Space Opera (23 page)

But the aristocrats moved courteously away. Dame Isabel clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Mr. Gondar could so easily have sent us word,” she complained to Bernard Bickel. “Now we are left on tenterhooks … Well, evidently he knows his own business best.” She looked across the meadow to where Roger and Madoc Roswyn were returning from a visit to the riverbank. “Now it seems that Roger has once more taken up with Miss Roswyn. I can’t say that I approve, but he has not troubled to ask my advice.” She heaved a sigh. “But I am sure that the world will never go precisely to my liking.”

“Does it for anyone?” asked Bernard Bickel with good-natured cynicism.

“Probably not, and I must reconcile myself to the fact. We had better discuss tomorrow’s performance with Andrei. I must jack him up in regard to his costumes; today they were quite out of press.”

Bernard Bickel accompanied her to the stage, and stood politely aside while Dame Isabel particularized on what she considered the deficiencies of the costuming.

As for Roger, the world was going almost precisely to his liking. Madoc Roswyn, now that her obsessions were spent, had become quieter, at once more reserved and more confiding, and in Roger’s estimation, more appealing than ever. They had walked across the meadow to the river, to stroll along the bank. Poplar-like trees with mauve foliage rose above them; dendrons trailed black fronds into the water. A quarter-mile upstream a copse of tall dark trees surrounded what seemed a crumble of ruins. There was no sign of life, no movement, no sound, and presently, in a somewhat subdued mood, they turned away and returned through the golden afternoon to the
Phoebus
.

On the next day
The Magic Flute
was performed, to an even larger audience than the day before, and Dame Isabel was highly pleased. At the final curtain she stepped forth, addressed the audience at large, thanking them for their interest. Briefly she summarized the aims of the expedition, and, as the audience began to depart, inquired for news of Adolph Gondar. But if any among the audience understood her, they gave no acknowledgment.

The next afternoon, for
The Flying Dutchman
, attendance dwindled markedly. Dame Isabel was disturbed, both by the scantiness of the audience and their polite indifference to all her friendly overtures. “I hardly like to use the word ‘ingratitude’,” she complained. “The fact remains that we have gone to great trouble and expense, without the slightest acknowledgment on their part. And today, a perfectly grand performance is played to a shadow of an audience, for the most part composed of the lower classes.”

“Conceivably some special occasion has detained the aristocrats,” Bernard Bickel suggested.

“But what of the working class? They are not bothering to attend the performances either. We are playing almost entirely to tramps and vagabonds!”

“I notice they listen at least as attentively as the workers, who seem almost bored,” said Bernard Bickel.

“Perhaps they have nothing better to do,” sniffed Dame Isabel.

“I’ve also seen the tramps or vagabonds, whatever they are, half-asleep,” said Andrei Szinc. “I believe they’re drug addicts, and carry their doses in those little pomander bags at their waists.”

“That’s an interesting thought,” said Dame Isabel. “I’ve never seen them ‘take a dip’, as the expression goes, but this of course means nothing. If true, both their lassitude and the ostracism they appear to suffer is explained.” She reflected a moment. “I have noticed the little balls they carry, but I never considered the possibility of drugs … Hmmm … I wonder if we perhaps shouldn’t bar them from our performances. We might recover some of our audience.”

Bernard Bickel frowned dubiously. “I’ve never noticed any disesteem between the classes; indeed they ignore each other as completely as they do us.”

“The whereabouts of Mr. Gondar poses another problem,” said Dame Isabel peevishly. “If anyone knows what has happened to him, they clearly do not intend to inform us.”

“Which implies one of two things,” said Bernard Bickel. “Either he has met an unfortunate end, or Gondar himself does not wish information to reach us. In either case we are powerless.”

“That certainly sums up the situation,” said Dame Isabel slowly. “I confess that I am considering an early return to Earth. We have more than fulfilled our ambitions, especially here on Rlaru — although it would be rewarding to receive some sort of acknowledgment.”

