Lanceheim (9 page)

“But that's so sick,” interrupted Agnes Python.

No one could mistake the irritation in her voice, and for once she was not only speaking for herself.

“I'm getting tired of hearing these idiotic similes,” she continued. “What does he mean by talking like that? Does he even know what he means?”

A buzz immediately went through the barn, the confirmands turned to each other to exchange quick comments. It was a relief that someone had finally dared say it. Maximilian remained unperturbed.

“Can you perhaps explain what you mean?” asked All-deacon Chiradello as the buzz subsided.

“The one who owns a train seldom lacks cars,” Maximilian clarified, and continued. “A stuffed animal came wandering along the road. On the field beside him was a scythe, and on the scythe spiders had spun their webs. In the grass a stuffed animal was sleeping. The scythe was the sleeping animal's tool. ‘Shall you not get up and use your scythe?' asked the wanderer. ‘No, I don't have the energy for that,' answered the animal in the grass. ‘The desire exists, and the understanding of what must be done, but no longer the energy.' Then the wanderer took the scythe and threw it into the field so that it disappeared from sight. ‘Now your desire and your understanding will soon be as little as your
energy,' said the wanderer. And with that he continued along the road.”

It was silent in the barn, so silent that Chiradello could hear his own heart beating. Never before had they heard Maximilian say so many words at one time. No one understood what he meant by his story, but the confirmands could see from Chiradello that something significant had occurred, and they felt a kind of veneration before the moment. Even Agnes Python kept quiet.

I have to contact Chaffinch, thought Chiradello. I can no longer keep this to myself.

 

During the weeks of
confirmation camp the sabbath was observed. As long as the Morning Rain and the Afternoon Rain fell, the pupils were forced to pray one or more of the fifteen prayers that could be read in Noah Whale's part of the Proclamations. The only exception was made on the day before the confirmation itself, a day filled with preparations and nervousness. Then suddenly a “dignified” cleaning of the cupboards in the dormitory was allowed. The modern-day church's concept of what was and was not allowed during the two periods of rain during the day was somewhat diffuse. There was talk of “dignity” or “contemplation,” but exactly what this meant remained unclear to the confirmands. There was of course a long list of prohibitions, but the list was taken from the Proclamations and in need of contemporary adaptation.

After breakfast, everyone gathered out in the barn. All-deacon Chiradello went through the program. By afternoon they would all leave for the city, and the confirmands would sleep in their own homes the night before the solemn ritual. Early the next morning there would be a gathering in the church in Kerkeling. Then Chiradello proceeded to describe the ceremony as expected, practically speaking, minute by
minute. The questioning itself would take place right before lunch, and then it was time for the confirmation.

The last day at the farm was devoted to cleaning, and Chiradello took the opportunity to quiz the cubs one last time on the questions that awaited the next day. The answers came like running water; it was not the idea that anyone should fail.

The bus that was to drive the cubs back to their homes showed up right before the Afternoon Rain. The confirmands fell into line, and one by one they climbed aboard. At the door of the bus Chiradello stood and said good-bye. Maximilian was the last in line, and when it was his turn, Chiradello said, “I can drive you in a little later—there is someone I want you to meet first.” He then made a gesture to the bus driver, who closed the door and drove off with seventeen soon-to-be confirmands.

 

“So we meet again,”
said Adam Chaffinch.

The chaffinch was sitting on one of the eighteen chairs that were still in a half-moon formation in the middle of the barn, and he got up when Maximilian and Chiradello came in. He had on a long black suit, under which his gray plumage stuck out. His eyes were dark, and his beak was stern.

“We've met before,” he continued. “A few years ago, in Sagrada Bastante, where we carried on an exciting discussion. Didn't we?”

Maximilian nodded and smiled vaguely. All three of them sat down.

“I am Adam Chaffinch. I work in Kerkeling Parish, and tomorrow I am the one who will confirm you and your friends.”

Maximilian nodded again. There was not a trace of friendliness in the chaffinch's voice; he spoke as if he were preaching.

