Grantville Gazette - Volume V (32 page)

This worry had darkened my mood enough that I was glad when Father Mazzare came back and stopped the music. Part of my gloomy thoughts vanished as if his presence had exorcised a dark spell put on me. The silence was broken, we could finally talk and we didn't have to remember to breathe anymore. It was time to think about more mundane matters.

It didn't come easily, I promise. In a single morning we had seen enough marvels to keep us busy talking for a long time. We were simply overwhelmed, drunk of Grantville. Often we feel like a group of new Marco Polos exploring the marvels of the Great Khan's Palace.

The lunch that followed, so full of answers and questions, brought us other surprises. We discovered that we didn't have to use our forks and knives to eat as they were already set on the table as thought it was a very ordinary act. Everybody here has more than one set of silverware and uses it daily. Then we ate Neapolitan
maccheroni
enriched with a dense, flavored red sauce made of
pomi d'oro
, the vegetable Americans call tomatoes. Father Mazzare was particularly amused by the idea that we were among the first Italians to eat homemade fettuccine with a tomato sauce.

I wonder if every one of us born in the seventeenth century has the same moronic look when they see Grantville for the first time. I am prone to think it is a common reaction and the Americans are not only used to it but definitely amused by it.

In the afternoon we finally made our stroll around the town. We were introduced to many parishioners met along the road, up-timers and down-timers alike. We were shown the hospital, the town council, the other churches, the stores and the other places we could use during our sojourn. We paid a visit to the bank where we used the letters of credit we brought to open what they call checking accounts. Then, following the priest's advice, we went to the local constables' headquarters where we showed our papers and made ourselves known.

It was evening when we finally finished our tour and took our leave.

While we were putting the saddles back on the horses Father Mazzare said, "Maestro, I suppose I'll see you often in church."

"Certainly," I replied.

"I'd love it if you could help me with the church chorus and maybe sometimes play the organ. It's not one of the big ones you must be used to playing, but I'd really appreciate having a professional like you offering his services to the community. Besides, this can be another useful approach to learn the sacred music composed after your time."

"It would be an honor for me, and a pleasure. I may start at your earliest convenience."

"Well, three days from now the chorus has its weekly rehearsal. Why don't you come and start getting accustomed?"

"I'll be there, Father." I said. "After such a show of kindness it is the minimum I can do for you."

The following day we met the priest a second time to go together to the high school. I was very tense and nervous because I knew that much of my research depended on what would happen that day.

Despite my tension, I didn't fail to notice that Father Mazzare was carrying two large volumes: one was named
The Catholic Encyclopedia
, the other was
The Encyclopedia Britannica
. When I asked why he was carrying such a heavy burden, he made a sibylline remark.

"Oh, this is your resume, Giacomo!"

Apparently the priest's trick worked, because, as the Americans say, I got the job.

Once in the presence of the school's principal, Mr. Saluzzo, another American of Italian origins, Father Mazzare introduced me and explained for all those present the reasons I was there.

Mr. Saluzzo seemed interested, but he began soon questioning me about my teaching experience, my knowledge of Latin and the events of my life. One of the things he was concerned about the most was my ability to teach in English.

The principal is a serious man, very competent in what he does. I'd say that, in another world, he would make a perfect member of the Company. Our discussion was all business and I soon found myself under a landslide of questions. I had to defend my position with more resolve than Horatius Cocles on the Sublician Bridge.

Americans are practical people. When they build something they first make sure it fulfills its goal and then, if it is possible, they make it beautiful. So it is for the high school. Its buildings are plain, Spartan, almost naked for an eye used to the frippery of today's architectural style, but they are perfectly designed to carry out the functions they are destined for, to teach and to learn.

The students have all the space they need, and an easy access to many important facilities. Everything is at hand, classrooms, refectory, theaters, fields where to exercise the body, alchemy rooms, music rooms and, last but not least, a library that seems to come out of long-forgotten myths. A fabulous place for the number and for the stunning quality of many of the books.

