home of Brigham Young. We’ll pass that after the Temple.”
“He was the second prophet? The one who founded Deseret?”
Jensen nodded before continuing. “You can change your money, as you need it, at the Inn.” He shifted and handed an envelope to me but looked at Llysette. “This is just a hundred dollars, but that should hold you until you get settled.” His eyes flicked back and forth, as if he were unsure as to whom he should be addressing.
Since it appeared expected, I opened the envelope. There were ten notes, each ten Deseret dollars. Each note held a picture of the Temple on one side, with a bannered motto beneath that read: “Holiness to the Lord.” On the other side was a likeness, but it wasn’t that of Joseph Smith or Brigham Young but of someone called Taylor.
“Thank you.” I slipped the envelope into my jacket pocket. “We can return it later—”
“Please … it’s just a courtesy, and we’d feel better about it.”
I didn’t protest, and I doubted Llysette would either.
The driver turned the Browning again, onto West Temple South. Two blocks later, we passed the Temple, surrounded by white stone walls and heavy wrought-iron gates, all swung wide open.
“Here’s the Temple.”
The Browning came to a brief halt, and I could see that the Temple wasn’t quite so white as it had looked from a distance, but it was impressive nonetheless, especially with the gold angel suspended above one tower. I could see perhaps a hundred figures in groups scattered around the walks and gardens, despite the chill winds. After a moment, Jensen nodded, and the Browning pulled away.
Just beyond the Temple, where the street signs changed from West Temple South to East Temple South, we passed another turn-of-the century complex, with interlocked buildings and covered walkways.
“The Lion House.”
Right past the Lion House was a bronze memorial, a monument apparently to a bird, but I didn’t want to ask. Abruptly the houses grew larger.
“
Pourquoi
… why is that house … many houses?” Llysette pointed toward a compound, almost, surrounded by a white iron fence that was head-high. Four good-sized houses surrounded an even larger structure.
“Oh, that’s the older Eccles house. Each wife has her own house, but the main house is where the family gathers for home firesides and family home evenings and the like.”
I could see the reasoning, particularly if the custom had started with the
polygamy of more than a century earlier. Effectively, the ghost of a wife who died would be restricted to her own house.
Llysette’s face remained calm, but her hands tightened around her purse and her gloves.
After several blocks more, the driver turned north again.
“Up the hills in that direction”—Jensen pointed generally eastward—“that’s where the University of Deseret is.”
We passed more of the oversize and well-established dwellings. “A number of the Seventy reside in this area.”
“The Seventy?” asked Llysette.
“The Quorum of the Seventy,” answered Jensen. “That’s the body below the Apostles, in a way.”
Llysette offered a Gallic nod.
The Lion Inn was a squarish white marble building, of perhaps six stories, less than three blocks from the Salt Palace complex. The awning under which Heber pulled the Browning was a forest green, trimmed in gold, and a doorman in a green suit, piped in gold, was unloading the bags even as Llysette stepped out onto the polished bricks of the walk.
Another doorman held wide the golden wood and brass-trimmed door that led into the carpeted and hushed lobby.
The concierge looked up expectantly as the three of us neared. “Brother Jensen.”
“This is Doktor Llysette duBoise and her husband, Minister Johan Eschbach.”
“We are pleased to have you as our guest.” The clean-shaven blond concierge nodded to Llysette.
“The performance suite.”
“Yes, Brother Jensen. The nonsmoking one?”
Jensen turned to us.
“Definitely,” I said.
A faint smile crossed the concierge’s face. Approval, I thought.
Even the interior of the elevator was paneled in golden oak and trimmed in shimmering brass. The floor was a white marble tile. Jensen pressed the “six,” and the lift hummed upward.
Brother Jensen turned left off the elevator, and we followed. He paused at the door to the suite, then bowed and handed a folder to Llysette. “This has the rehearsal schedules, as well as Doktor Perkins’ wireset number, and some information about the hall and an advance copy of the program—the one you and Doktor Perkins approved. The master classes will be held in the small recital hall. It’s marked on the map.” He unlocked the door, then handed the two keys to me.
We stepped inside and onto a thick pale green carpet. My boots sank into the pile. The walls were a cream damasked rose pattern, and the crown moldings were cream as well.