“Yes, the folk here certainly are — well, languid, when it comes to expressing appreciation,” Bernard Bickel agreed.

“Tomorrow we will do
Parsifal
,” said Dame Isabel. “Sir Henry suggested
The Marriage of Figaro
, but I fear it would be too slight, directly following
Fliegende
Holländer
.”

“On the other hand, there’s always the risk of tedium,” said Bernard Bickel, “especially for persons not imbued with the Wagnerian mystique.”

“I consider it a calculated risk,” stated Dame Isabel. “The level of musical sophistication is high, we must not forget this.”

“Which makes today’s fall-off in attendance all the more peculiar,” said Bernard Bickel.

The following day brought thunderheads drifting in from the west, and it seemed as if a storm were in the offing. But the wind shifted, the clouds veered to the south, and the sun shone down from a magically fresh sky.

In spite of Dame Isabel’s hopes, the audience for
Parsifal
was pitiably small, consisting of three or four aristocrats and a score of the indigents. This expression of apathy infuriated Dame Isabel, and she gave serious thought to ending the performance at the end of the first act. She also considered sending Roger over to the village to urge more of the local inhabitants to attend the performance. Theatrical tradition forbade the first course; her inability to find Roger prevented the second.

To her further annoyance the already sparse audience began to dwindle. One by one, as if answering some unheard summons they rose from their seats and sidled off around the ship. Finally the three aristocrats departed, leaving only half a dozen pariahs. This was too much for Dame Isabel. She sent Bernard Bickel after the aristocrats, to try to persuade them to sit the performance out, if only from courtesy to the singers. Without enthusiasm Bickel went off on his mission, to return five minutes later, grim and angry. “Come with me a moment,” he told Dame Isabel. “I want you to see for yourself.”

Dame Isabel followed him to the far side of the
Phoebus
, and there, in the halcyon light of the afternoon sun, sat the Tough Luck Jug Band, playing in all its raucous fervor. In an attentive circle sat thirty or forty of the pariahs and somewhat to the rear as many aristocrats. Nearby stood Roger and Madoc Roswyn and most of the crew.

In speechless indignation Dame Isabel listened while the Tough Luck Jug Band rendered a tune which seemed to be called
You Gotta See Mama Every Night
. There were several verses, as many more instrumental choruses, each more unrestrained than the last.

Dame Isabel glanced at Bernard Bickel; he shook his head in disgust. Together they turned back to the sorry spectacle. Four or five more of the pariahs came from around the
Phoebus
; the opera apparently was being played to empty seats. Dame Isabel shouted into Bernard Bickel’s ear: “If this represents the level of local taste, we might as well return to Earth at once!”

Bernard Bickel gave a curt nod; once again they listened as
You Gotta See Mama
reached a crescendo. The whole band joined to sing a final chorus; Dame Isabel leaned slightly backward. Total vulgarity, total clatter! Rhythmic, even amusing, she thought, if one had inclinations in this direction. Admittedly the music — if such it could be called — did somehow manage to counteract and even vanquish the pervasive melancholy of the world … Dame Isabel noticed that each of the indigents held his little leather sphere, or pomander ball, carefully in his lap. After such a performance, she told herself bitterly, they would need all their drugs and narcotics indeed!

The music rambled through a clattering rattling coda and slammed to a halt. The Tough Luck Jug Band sat back, apparently pleased with themselves. The aristocrats muttered together in something like awe. The indigents sighed, and once again their gazes became unfocused.

Dame Isabel marched forward. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried in a ringing voice.

The Tough Luck Jug Band did not bother to reply. Hastily gathering their instruments they departed around the ship. Dame Isabel forced her unwilling features into an expression of affability, and turned to the audience. “You must come back to the opera! We are performing for your benefit, and we expect you to enjoy it. These buffoons will not be back, I assure you.” With Bernard Bickel’s help she herded as many of the group as possible back to the outdoor theater.