“But I have a proposal that I think you should consider. I know that you have applied to Lanceheim's Normal School, and there is nothing wrong with that. But if you would prefer, I can offer you a place at Kerkeling High School. It is the only educational institution run by the church in Mollisan Town, and we do it because we sometimes feel that special talent is at risk of being lost if a little extra care isn't taken with it. The high school is a kind of boarding school, which means that you get to stay in an apartment right next to the school.”

“Take it,” urged Chiradello, turning directly to Maximilian. “Kerkeling High School will suit you much better than Lanceheim Normal.”

“I thought this when we first met in Sagrada Bastante,” said Adam, “and Seal Pup has had the same impression during the weeks you have spent together. We believe that with the extra attention we can give you in Kerkeling, you will be able to develop even quicker.”

“Take it,” repeated Chiradello.

Adam got up.

“I'm on my way,” he said. “This is not something you need to decide right now. Speak with your parents, and then you can get back to me when you have thought about the matter.”

Maximilian also got up, and nodded again. Thoughtfully he said, “A jump rope is only a rope if no one jumps.”

Chaffinch nodded, smiled an ambiguous smile, and left the barn.

R
euben Walrus was under considerable pressure.

That was his excuse.

The illness was gnawing deeper and deeper into his awareness. At times he imagined tiny microbes literally eating up the cells in his ear passages. The rehearsals progressed, but more by randomly skidding in the right direction than by the orchestra taking clear, determined steps with steady improvement. It was Sunday, the sixth day of rehearsals. Dag Chihuahua, the philharmonic's first violinist, snorted audibly.

“I can't work if I think about it,” he said shaken up, setting aside his bow on the edge of the stage. “It doesn't work. I'm sorry. In my eyes nothing has changed. I don't intend to be nice.”

“Nothing would be more foreign to you,” Reuben corroborated.

They were standing a short distance away from the orchestra and talking so that no one could hear them. Chihuahua was wearing a sky blue velvet jacket with a dark red silk scarf around his neck instead of a tie. His large eyes
swayed uneasily in his head, and the narrow nose bobbed downward as he spoke.

“Not being able to present a finished piece is unforgivable, Mr. Walrus,” he continued. “How do you think a professional musician can interpret the symphony without knowing the ending? You have only yourself to blame for the uncertainty you are hearing in the orchestra, Mr. Walrus. Give us the final movement—then we will give you the strength and sensitivity of which we are capable.”

“Dag, I—”

“And I don't want to hear anything about your…condition,” objected Chihuahua.

“Dag, I—”

“Not a word!”

“How long have we known each other, Dag?” asked Walrus, forced to raise his voice in order not to be interrupted a third time. “Twenty years? Is it thirty? It's one thing that you refuse to call me by my first name, but I demand a different kind of respect. I am doing my utmost. You will get new scores tomorrow, perhaps the day after tomorrow. Until then…I do not expect…great achievements…but simply that you lead your musicians in a manner that makes us both feel…proud. That is not too much to ask.”

Chihuahua snorted.

“I'll go out and get Denise,” said Reuben, “and then we'll try again.”

And without awaiting the violinist's blessing, Reuben went out to the lobby where Denise Ant was sitting curled up in the window recess, reading. Reuben had finally given in and let her come along to the rehearsals, but he had regretted it as soon as they started this morning. Now it was too late.

“Are you coming, darling?” he said. “We're starting now.”

They went into the concert hall together. He felt heavy and stiff beside her; she moved like a romping cub. The idea struck him the very next moment: she
was
a romping cub.

The musicians on the stage resumed their places, and the customary racket broke out as the instruments were tuned and checked. After a few minutes, order was slowly restored.

Reuben and Denise went into row 15. Reuben had placed his briefcase with calculated nonchalance on seat 354 so that Denise would not sit there by accident.

“I was thinking,” said Reuben with a loud, authoritative voice to the musicians as Denise sat down, “that we should devote the afternoon to the andante of the second movement, and focus in particular on the intention behind the chromatic changes. Up till now we have played them…deliberately. As if we were full of how gifted we are. As if we were playing and at the same time admiring what we had produced. This afternoon I want to let the emotions loose. You're starting to know this. You don't need to read the notes. Forget yourselves, forget your instruments. Play because you love it. From…page fifteen in the score, second measure, the violins start on G sharp.”

