Heavy Metal Music
or
Revolution in Three Flats
Grantville, March, 1633
Franz hissed in pain as his crippled hand was flexed, twisted and pulled by Dr. Nichols' strong fingers. Sweat beaded his forehead as he endured the testing manipulation. He sighed in relief when the doctor finally released it.
"Sorry," Dr. Nichols said. "I know that hurt, but I had to see what the condition was." He made some notes in a folder, then looked up. "Well, as the old joke goes, I have bad news and good news. Which do you want first?"
Franz swallowed as Marla took his claw in both her hands. "The bad first, if you please," he replied.
Dr. Nichols looked at them both seriously. "I can't help you surgically. I'm sorry. The damage is severe, but I probably could have saved it if I could have seen it right after it happened. Maybe not, with the knuckles smashed in the last two fingers, but we would have had a good chance. Now . . . Frankly, it healed wrong. I'm not faulting those who tended you—fact is, they did as good a job as any down-timer could have done."
He glanced down at his notes, then back up, and continued, "I have—had, rather—a good friend back up-time who could have fixed it, even now, but he was a fully trained specialized orthopedic surgeon with all the appropriate tools and technology at his fingertips. All modesty aside, I'm a good surgeon, but orthopedics, especially with the small bones like in the hand, requires not only the training but the tools, and I don't have either one. Even if I did, I'm not sure I could justify expending them for what is, to be honest, a relatively minor injury. Our resources are so limited right now that they have to be reserved for truly major problems."
Franz looked down at where Marla's hands clasped tightly around the hand in question, sighed, and said, "I understand."
He raised his eyes back up to look into the doctor's, and a small quirky smile played around his mouth. "I truly did not believe you could do anything, but Marla insisted we come to you. Perhaps in my heart of hearts I wanted to believe that you Grantvillers could work just one more miracle"—he chuckled—"as if enough miracles have not been worked on my behalf already." He smiled at Marla, and his good hand rested on top of hers.
"Well, it is sorry I am that we have wasted your time, Herr Doctor." Franz started to stand up.
"Just a minute, young man. I said I had good news also. Don't you want to hear that?"
Marla pulled him back down, and spoke for the first time. "What do you mean, Dr. Nichols?"
"Well, we may not be able to restore the hand to its pre-injury condition, but there are some things we can do to make it somewhat better than it is. Granted, the little finger and ring finger are total write-offs."
Marla saw his confusion, and said, "He means nothing can be done for them, Franz."
The doctor blinked at the interruption, then continued, "Er, yes, they can't be helped. Your wrist and thumb, on the other hand, seem to have totally escaped injury."
"A mark of the malice of Heydrich," Franz said quietly. "To a violinist, the left hand thumb is just a resting place for the neck of the violin. The fingers are everything."
There was a pause, then Dr. Nichols said carefully, "You're saying he not only attacked you, he knew precisely what to do to cause you the most damage."
"Precisely."
The doctor's tone was glacial. "I think Herr Heydrich would be well advised to avoid our territory. I believe I would want to have words with him if I saw him."
"You'd have to stand in line, Doc," Marla snarled. "You're a surgeon, so with your hands you might understand better than most just what this cost a musician, but even you can't understand the grief and madness this caused. I do."
A swirl of appreciation for the woman at his side filled Franz, driving out the old cold ache. The doctor's expression eased to a warm smile.
"Far be it from me to get in the way of mama lion defending her cub. I would be proud to hold your coat, young lady, and see to sweeping up the leftovers if you ever get the chance."
They all laughed, and he continued, "Getting back to your hand, your index and middle fingers are not as hopeless as they appear to be. Granted, they're very stiff right now, but the knuckles escaped injury and the broken bones, although not perfectly straight, healed well enough. What you mainly have is stiffened and inflamed muscles and tendons, with some atrophy because you didn't exercise it while it was healing. The good news is there are some things you can do to help rehabilitate it. If you'll talk to Irene Musgrove, she will describe the procedures you should follow, but basically massages with oil, alternating hot and cold soaks and some exercises with a stiff rubber ball will help bring them back. It will take a while, and I'm not going to lie to you, they won't be as good as they were before the injuries, but you can have more use out of them than you do now."
"Any improvement is more than I have, Doctor. I will do as you say."
"Good. Let Irene know if you can't find a rubber ball, and we'll see if we can requisition one from some kid's toy box." They all laughed again, and the couple stood and left on that note.