The performance suite was capacious indeed. The space contained a master bedroom with a triple-width bed and two separate attached bathrooms, a living room, and a small kitchenlike area, with an eating nook overlooking a balcony. From the windows and the balcony it looked almost like I could have thrown a rock and hit the northernmost buildings of the Salt Palace performing complex.
The suite was definitely for performers. There was even a console piano on one wall of the sitting area—a Haaren. I had to smile at that. I just hoped it was tuned.
“I’ve taken the liberty of including several bottles of wine in the cooler. Alcoholic beverages aren’t permitted for Saints, and they’re not served in the restaurants, but there is a dispensation for visiting dignitaries.”
“We appreciate the consideration,” I said politely, “and all your arrangements.”
“You have been most kind,” Llysette added.
“If you wish to eat in the Inn, just put the meals on the room bill, and we’ll take care of them. That is a standard part of the contract. If you wish to eat elsewhere, leave the receipts for me with the concierge, and I’ll ensure you’re reimbursed—for the two of you.” Jensen frowned momentarily, then continued. “I think I’ve covered everything, but if you have any questions, please feel free to wire at any time.” He bowed at the door and was gone.
I glanced around the suite, certainly more palatial than anywhere I’d ever stayed. “They certainly are treating you like royalty.”
“No wine?” Llysette snorted.
“You get wine. You’ll just have to enjoy it here and not in the restaurants. He even got that right.” Except how they had known? … That was another question that bothered me, unless they did it for all outsiders. “Do you want to eat, or do you want to clean up?”
“A bath, I would like. Is there any food here in the room?”
I crossed to the kitchen area and opened the cabinet—only a small range of china and glasses. Then came the cooler—where there were five bottles of wine and some cheeses and packages of crackers and two apples wrapped in foil.
“Apples and cheeses and crackers.”
“
Assez
. I will bathe, and you can shower in your own bath.”
“I forgot that.”
So I started slicing apples and cheese to the background noise of running water.
L
lysette’s first rehearsal was scheduled for ten o’clock, and that meant not sleeping too late on Tuesday. She wore a dark green dress with a tan jacket, both tailored, but loose-fitting enough for her to sing. She’d end up removing the jacket. I knew how hot she got once she was really working. ,
Singing was athletic, and I’d never appreciated that until I’d met Llysette and watched her work.
“Are you ready?” I glanced toward the door of the suite.
“
Mais oui.
”
“Do you mind eating downstairs?”
“
Non
. I do not like staying in a room, even one as large as this.”
I understood. She even hesitated about closing the bedroom door, or any door. At times, I hated, really hated, Ferdinand. Then, probably a third of Europe still did.
She smiled. “You wish to observe?”
She was right about that. We hadn’t observed much the day before, just taken a short walk in the wind up to the Temple, only to find the grounds were closed on Monday afternoons for maintenance. So we’d just wandered back to the hotel and taken a nap and eaten and slept. The dirigible trip shouldn’t have been that tiring, but it had been. I could tell that because nothing seemed quite real, foreign country or not, despite all my worries and all the Spazi briefing materials.
No one else was about on the sixth floor where we waited for the elevator. Perhaps no one else was staying on what seemed to be the suite floor—or they weren’t up yet.
Then, I had noticed the black seals on one door. I wondered how having a ghost-inhabited suite impacted on the bottom line of the Lion Inn. Hotels might provide a good market for de-ghosting equipment. I pushed that thought away. The last thing anyone needed was de-ghosting equipment available to everyone—since it also had the property of turning healthy individuals into zombies. My hand strayed to the calculator in my jacket pocket. The silver pens were in my breast pocket.
Llysette frowned but said nothing.
When we stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, I looked around for a moment before spotting the brass letters that spelled out: “The Refuge.”
“There.”
Llysette’s heels clicked on the marble as we crossed the long lobby to the Inn’s restaurant. The Refuge was white-walled, with dark green upholstered chairs and a dark gray carpet.
We didn’t even have to wait.
“This way, Fraulein duBoise.”
“Someone’s briefed them,” I whispered as we trailed the young woman to a corner booth, and a table with crisp white linens and shining silver, and a serving tray with six covered silver dishes of assorted jellies.