Reuben raised his conductor's baton; the room was filled with tension, the discipline that a few moments ago seemed distant was again razor-sharp. And through a quiver from his fin the music exploded from the stage.

Reuben stole a glance at Denise. She was sitting on the edge of the seat, and her eyes were shining. She loved this. Being part of a world of vanity and musicality, consummate professional skill and heavenly talent. But she would never completely understand, Walrus thought with melancholy, and his thoughts wandered hastily on to his daughter, Josephine. Like Denise she was self-sacrificing and pragmatic, but she did not have the talent. So cruel, he thought.

 

Reuben Walrus stopped the
music as the orchestra musicians were on their way out of the second movement of the symphony. There was much to talk about, to think about. He knew that he was disappointing Denise—she would rather have continued listening—but the rehearsals were not for her sake. Besides, she had heard enough to be able to brag about it.

“Dag, are you coming down for a little while?” called Reuben, and Chihuahua carefully put down his violin and climbed down onto the parquet.

It was the customary procedure. The composer and the first violinist conferred, came to an agreement about what had been good and bad, and decided how criticism could best be conveyed to the orchestra to lead to positive changes.

“Will you excuse me?” Reuben asked Ant.

She nodded, with a knowing expression. It irritated Walrus that Denise presumably knew along what lines he was thinking. She had an unpleasant way of understanding him. Together with Fox von Duisburg, over the years Reuben had cultivated the role as mystical and eccentric. Through her understanding, Denise reduced him to something hopelessly predictable.

Reuben took Dag aside and discussed the weaknesses that he still thought were apparent. The soft, dreamy atmosphere that was in the composition was missing in the concert hall, the melody was forced along; it was as if the musicians were taking the notes a fraction of a second too fast. Perhaps it was primarily the brass players who were causing the problem, the tubas who were standing out?

Dag Chihuahua was not only a musician, he was a composer as well. Not on a level with Walrus, at least not in the eyes of the general public, but Reuben had the deepest
respect for the violinist's creative vein. The dog had, however, developed a combination of shyness and perfectionism that meant he very seldom managed to complete his compositions. Reuben had tried to encourage and support him as much as possible over the years, but to no end. Dag Chihuahua was a musical snob of the worst sort, which primarily affected himself.

“Can't you just ask them to shut up for once?” asked Walrus.

Chihuahua nodded. His job was to communicate the director's ideas in such a way that the orchestra did not immediately resign and leave the concert hall. Reuben was a full-blooded egotist and saw his own interests first and last; he had never devoted time to consoling or feeling. He believed this was class-related. It was about how hard you were forced to fight for your successes. It was different with animals like Dag Chihuahua, or for that matter, Fox von Duisburg. Fox had never had to fight to be seen or appreciated. From her early years she carried with her the knowledge that there would always be a place for her in Mollisan Town's upper crust. Due to that fact she could easily decline an invitation, refrain from an acquaintanceship, and quietly observe a course of events that would affect her. He had always despised this calm. When he accused her of snobbery, of elitism, she smiled amiably and asked whether the word he was actually looking for was
self-esteem
.

She was right.

This made him furious.

Dag Chihuahua concluded his conversation with the wind players, turned toward Reuben, and gave the conductor a brief nod. It was taken care of. During Chihuahua's deliberations with the tubas, the rest of the orchestra had carried on quiet conversations and, with paws over keys and
valves, practiced difficult passages silently to themselves. Now Reuben resumed command.

“We'll try again,” he called. “From the same place, and…”

He raised the baton, closed his eyes, and searched in his memory for meter and mood. Then he let loose the philharmonic.

After only a few minutes he heard the improvement. He could not keep from sneaking a glance at Denise. She was looking at him with admiration and veneration. She heard what he heard. She affirmed him. There was a connection between them that was strong.

Yet he was aware of the unexplainable.

Tonight he would lie to Denise to go over to Fox and let himself be taken care of and rebuked. If she had time. He needed Fox more than ever.

Perhaps, he thought, he could use his planned lunch meeting with Tortoise to be rid of Denise as early as this afternoon?