Outside the office in the evening twilight, they snugged their coats up against the chill spring breeze and walked slowly down the sidewalk together. After a block or so, Franz sighed, and said, "Well, now we know." He looked over at Marla, walking head down and hands in pockets, and saw tears coursing down her cheeks. Stopping her with his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him and gently wiped them from her face. She threw her arms about him, and began to sob convulsively.
"It's . . . not . . . fair," she said brokenly.
"Sshh, sshh," Franz murmured as his cheek rested against her hair. "The good doctor did not take anything from me except false hope. I lost my hand; I gained you and the music of Grantville. I consider it a fair trade."
"But," she said, her voice muffled against his chest, "I wanted to hear you play. It's not fair," sniff, "that you love the music so," sniff, "and can't play it now." Snuffle. Her arms tightened around him again.
Franz took her by the shoulders again and moved her out to arm's length, then lifted her chin and stared at the brimming eyes. "Marla, I have not lost the music, I have only lost the source of my sinful pride and arrogance. As long as I have you, I have the music. Now, dry your eyes, and tell me where we will find this . . . What did Dr. Nichols call it? Oh, yes, this rubber ball. And why would a child have one?"
She smiled at him, wiping her eyes, and hand in hand they walked on down the sidewalk as she explained the nature of a child's toy from up-time and why it would help him regain partial use of his hand. It being Friday evening, they turned at the corner by unspoken consent and walked toward the Gardens.
"Is anyone playing tonight?" Franz asked as they drew near.
"Not that I know of. Couple of the guys in Mountaintop are out of town, so they haven't been doing anything lately."
Franz sniffed. "That is not a bad thing."
"Oh, now, you listened to them just fine the last time they played. You even clapped a couple of times."
"Do not mistake tolerance and politeness for acceptance," he said with a deadpan expression.
"You!" She poked him in the ribs. He poked back, and they scuffled together for a few moments until they separated laughing. She grabbed his left arm with both hands and leaned against him as they walked on. After a few quiet moments, she said, "You know, Franz, I'm awfully glad you came to Grantville."
"As am I."
"No, I'm talking about more than just our friendship." They walked a few more steps before she continued. "You know, I had my life all planned out before the Ring of Fire hit. I was set to graduate in a few weeks. I knew that I wouldn't be the valedictorian or salutatorian, but I knew that I would be like number three or four in our class. I was going to college in the fall. I already had scholarship offers from University of Virginia and Belmont, and there were hints from University of North Texas that they were going to offer me a good package, too. I was going to double major in voice and piano, and with a little luck I could be the band drum major as well. I even had hopes for Eastman School of Music, although the odds were longer there. Then I was going to do the master's degree, and then the doctor's degree. I was going to be Doctor Kristen Marlena Linder by the time I was thirty, show my family and everyone in this one-horse town that I had what it took to be something other than the little girl that sang in church and at the county fair, and everyone said, 'Doesn't she sound good?' and patted me on the head or someplace else."
Their pace had picked up a little. Franz waited a few more steps, then said, "Marla?"
"Huh?"
"You are . . . steaming, I think Ingram called it."
She slowed down abruptly, sighed, and said, "You're right. I can't help it. Every time I think about what happened, I just get furious . . . with the universe, with God, with Grantville. My life got screwed up royally. Everyone's did; I know that, but my life . . . "
She stopped, rubbed her hands across her face and brushed her long hair back. "Sorry." She took his arm again, and they started walking slowly.
"I was so angry. Aunt Susan can tell you that when we found out what happened and that Mom and Dad and Paul were left up-time, after I got over the shock I wasn't fit to be around. She said I was like an old sow bear just woke up from hibernation with a bad case of PMS. It was literally months before I could talk to anyone without snarling at them, and probably over a year before I actually smiled again."
Franz placed his hand over hers. "I find that hard to believe."
"No, seriously, I can't describe what I was like without getting pretty vulgar." He snorted and she slapped his arm. "I mean it! I was awful!"
"If you say so."
"I was! And I was a long time getting over it. Aunt Susan finally talked me into going into the teacher training program. Since I have no mechanical aptitude, I get sick at the sight of blood and I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, that was about the only thing that I could do to pay my own way in our brave new world." Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"It is a new world, at least for me."
Marla flushed, looked up at him quickly and then down again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."
A few more quiet steps, and she said, "Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I feel different since you came. I can talk music with you, and daydream about somehow starting a music school. I feel . . . happy."
She stopped and twirled once on the sidewalk, holding out her arms. "You are good for me, Franz Sylwester."
"You just say that because you love me," he joked.
She stopped and looked at him in all seriousness. "I do love you, Franz."