Resigning themselves the natives huddled on the benches, and so the final act passed. Directly upon the fall of the curtain stewards came fortified with trays of
petits-fours
and pitchers of lemonade. Dame Isabel motioned the aristocrats to help themselves: “They’re ever so good, I’m sure you’ll enjoy them!”

But the aristocrats politely departed.

Dame Isabel wheedled and coaxed, but not even the pariahs would approach the refreshments. At last she flung up her hands in defeat. “Very well, you must do as you like, although I simply can’t understand why you don’t appreciate what we’re doing for you.”

The oldest of the indigents absently fingered the little palps or flaps of his leather sphere. He looked among his fellows, as if engaging in unspoken communication, then turned his eyes upon Dame Isabel. She felt a curious electric thrill. “Watch,” he seemed to be telling her. “Watch and then go your way.” He squeezed the little leather ball. Bernard Bickel gasped; Dame Isabel swung about, and found the sky to be dancing with colored shapes. They mingled and separated, merged inward and outward and settled to the meadow which became a place of luminous magic, and the whole
Phoebus
company came front in awe to watch the magnificences now displayed to them. Cities like flower gardens appeared one after the other, as if in compendium: each different, each a development of the last, each with its own delights and prideful vistas, each receding and growing remote. A miscellany of new images appeared in the foreground: regattas of boats with enormous patterned sails, each of which might have been alive and sentient: a jeweled moth. Exalted figures marched in a stately pavane; there were tourneys of love and beauty, gusts and whispers of many musics. Now came a series of pageants, performances by troupes like the Ninth Company, and Dame Isabel thought to recognize the Ninth Company itself. Suddenly there was silence, so intense as to be an ecstatic sensation in itself. Down from the sky floated a battered space-ship: it landed and Adolph Gondar, or rather a caricature of Adolph Gondar alighted. The Ninth Company sauntered by in their sumptuous garments; Adolph Gondar seemed to pounce like a spider; with the aid of faceless helpers he roughly herded the Ninth Company aboard his ship, which at once departed, and once again there was silence. The episode fleeted past with exceeding swiftness; Adolph Gondar seemed more comic than evil: a travesty of wickedness, and the whole episode was no more than a wry footnote, a mordant little jest which the
Phoebus
company could enjoy or not as they felt inclined.

There followed other spectacles and vistas, and these seemed far away and long past, like memories half-forgotten. A parade of dead heroes came by, turning to search the faces of those who watched, as if asking for knowledge which had been denied them. All seemed to ask the same question, and then they were gone from view. Cities were built and listlessly abandoned: all goals had been achieved, all excellences attained. Nothing remained but idleness, casual amusement … Finally in gigantic enlargement appeared The Tough Luck Jug Band, with its music of boldness and assertion, enthusiasm conquering surfeit. For a brief space the world was renewed and wonderful things seemed possible. Then the meadow was as before, the sky was blank; the
Phoebus
company stood alone beside the ship.

Everyone returned within. Dame Isabel went to the saloon and ordered a pot of strong tea. Bernard Bickel and Sir Henry joined her, but no one was inclined to make conversation. Dame Isabel felt confused and resentful. In a sense she had been mocked and ridiculed, though in a dispassionate and even kindly fashion … Why had not the folk of Rlaru explained themselves before she had presented her program? Clearly they had no need of anything the
Phoebus
could offer — except the Tough Luck Jug Band. Obviously folk of rather vulgar inclinations, thought Dame Isabel sourly. Their old fineness of discrimination had apparently died … And yet — no, of course not. Impossible. Dame Isabel resolutely ordered her thinking. A person must establish a definite set of verities, she told herself, and definitely abide by them, no matter how questionable these same verities. She drank her tea, set the cup into the saucer with a resolute click. Bernard Bickel and Sir Henry drew themselves up in their chairs, as if heartened by the sound. “We have no further business here on Rlaru,” said Dame Isabel. “We will leave in the morning.” Summoning Andrei Szinc she gave orders for all stage properties to be stowed inside the ship.