With such a vast amount of resources, I am not surprised that the school's curriculum of studies puts to shame even the best Jesuit collegium. And I know, personally, many members of the Company who would give an arm and a leg to be able to use such a formidable array of teaching tools.

I believe that the prelates who are actually serving at Saint Mary are not the only members of the Company we will see around here.

Girolamo seemed particularly impressed by the physical exercise area they call the "gym." I could see an idea was growing in his mind. So I wasn't surprised at all when, days later, he asked the principal for his permission to start a fencing class in the school. His main argument was that having students learn the arts of self defense would help in case of another raid, but I believe he is secretly pleased to teach fencing to people anywhere he goes. As usual, Girolamo's enthusiasm was highly contagious and Mr. Saluzzo accepted, on the condition that Girolamo would help buy the materials needed for the class.

Finally, in the late days of August, I was able to begin my duties at the school.

Teaching was easy. After all, it's what I've been doing in the last few years in what is considered one of the best schools in the world. Latin gave me no problem. You start with
Rosa
,
Rosae
,
Rosa
and Phaedrus and, in a few years, you end up reading Augustine of Ippona. And I have the crucial help of Mr. Cassels' Dictionary and many other schoolbooks I would be pleased to have copied and sent to you, should you find them useful.

My problems were more with the grading system and all the rules followed by the American school. Nevertheless, with the help of my colleagues, I ended up mastering that as well.

After the first few terrible, awkward days I also managed to get along well enough with the gentle sex's students and teachers who are crowding this school.

I think Girolamo had more problems with that than I did. When he started his classes he would never have believed that so many of his students would have been women. Considering how dashing he looks and how egomaniacal he is, I wasn't surprised when one day he confessed to me that he never felt so many eyes trying to strip him naked as in that first day of classes. He says they call him "Mr. Banderas," but he has not understood why yet. Anyway, I believe the thing grew on him. Now he likes to boast that he will make the finest duelist of Europe of one of those girls.

I suspect that his prejudices vanished once he discovered that, in the late twentieth century, Italian female fencers are considered the best in the world with a light blade. National pride may be useful sometimes!

Next week I will begin to teach a small group of students about Italy. I really would like them to learn more about its history, its customs and its lore, its language and its literature. Despite the fact that so many Americans have Italian origins, they don't seem to know much about my land. To teach this class I had to do a thorough research of all the material on Italian history present in the library, which is not much anyway. In the end, I will have to use mostly my notes and some material I found in Father Mazzare's personal library.

Apparently, in the up-time USA, Italy disappears from the map at the end of the Roman Empire, makes a small reappearance at the beginning of last century (Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael), and then simply vanishes until the mid-twentieth century. They know Dante's
Commedia
, but they have almost no clue of the context the poet was writing about.

When I am not at work I spend most of my time studying as I plan to tell you later. We managed to sell our horses and make a good profit on the sale. At the same time we rented a big house on the outskirts of town. It is an old house, by American standards, that has just been renewed. There is plenty space for the three of us and a couple of German valets we hired to attend to our necessities.

The basement of the house and a roofed space called "the garage" are big enough to let Girolamo set his temporary shop there. On a day in early September, escorted by a small group of apprentices who work for Johannes' father, the timbers we ordered in Fussen on our way here finally arrived. The quantity was big enough to fill the basement. Since that moment, the shop has been working almost around the clock. The house is always full of noise, and we all look as busy as bees in summertime.

We aren't the only Italians in town. The trades here employ mostly Germans and Americans, but there are a few merchants coming from Milan, Venice and Genoa. One of them is particularly envied. He managed to sell a huge quantity of a blue fabric that is made in Genoa with Egyptian cotton. The Americans are particularly fond of it.

I believe that in the weeks we have spent here we have managed to create quite a comfortable life for ourselves. We have made a few acquaintances, built a trade and found many interests to pursue. I don't want to sound vain, but I am quite proud of our accomplishments.