The menu, as expected, contained no references to coffee or tea, but they did have chocolate, for which I was grateful.
“Chocolate?” asked a smiling waiter, also fairly young, perhaps the age Walter might have been.
“Please,” I answered, gesturing to the cups.
He filled both and left the pot on the table.
The dining area was half-filled, but whether that was because it was nearly a quarter past eight or because the Lion Inn was not filled on a Tuesday—or because the food was not that good—who knew?
“Have you decided, Fraulein duBoise?”
“The second breakfast, if you please.”
“The Deseret Delight? How would you like the eggs?”
“Poached.”
He turned to me.
“I’d like the number four, but could I have eggs Bruges instead of eggs Benedict?”
The waiter raised his eyebrows. “Sir?”
“Béarnaise instead of hollandaise.”
“I can ask, sir.”
No promises there.
He returned immediately with two large orange juices and a plate of croissants. “Your breakfast won’t be long.”
“Thank you.”
Llysette sipped her orange juice and glanced around the dining room area. I had more chocolate and refilled my cup.
“There are no men with two women,” said Llysette.
She was right. There were men alone, men with other men, and men with a single woman, and one family that appeared to be traditional—husband, wife, and three children.
“I can’t explain that one way or another.” I offered a smile. “There’s probably a lot I couldn’t explain about Deseret.”
Llysette sipped her chocolate, then lowered her voice. “The women … I do not understand them.”
I didn’t either. They had secret ballots and the right to vote, but they seemed to accept a secondary status. Then, maybe the elections were a sham, except
Jerome’s briefing materials indicated that the elections for the Seventy—a sort of theocratic parliament—were real and that the unofficial Women’s Party had effectively blocked several candidates.
“Your breakfast, fräulein, Doktor.” The waiter’s smile seemed pasted in place as he set the orders before us.
I had eggs Bruges—they actually had them. A lot of restaurants think that béarnaise goes only with meat, but the Lion Inn either didn’t or was under orders to cater to us.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Is there anything else?”
Llysette and I looked at each other.
“No, thank you.”
We were both hungry, and we didn’t talk that much.
After breakfast, we went back upstairs.
As Llysette washed up, I glanced through the
Deseret Star
—“Proclaiming the News of Zion and the World.” The paper had been laid out on the table outside our door.
In the Arts section, there was actually a small article:
… the noted Columbian soprano arrived in Great Salt Lake yesterday to prepare for a series of concerts with Doktor Daniel Perkins, the world-famed composer and accompanist… . The first concert will be Thursday evening at 8:00… . Among the works presented will be several of Doktor Perkins’s compositions, including the well-known
Lord of Sand …
based on a poem by F. George Evans… . First Counselor Cannon hailed the concert as a “widening of cultural horizons” … he is expected to be present.
Another article also caught my eye:
GREAT SALT LAKE CITY (DNS). Police arrested yesterday two men wanted in connection with the vehicular homicide of Second Counselor Leavitt last September. Pending full identification, their names were not released.
Although the two were arrested in a hideout in the warehouse district, police spokesman Jared Bishopp denied that the arrests had anything to do with the “pornographic material” raids that have been ongoing in the area… .
Bishopp also denied that the raids had any connection with the death of Deseret University professor R. Jedediah Grant. Grant, a difference systems expert, burned to death in a mysterious fire in his steamer last week.
“I’ll bet,” I murmured to myself. “All coincidence.” I couldn’t help but think about the fact that the press had referred to Llysette, again, as a noted Columbian soprano.
After she touched up her makeup, I got out our overcoats—it was still cloudy and cold-looking outside. Then we took the elevator down to the lobby.
Llysette tucked the black leather music folder under her arm, not that she’d need the music, except to go over with her accompanist, who was supposed to be the composer. I wondered if he’d use music for his own pieces.
The morning was gray, with brown overtones from the polluted air, and a cold wind whipped around us as we walked down First Street West. According to the maps Brother Jensen had left, we would enter the concert hall through the second door.
A single white-haired guard in green sat at a kiosk just inside the single unlocked glass door. “Hall’s closed, sir.”
“This is Llysette duBoise. She has a rehearsal this morning with Doktor Perkins.” I offered a smile.