He stared back in amazement. "Are you . . . I mean . . . you mean . . . "
His head was spinning. Yes, they had kissed, and cuddled, but she had not allowed any more than that. They had joked about having a future together, he had dreamed it, but now in cold honesty he saw that he had never truly thought he had a chance at a lifetime with her, crippled and destitute as he was. Jokes and fantasies had all of a sudden become a reality, and he was totally speechless.
With a smile, she reached out and took both of his hands—whole and crippled—in hers, and said, "I love you, Franz Sylwester, I believe you love me, too, and I'm tired of waiting for you to say something about it."
He continued to stare at her, and she laughed. "Close your mouth, silly."
He did. "Well, say something."
He just looked at her, saying nothing. After a few moments, her smile faded away. "Franz?" in a small voice.
He pulled his hands from hers, and turned away, pushing his hands in his coat pockets and ducking his head. "I can't," he choked.
"Why not?"
He started to walk away.
"Franz Sylwester, you stop right there!" A sternness in her voice that he had never heard before stopped him without thought. Her steps sounded as she walked around in front of him, and he looked away.
"Franz, look at me." He did, seeing the tears trickling down her face again, and looked away again quickly. "No, look at me." He did, swallowing.
"You look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't love me, and I'll walk away. But until you do that, we're going to stand right here."
Despite her command, he looked down at his feet. "I . . . love you," he whispered.
"Then why—?" she started exasperatedly.
He snatched his left hand from his pocket and thrust it in her face. She stepped back, startled, as he snarled, "Because of this! Because I am crippled! I cannot hope for you or anyone to marry me. Your family would not allow it. I cannot support you. I cannot provide for a family, when all I can do is translate for one person here today, another person there on Thursday, or write two letters for someone next Monday. I cannot give you what you deserve, a husband sound in mind and body. I cannot protect you from the ridicule that people will heap on you for marrying a cripple! I love you more than my life, Marla, and because of that I cannot do this!"
She smiled, and said, "Oh, is that all?"
Franz was taken aback. "Is that all ? Is that not enough?"
"No," she laughed. "I was afraid there was something seriously wrong."
She took his crippled hand in both of hers, and said, "Franz, you're still wrestling with the trauma—"
He looked at her quizzically.
"Okay, you don't know that word. You're still wrestling with the damaging mental effects from when your hand was shattered. You're dealing with anger, and grief, and bitterness, and finding out that bargaining with God doesn't work, and you're not able to see some things realistically because of that. Believe me, we in Grantville know all about this, me in particular. Trust me, no one whose opinion matters considers you less than a man, less than a whole person, because of what happened to you. In fact, a lot of people, me included, admire your courage."
Courageous, him?
"And besides, Doc Nichols called me a she-lion; Aunt Susan called me a bear. What do you think I'm going to do to anyone who bad-mouths you?" She looked at him expectantly, and grinned in response as the corners of his mouth turned up.
"Franz," she continued more soberly, "we can find a way to make it work. If Grantville and Mike Stearns can remake Europe, then surely you and I can make a life together." She took his hands in hers again. "I ask you again, do you love me?"
"With all my heart," he said, his voice shaking.
"And you won't give me any more foolishness about your hand?"
"No," he told her, his voice stronger.
"Good." She hugged him and kissed his nose. "Now, it's dark and cold out, and after making me cry twice tonight you owe me a cup of coffee. Let's get to the Gardens."
They walked together hand in hand, his left in her right, contentedly. As they turned up the final walk, he said, "Marla?"
"Hmm?"
"If your name is Kristen Marlena, why do you say your name is Marla?"
She laughed. "I haven't gone by Kristen since the third grade. There was another girl in the same grade but a different class who was Kristin. Her name was spelled slightly differently, but sounded the same. She was a bully, and first she picked on me all the time saying I was stupid because I didn't spell my name like hers. Then she started calling me Kristin Junior, and trying to make me follow her orders during recess. So, I got sick of that name pretty quickly, but I didn't like Marlena either. According to Mom, Dad liked this German actress from old movies, so when they couldn't decide on a middle name for me, he suggested that one and it stuck. I told her, 'Gee, thanks.' Anyway, you remember the comics I showed you that my brother Paul used to have?"
He nodded.
"Well, at the time there was this one superhero comic book that had a strong female character in it named Marla. He started calling me that, and after he showed me the comic, I thought it was cool, so I started calling me that, too. Mom and Dad caved in pretty quickly. It took a couple of years for it to stick at school, though. I don't know how many times I got sent to the office for telling teachers, 'Call me Marla!' It wasn't until junior high that Mom was finally able to convince the teachers and principals that she wanted them to call me Marla even though that wasn't what was on my birth certificate. Mom was cool like that. And ironically enough, the cause of it all moved away from Grantville after fourth grade. I could have gone back to Kristen, but I liked Marla better. Marla it stayed."