What about the music? You may wonder. Well, this is the part of the letter I have more problems with. It's very hard to describe the things, the sensations and the problems we have had, especially in a foreign language. But I presume this is all part of the game so I will try nonetheless in the following lines.

In my first letter I told you I felt like destiny wanted me to meet Euterpe, the muse, in Grantville. When I wrote those words I thought I was using a metaphor. But now, I believe instead that my muse is incarnated in a real woman.

It happened during our first visit to the auditorium. I remember it as if it is printed in my mind.

Imagine a large hall, the size of a medium church, the floor filled with seats. Imagine this hall empty, but for one woman playing on the stage at the other end of the hall. Imagine a beautiful, black, large harpsichordlike instrument emitting a simple, but very expressive music. Imagine notes rich in timbre and tonality, powerful and delicate at the same time and all linked together in a way I find hard to describe. Forget monody and basso continuo, surround yourself in strange dissonant harmonies, in an exotic perfume for the listening.

If you can do that, you will not be surprised then that, when Mr. Saluzzo began to say something, both Girolamo and I dared to show him the apparently universal sign to make silence. He understood.

The music lasted for just a few minutes. The woman on the stage seemed so engrossed in it that she did not notice us until the very moment the last note faded away and we exploded in a sincere and enthusiastic applause whose sound made her turn toward us. She giggled and blushed like a child caught in something that is very personal and, at the same time, something she was also very proud of.

She made a little bow, left the stage and came toward us. We were still completely enthralled by her performance.

Usually Americans tower over us down-timers; instead this woman was considerably shorter than me, her figure pleasantly full. The well-defined oval of her face is framed by long chestnut hair and underlined by beautiful, shiny, amber eyes. She moves with a natural grace that is very different from the affected grace of Italian ladies. That grace, especially when combined with her outstanding self-confidence, is equally impressive.

One of the first things I learned here is that outer looks are not so strictly an indicator of social status and morality as it is among us. This notwithstanding, it will take time to become used to the way women dress here. I am still uncomfortable when they wear pants or skirts short as the one Elizabeth was wearing that day. The whole lower part of her legs was visible. In Rome a view like that would at least cause a scandal. Here it is normal during warm days.

"What were you playing, Elizabeth?" asked Mr. Saluzzo

"Two of Satie's "Gymnopedies." I found the sheets a month ago at Mom's and I always wanted to play these pieces. They seem so simple and yet they are so incredibly expressive and touching. But why don't you introduce me to these gentlemen, Victor? I'm glad they appreciated the music."

"Gentlemen, may introduce you to Mrs. Elizabeth Jordan, our music teacher?" said the principal, while Elizabeth made a small, very gracious bow.

When addressed Girolamo answered with a very gallant bow enriched by a killer smile that he had probably used many times before. I made a fool of myself.

I have spent all my adult life in the bosom of the Holy Mother Church. I am without doubt very shy and not accustomed to talk to women, but I should have done better.

When Elizabeth stepped toward me saying "Nice to meet you, Maestro Carissimi," I answered something like "grfzgrrrrrrr," feebly and looking for cracks in the floor.

I never felt so awkward in my entire life.

Girolamo's eagerness saved me from worse shame.

"So that is a piano," he said, speaking slowly and trying to find the right words. "The sound is . . .
magnifico. C
an we please listen to more music?"

"Please, milady," I added, finally able to speak. "Forgive my clumsiness. Your performance left me completely dumbfounded, and I'm eager for more as well."

Once we arrived closer to the piano Girolamo could not help but touch and caress its smooth lines with an intensity probably reserved only for the best of his mistresses. He was staring intently at the actions inside the lid and, I think, mentally checking the differences between this instrument and spinets and harpsichords. He suddenly stopped looking the jolly fellow I knew. I've never seen him looking so serious. His gaze was saying "Whatever the costs, I have to learn!"