“Be a moment.” The guard straightened, then rummaged through a folder and looked at something, then at Llysette. “Looks like you, miss.” He smiled. “I’ll bet you sing as good as you look, little lady.”
I could feel Llysette stiffen, but she managed a smile. “We do try.”
The foyer inside the doors stretched nearly fifty meters in each direction and was covered in a green pile carpet. The dimness of the light and the Corinthian pillars, mixed with what I would have sworn were Egyptian half-obelisks, imparted an air of a museum—or a ruin.
I guided Llysette toward the one door to the hall that was propped open. The concert hall proper was enormous, big enough for nearly three thousand people, I guessed, as we walked down the maroon carpet past dark upholstered seats toward the lighted stage where two men stood.
I strained to listen as we neared.
“… don’t care … let the music be good and so will the concert …”
“… make it good, Brother Perkins … too much rides on this …”
“If I could make … that should not …” The clean-shaven Perkins shook his head and turned. “Doktor duBoise!”
Llysette acknowledged his words with a nod.
“There’s a set of temporary steps at the side there.”
We took them and met the two men by the end of the concert Steinbach.
“And this must be the famous Minister Eschbach.” Perkins smiled warmly.
“Scarcely famous,” I protested.
“I’m Dan Perkins. It’s so good to meet you, Mademoiselle duBoise.” He looked first at Llysette and then in my direction. “Or is it Fraulein or Frau?”
“She sings as Fraulein or Mademoiselle, but technically she’s both a doktor and
a professor.” Somehow I’d thought he’d be bigger, but I was nearly half a head taller than he was.
“A professional in every sense of the word.” He offered a boyish smile that belied the tinge of white in his blond hair and gestured toward the man with the blond beard beside him. “This is Brother Hansen. James V. Hansen. He’s with the culture people for now.”
Hansen bowed from the waist. “A pleasure to meet you both.” His smile was friendly and almost as practiced as a politician’s. “You are punctual … unlike some … artists… .”
I took Llysette’s overcoat, and she opened the folder.
“Some questions … before we commence?”
“Of course.” Perkins almost sounded happy that she had questions.
I retreated back down to the hall. Standing around would only make them, or me, uncomfortable and slow things down.
I sat in the darkened third row, just out of the lights. Hansen sat on the end of the front row, where he could survey both the empty hall and the stage, and his eyes were never still. He was solid, blond-haired like so many of the Saints seemed to be, and wore a gray suit that was conservative in cut but with a fine green stripe that would have been considered almost frivolous in Asten. I hadn’t missed the slight bulge in the coat either or the thickness around the waist. He was also older, possibly even older than I was, and that bothered me.
Good covert agents, and I’d liked to think I had been one, had to go on feelings as much as on cold logic, but that was always hard to explain in debriefs. I’d have hated to explain in writing, even in something as frivolous as a spy novel. They always make spies out as either cold calculators or dashing romantics, when most of us were men trying to handle impossible jobs any way we could—like Hansen apparently was.
Brother Hansen, for all his charming smiles, was the Saint equivalent of a Spazi agent, and he’d been talking to the composer and waiting for us. I tried to think as Llysette and Perkins began to go through the concert schedule but found myself drawn into the music. I could tell Perkins was as good an accompanist as I’d ever heard, and even after a few minutes I could tell the concert was going to be something special.
When they got to his pieces, several times he stopped and talked to her, but I couldn’t really catch the words, except that he seemed to be explaining what he’d had in mind. Like most artists, he explained with his hands and his intonations, perhaps more than with his words.
Once, right after we’d been married, I’d wondered what would happen, what could possibly happen, to two upcountry academics. Well … something had, and I wasn’t quite sure I was ready for it. The rehearsal just reemphasized the feeling I had that Llysette duBoise was about to be rediscovered—and then some.
Hansen sat and listened and watched, seemingly ignoring me, and I sat and listened and watched all three.
After they finished, and it must have taken nearly three hours, Llysette turned backstage, apparently heading for a dressing room or a ladies’ room or both. After a moment, Hansen walked up to Perkins. I listened in the darkness at the side of the stage, just short of the temporary stairs. I had both overcoats across my arm.
“… you were right… .”
Perkins grinned boyishly again and shook his head. “… better even than … they’ve got quite a surprise coming. Wait until she has an audience. I can tell.”

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