"So, a name chosen and not bestowed. Appropriate for you, I would say."
She stared over at him suspiciously, making sure that he wasn't being sarcastic. He smiled back blandly as they walked through the door of the Gardens.
No sooner had they entered than a voice yelled, "Franz!"
Recognizing a voice from his past, he spun, looking for a familiar face. "Friedrich!"
A young man jumped up from a nearby table so quickly that his chair fell over backwards. Franz hurried to meet him, and they embraced in the aisle between tables, exclaiming loudly, pushing back for a moment to hold each other at arm's length, then embracing again in a ferocious hug. Franz literally picked his shorter friend up, then dropped him back on the floor and turned to the rest of the people at the table.
"Anna, it is good to see you!" She held her hands out, and as he took them she pulled him forward.
"Lean down, you oaf." He did so, and she stood on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek.
Next, the older man at the table received Franz's attention as he stood up straight and held out his hand. "Master Riebeck, I do not understand why you are here, but I am very happy that you are."
The gray-haired man shook his hand heartily, peering up at him and said, "These young ones said they would go. Old heads were needed, I said, so I come also."
"Even so, sir, thank you for coming."
Finally Franz turned to another young man of about his own age, one even taller than he was, thin but not gawky, and embraced him also. "Thomas, I knew you would come, even if the others did not. I knew the scent of new music would draw you like a starving hound."
"And draw me it did," Thomas rumbled in a full basso, face split by a large grin. "I hold you to your promise to show me all of the music from the future."
"Franz?" he heard from behind him. He turned and held out his hand to Marla. "Marla, here are most of my best friends from my old life, from the days before I left Mainz." He drew her up level with him, and said, "First, here are Friedrich Braun and Anna Riebeckin. You've heard me speak of them, my dearest friends. They are why I am alive today."
They smiled and nodded together. Friedrich was shorter than Franz, shorter than Marla as well, and Anna was just this side of tiny.
"Next, here is Master Hans Riebeck, Anna's father and Friedrich's craft master, maker of fine musical instruments." A distinguished looking older man, longish silver hair swept back, a short square-cut beard and faded blue eyes looking out from under bushy eyebrows nodded in turn.
"And finally, this human pikestaff is Thomas Schwarzberg, another good friend who stood by me in dark days." Thomas grinned and bobbed his head at her. Although unusual for a down-timer, he was taller than Marla, with an unruly shock of dark brown hair.
"Everyone, this is Kristen Marlena Linder—oof!" Her elbow took him under the ribs. They took in the sight of a tallish, well-made young woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that at the moment seemed to be dancing.
"Call me Marla, please."
"Please, come sit with us," Friedrich said. They busied themselves with taking coats off, pulling other chairs over to their table and waving at the server, who came over to take their orders. In moments, Marla had a cup of steaming coffee and Franz a mug of beer in front of them, and everyone settled in. There was a moment or two of awkward silence, which Master Riebeck broke.
He had been peering very closely at Marla ever since the introductions had begun. Now he sat back with a satisfied smile on his face and said something in German.
"Your pardon," Franz said quickly, "but as a courtesy to Marla, I ask that we all speak English tonight. She is learning German, but it is not easy for her yet."
"Of course," Master Riebeck said, and the others muttered agreement. He continued, "I said, now I understand."
"Understand what, Papa?" Anna asked.
"Ever since the letter from Franz you read to me, I wondered. The letter, it was Franz und it was not Franz. No anger, no bitter, no hurt was in it. We come here, und I see Franz, Franz mit joy in face, Franz with shadow gone from eyes. I wondered. Now I understand. You, young woman," he said, pointing at Marla, "you ist the reason. Compassion I see in your face. By God's grace, you bring healing to our Franz."
Marla blushed, looking down. Franz took her hand, and she smiled up at him, then turned to Master Hans and said, "Actually, sir, we bring healing to each other."
Anna was seated on her other side, and reached over and took her other hand. "Thank you, Mistress Marla."
"Just Marla, please. You make me sound like I'm an old maiden aunt!"
They all laughed, and Anna continued, "Marla, then, to please you. Again, thank you. Franz is very dear to us, and we worried so about him when he left. We were so surprised to receive the letter he sent. It was the first word we had had since he left over a year ago."
"Yes," said Friedrich, leaning over, sandy-colored hair falling into his eyes, "this crazy man took out on his own, leaving us behind to worry. And worry we did! Not a word for months and months, and then like a bolt from heaven comes his letter, sounding almost like a story of one taken under hill to the Erl-king's domain. First he tells of the wonders of Grantville, then he tells of music not known to mortal men, then he hints of a lovely lady." They all laughed again as Marla's blush renewed.
"Indeed," Thomas rumbled with that deep voice that was so surprising from his slender frame, "nothing would do for Anna but that we come immediately and make sure that Franz was safe and hale, that he was not lying in a delirium someplace, or under some kind of enchantment." Now it was Anna's turn to blush as the rest laughed.
"But I did not expect you," said Franz, as the laughter died. "I thought you would write to me a letter of your own. I have been looking for one these past few days, but instead, you are here yourselves. I do not complain, I am glad to see you, but why?"
"Because we care about you," said Master Hans. "We must see for ourselves your wellbeing, see for ourselves the wonders of Grantville, see for ourselves the young woman who has lifted you up."
He raised his mug to Marla, then continued, "Und see for ourselves the music and the instruments you wrote about. Anna would see you, so nothing would do but that Friedrich and Thomas would come und see the other wonders you named. Me," he chuckled, "much have I heard about the new ways and devices of Grantville, of changes good und bad, of people growing rich who grasp change. If new music und new instruments come, then Riebeck will be at the front. Must see them all, especially pianothat shames the noble clavier."
"So," Thomas said, leaning forward, eyes shining brightly "when can we see these marvels?"
"Thomas!" Anna hissed.
"What? What did I say?"
"Enough," the diminutive woman said sternly, looking around the table. "There is time enough to talk about that tomorrow. Tonight, let us just enjoy old and new friends together." And they proceeded to do so.
****
The next morning was bright and crisp and clear, the sun was shining brightly, and Franz's head was thudding like the tympani in the opening fanfare of Strauss' Also Sprach Zarathustra. As he turned onto the sidewalk leading to Marla's aunt's house, a particularly bright beam of sunlight made its way through the naked limbs of the trees and lanced into his eyes. He threw his good hand up to shade his eyes and stopped, swaying a little. Flinching when the front door slammed, he looked up and peered under his hand to see Marla walking toward him, smiling.
"I told you not to drink that wine last night, not after drinking all that beer." Marla's voice held a note of gleeful satisfaction, and pierced Franz's ears much as the light had assaulted his vision. He moaned a little. She took his arm and turned him, walking back out to the street. "Had anything to eat?"
"Please, not so loud. Some bread, some aspirin, a little water."
"You'll start to feel somewhat better soon, then. Next time, listen to me, all right?"
"Yes."
Aunt Susan's house was only a couple of blocks from the Methodist church, which was where their friends from Mainz were supposed to meet them this morning. As they turned the corner, they saw Friedrich helping Anna down from their wagon and Thomas tying the horse to a convenient tree in the parking lot. Master Riebeck was looking around, and he smiled and waved when he saw them. Within moments, they were all together. Franz was somewhat gratified to note that Friedrich and Thomas looked about as bad as he felt. Master Riebeck was apparently none the worse for the evening's experience. Marla began herding them through the main doors of the church.
"You wanted to see a piano, so I thought we'd start here." They could hear ringing tones unlike anything the visitors had ever heard before, which became clearer as Marla opened the doors into the sanctuary. They entered through the rear of the room, and stopped for a moment in awe. The room was not as large as a cathedral, but there was a certain majesty to it nonetheless, with its high ceiling, dark wooden beams and pews, and large stained glass windows. Marla led them down the aisle toward the platform at the front.
There was a large instrument on the platform which was the source of the tones they had heard. By deduction it must be the piano. A gray-haired man seated at it was banging on a key to produce the sounds. He looked up as they approached.
"G'mornin', Marla."
"Hi, Ingram. You going to be long?"
"Nope. Just about done. Reverend Jones called me a couple of days ago and asked me to check the tuning. Near's I can tell, it's right on."
"Great. Ingram, these are some friends of Franz's, from Mainz. This is Master Hans Riebeck, an instrument maker, Anna Riebeckin and Friedrich Braun, his daughter and son-in-law, and Thomas Schwarzberg, their friend. Everyone, this is Ingram Bledsoe, my friend and a good instrument maker in his own right."
There was much shaking of hands and exchanging of pleasantries, then Marla continued. "They came all the way down to see Franz, and to learn as much as they can about the music and instruments he wrote to them about. I brought them in to see the piano. I'm glad you're here, because I was going to call you about bringing them around to see some of your instruments and kits."
"No problem. It's Saturday, so I was going to putter around in the shop anyway. I'll just wait here and we can go on over there when you're done."
He got up from the bench and she sat down, while he raised the lid on the grand piano to its greatest opening. Marla rippled a chord up and down the keyboard, then looked up at the visitors. "How do you want to do this?"
Everyone looked at Master Riebeck, who simply said, "Play music, zings you know."
She looked down at her hands, and began with a short piece in the contrapuntal style. "Two-Part Invention Number 1, by Bach." Then came a slow legato piece with a repetitious arpeggio in the bass. She stopped after a minute or so. "Part of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven." A martial theme. "Onward, Christian Soldiers."
Master Riebeck raised his hand, and she stopped. "Good. The sound, we know it." He muttered in German to Franz, who said, "He wishes you to demonstrate the power of the piano, what it can do that the clavier cannot."
"I am not very accomplished," Marla began.
Ingram snorted, and said, "Girl, you're the best pianist in town, and one of the best I've heard, period. Just play that thing you were working on before the Ring fell."
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sat motionless for several moments. Then she opened her eyes, raised her hands, and literally attacked the keyboard. Franz was astounded. He had never seen anyone's hands move so fast, and the volume of sound coming from the piano was amazing. The arpeggios of this piece made the Beethoven sound like a child's exercise, and the percussive hammering of chords was incredible.
All too soon it was over. Marla lifted her hands from the keys and sat back, breathing heavily. No one else moved. Friedrich and Anna were both staring wide-eyed at her, Master Riebeck was gazing at the piano through narrowed eyelids, and Thomas stood like a statue with his eyes closed.
She caught her breath, and said, "That was the Revolutionary Etude, by Fredric Chopin, a Polish composer and pianist who would have lived about two hundred years from now. Or at least, it was supposed to be. I made so many mistakes it was ridiculous. Got to practice more. Anyway, he'll probably never be born, and the only place his music exists is here in Grantville. And Ingram, the A-flat three is a little flat."
Thomas broke out of his stillness, threw himself to his knees by the bench and took her hand in both of his. "Teach me."
Startled, she tried to pull away.
"I beg of you, teach me! I will pay anything to learn this!"
The happy-go-lucky young man of the night before was staring at her with burning eyes, and his clutch on her hand was fervent and strong to the point of pain. "Please, I must have this music! This power, this passion, this . . . this . . . "
"Thomas," Anna said, touching his shoulder, "let go, you're frightening her."
He dropped her hand as if it burned him, and shrank back, saying, "Sorry," over and over. "Please . . . "
"I'm . . . I'm not a teacher," Marla said unevenly. "I can't teach you. I don't know enough to teach."
"Marla," Ingram said. She looked at him. "You know plenty. What you don't know, you can find out or teach yourself. You can teach. You were going to eventually, before. Looks like you just get your chance earlier than you thought, is all."
She looked into his weathered face for long moments, and seemed to draw strength from his confidence in her. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to Thomas.
"What I know, I will show you. And maybe together we can learn what I don't know." Then she turned to Franz and held out her hand. "And you, too, dear heart. We will find a way for you to do music again."
The young people gathered around the piano, talking back and forth, chattering, even. Marla began playing something light and bouncy. Master Riebeck drifted over to stand next to Ingram Bledsoe. "She is good?"
"Oh, yes. For her age and the amount of study she had before the Ring of Fire, she's very good. And she has the potential, the talent, to be as good as they come. She's right, there's a lot she doesn't know, but even so I'd bet she knows more than anyone except Marcus Wendell, the school band director. Experience, he's ahead of her, but knowledge . . . she's probably not far behind him even now. She'd absorbed everything the piano and voice teachers here in Grantville could teach her a few years before the Ring, and was studying with teachers in Morgantown." He smiled in satisfaction. "Yes, she's good. She even has perfect pitch."
"She is . . . " he stopped, muttered in German, then called out, "Friedrich!" When his son-in-law stepped over, he spoke rapidly in German. Friedrich nodded, and said, "Strong-willed." Master Hans turned back to Ingram and raised his eyebrows.
Ingram laughed, but didn't say anything.
"A good match for our Franz, then." Riebeck nodded. "So."
With the air of a man who's settled his mind about something, the craftmaster marched over to the piano and declared, "Enough of this noodling. Time to talk about important things. Herr Bledsoe, this piano, it is ein grosse dulcimer, yes? Hammers strike the strings, yes?"
The others stepped back as Master Hans, Ingram and Friedrich took over the piano and spent the next little while examining its construction and mechanisms. Exclamations such as " Himmel! " and "Aha!" punctuated the conversation.
While this was going on, Anna visibly steeled herself, turned to Marla and said, "Franz says that you sing. Do you sing as well as you play?"
"Well . . . "
"Yes," Franz said. "If anything, she is better." Marla flushed again.
"Er," Anna hemmed, "um, if-you-teach-Thomas-will-you-teach-me-please?" It all came out in a rush, and she in turn blushed, but still continued to hold her head up and look the taller woman in the eye.
Marla reached out and took her hand, saying, "Of course. I would love to."
"You know," said Thomas, "that some people will disapprove."
Two heads turned as one toward him, two sets of female eyes focused on him, and if pointed glances had been daggers and stilettos he would have been well and truly nailed to the nearest wall. He quickly held up his hands in surrender. "Not me! I would never object. I just meant that others would."
"Smart man," Franz muttered under his breath.
He thought. The heads turned toward him now, the eyes boring, and Marla gently said, "Did you say something?"
"No, nothing, not a word."
"I didn't think so."
"I will deal with Papa and Friedrich and my brother Karl," Anna said. "No one else matters." The two women talked together about singing, while Franz and Thomas silently congratulated each other on narrowly escaping with their skins intact.
Finally, Master Hans pushed away from the piano, and said, "Enough. I must think. Herr Bledsoe, now go to your workshop? I would see more of the wonders of Grantville, bitte."
After Marla closed the piano top and put the quilted cover over it, nothing would do but for them all to bundle up against the cold and traipse back out into the bright day, all load into the visitors' wagon and drive the few blocks to the Bledsoe residence.
Ingram's workshop turned out to be in an old detached garage building behind his house. He ushered them into it and turned on the lights. They all looked around at the neatly racked tools, the power saws and lathe. Both Master Hans and Friedrich were immediately drawn to the workbench where a work was in progress.
"This is?" Master Hans looked to Ingram.
"A guitar, the kind that's called a classical guitar."
"Is this . . . what strange word was it, Franz?"
"Kit."
"Thank you. Is this eine kit?"
Ingram chuckled, and said, "Yep. I got this one and a steel-string guitar kit in right before the Ring fell. Didn't start it until recently, but it's coming along well. I had it in mind to build these, learn from them and try producing my own."
"So, this is apprentice work?"
Ingram blinked. "Well, you might say so."
"If you please, show me this kit."
"Sure." Ingram hauled out the box, laid out all the parts and showed them the instructions. Master Hans and Friedrich looked them over, examined everything, tried to read the instructions and understand enough to follow the pictures.
"Hmm. These writings—good. Friedrich, think about these, how we might use them." To Ingram, "How good will this guitar be?"
Turning to a nearby cabinet, Ingram brought out something wrapped in a scrap of old blanket, which he unwrapped to reveal a lap harp. "This was made from a kit from the same company. I assume the guitar will be similar in quality—not great, but good enough for a beginning student to play." He held it out to the two down-time craftsmen.
As they scrutinized the harp, Marla whispered to Anna, "Why is your father quizzing Ingram this way?"
"Quizzing?" with a perplexed expression.
"Why is he questioning him, and poking into everything?"
Anna shook her head, "I do not know. Papa always wants to know how good other craftsmen are, but I have never seen him this direct before."
"Good, Herr Bledsoe." Master Hans handed the harp back.
"Call me Ingram."
"Herr Ingram, have you zomezing of your own that I can see, zomezing not a . . . kit?" Master Hans seemed to be getting excited. His accent was getting thicker.
Wrapping the harp up and putting it back in the cabinet, Ingram said nothing. Marla could tell he was beginning to get irritated with the down-timers because a muscle in his jaw was jumping. She went over and helped him clear the guitar kit from the workbench. Still not saying a word, he went back to the cabinet and removed a much larger blanket-wrapped parcel which he carefully set down on the workbench and equally carefully unwrapped. Stepping back, he waved a hand at what was revealed—a dulcimer of beauty and quality. There was a faint "Oooh" sound from the others in the room, and they stepped closer.
Marla clapped her hands. "Ingram, you finished it! You didn't tell me!"
"Yep. Finished it last week. Figured I'd tell you the next time I saw you, which turned out to be today."
Master Hans and Friedrich peered at the dulcimer closely, muttering to each other. The craftmaster looked to Ingram for permission. At his nod, they picked it up carefully, turning it this way and that, examining the wood grain and joins, plucking at the strings, nodding approval at the sound.
"Pardon," Friedrich said, "I must be sure. This is not a kit?"
"Nope," said Ingram tightly. "I haven't made a hammer dulcimer from a kit in, oh, twenty years or more."
"A fine work, this," Master Hans declared. "Worthy of rank." Ingram looked pleased.
"Old Bessie MacLaren from Clarksburg commissioned that, before the Ring. She is . . . or I should say she was . . . one of the best players in the country, and I was right pleased that she called on me. I finished it up after the Ring fell, even though she's not around to get it. Couldn't stand to leave it undone, and I figured that sooner or later I'd have a chance to sell it. Anyway, I have to admit that's probably the best piece I've done."
" Ist gut," Master Hans repeated. "Master Ingram"—who now looked very pleased at the compliment—"from this I see that du bist craftsman." He waved at the dulcimer, which Friedrich was carefully placing back on the workbench. "You know wood, you have skills, yes? Now, let us talk of pianos. To make pianos, here, now, what do we need?"
The newly dubbed master pulled at his chin with his thick-fingered hand. "I'm not an expert," he said slowly. "I moonlighted for a music store in Clarksville, Tennessee, when I was working for a contractor at Fort Campbell a lot of years ago. That's where I learned what I know, including how to tune pianos. But I suspect you-all have a handle on the woodworking part of it. The soundboard is large, but shouldn't be a problem, and a cabinet is a cabinet."
Master Hans nodded impatiently, and motioned for him to continue.
"No, the two things that you will need to make one right are the cast-iron harp and the steel wire. You need the wire to stand up to the tension and the hammering and not stretch or break, and you need the harp to brace the soundboard so it will stand up to the tension that has to be placed on the wire to tune it. Otherwise, sooner or later the soundboard will warp and all your work will be wasted."
"As I thought," said the German craftmaster. "For the piano, for the music, it must be this cold heavy metal." Marla choked. He looked at her quizzically, but she waved him to go on. "Good copper and bronze and brass too warm, too soft would be, not hard as iron."
As the craftsmen discussed the metals and their availability, Franz leaned over to Marla and asked, "What was so funny?"
"Heavy metal . . . music. I'll explain later."
"Iron we can get," Riebeck concluded. "From Mühlhausen or even Nürnberg. Wire from steel, difficult."
"Especially that much of it," Friedrich said, "and in those lengths. Steel wire is not common, and is ruinously expensive."
There was silence in the shop, while they all ruminated on that thought.
"There might be a way around that problem," Marla said, "at least until they start making the stuff in Magdeburg that they keep talking about."
Both older men turned and looked at her, identical expressions with raised eyebrows on their faces. She smiled, and said, "You know, Aunt Susan's got that old upright piano in her parlor, Ingram? The one you said had a cracked soundboard? I bet you could buy it from her for not much, strip out the harp and wire and other fittings, and use them to build a new piano."
Simultaneous expressions of joy appeared on the three craftsmen's faces. "Of course!" Ingram enthused. "I don't know what it would take to adapt the works of an upright to a baby grand, but it's worth a try. If that can't be done, then we'll make uprights until someone starts making wire. In fact, I can name fifteen or more houses with old pianos in them that I can probably convince their owners to sell. Not to mention the fact that the Methodist and Baptist churches have at least half a dozen apiece in Sunday School rooms that nobody's played in the last twenty years. Give me two weeks, and I can probably buy enough old pianos to keep you in business for a year, maybe more!"
Master Hans nodded definitively. "Friedrich, Anna, we move to Grantville. Karl will take the shop in Mainz. We must be here to grasp the new, to grasp pianos."
They gaped at him. "I am not mad. It will be as I say." He seemed almost agitated as he turned. "Master Ingram," he began, then muttered to Franz once more in German. "Proposal," said Franz. "Master Ingram, I haff proposal for you. I will bring tools, wood, apprentices, money, even fumble-fingered journeyman." He slapped Friedrich on the shoulder. "You buy pianos, find bigger workspace. We will make pianos, sell to Hoch-Adels, to burghers with more silver than sense. We will be first, we will be rich. Piano from Bledsoe and Riebeck everyone will want. And guitars," he added, almost as an afterthought. Ingram stared at him. It took a moment for him to realize that the German was very serious. A slow smile bloomed on his face, and the two men shook hands.
Pivoting, Riebeck pointed to Franz, Marla and Thomas. "Pianos need the new music, the new music needs pianos. You, you must learn the music. You must teach the music. You must make the people hungry for the music. I will help. Silver I will give, but your hearts must build road, must cornerstone be, must bring light for new music to all who can hear and see."
They stared at each other, light dawning in their own eyes, anthems sounding in their spirits. Marla reached out to the two young men. Hand in hand, they faced the others. "We will," they said, solemnly, soberly.