Lost in Translation
Iver P. Cooper
Spring 1634
Grantville
“Hans, you fool, where are you!”
Hans hurriedly entered the room. The master’s face was red, and his eyes were bulging, making him look rather like a choleric bullfrog.
Uh-oh, he thought. What is it this time? He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Master?”
“You took a book to the translators today?” asked Bullfrog Eyes.
“Yes, Master, I am sorry I didn’t get around to it yesterday, but—”
“Which...book....” Each word was carefully enunciated.
“The one you had rebound recently. The octavo with red covers. In the locked bookcase.”
“Moron. Imbecile. Idiot.” Bullfrog Eyes hurled a book at Hans. “That’s the book you were supposed to bring them. As you see, it has red covers. But I am missing a very valuable book, an octavo with green covers. Which was in the same bookcase.”
“I am sure I took them a red book...”
“Enough. You must retrieve it at once.”
“I humbly beg your pardon, Master. I will go to the translator’s office first thing Monday morning.”
“At once, I say!”
“I am sorry, Master, but they are certainly closed for the day. In fact, for the weekend.”
“Closed.” Bullfrog Eyes now looked as though he had swallowed something unpleasant. It did not enhance his appearance.
“On the weekend, one of the translators might come by, and start reading the book. That won’t do. No, that won’t do at all.” He stared at Hans. “You will have to break inside and fetch it back. Tonight.”
* * *
Federico Ballarino contemplated the pile on his bed. I hate packing, he thought.
But he had to do it. Tomorrow morning he would be off to Magdeburg, to give Princess Kristina her dance lessons. And the following week he would be back in Grantville, to teach down-time dances to the up-timers, and continue his research into up-timer dances.
Bitty, the petite director of the Grantville Ballet, had told Federico that thanks to the Ring of Fire, he was now the World’s First Long-Distance Commuter. It was a distinction he would have gladly done without.
If that weren’t enough, he had gotten roped into helping out “Words International,” the translation company. It had started when a couple of the foreign language teachers at the high school were asked to translate a few documents. A few became many, and they decided to form a company to parcel out the translation work to whoever was willing and able to do the job. The foreign language teachers, trying to fit it in during the evening, on weekends, and over the summer, couldn’t keep up with the demand.
It was all Nicole’s fault. Nicole, the French teacher, knew that Federico had taught dance in France. Nicole pleaded that she was already teaching two adult sections of European History after the regular school day had ended. Could Federico please help with the translations into French? At least until the end of the regular school year? You said you like to read on the train, didn’t you?
Sighing, Federico added the green-covered octavo to the pile.
* * *
Hans’ employment with Bullfrog Eyes was not a matter of choice on Hans’ part. It was the price for Bullfrog Eyes’ silence about certain events in Hans’ past. Hans wasn’t entirely sure how Bullfrog Eyes knew about his background. But he was sure that Bullfrog Eyes had deliberately sought out a servant with a secret.
Of course, there were secrets and secrets. Bullfrog Eyes didn’t know, at least not yet, about Hans’ other problem. The vision thing. Hans was afraid to tell him. Perhaps he would no longer be useful. Perhaps Hans would then be...disposable.
Hans stood in front of the Words International store. It was in an old, somewhat run-down commercial building, which had been divided up among several tenants. He looked up and down the street. For the first time in an hour, there was no one else in view. He gave the front door of Words International a swift hard kick.
“Owww!” He grabbed his injured foot and massaged it. He had assumed the door was ordinary wood. He now knew, the hard way, that it was just a wood veneer, with a metal core.
A few minutes later, the pain had eased enough for him to make a second attempt. This time one not involving forcing the door. There was a window he could climb through, once he dealt with the glass. He looked around, and while there was no shortage of pebbles, he wanted something with more heft. Hans sighed and hobbled down the street. He had to go several blocks before he found a likely place to hunt that was away from curious eyes. He picked up a suitable stone, and walked back.
He hefted it and...every time he even thought about throwing it, someone came down the street, or out of the tavern next door to Words International, and he had to hide it. Once, he actually dropped it, narrowly missing his injured foot.
Worse, he was starting to attract attention. The bouncer for the tavern was giving him the eye. Hans decided to move along, and come back later.
After walking a few blocks, he saw another drinking place. Why not? he thought. I have to kill the time anyway.
Sometime later, he staggered out. He returned to Words International, but its neighborhood was still hopping.
Then he had an inspiration. Perhaps he could try the roof?
But he had better collect some tools. The house which his master was renting came with an ax and saw, for cutting firewood. The ax had a blade on one side, and a pick point on the other. Hans approved. He also grabbed the hooded lantern he carried when he escorted the master on evening errands, and his “lighting kit.” Flint, steel, and a tinderbox, that is.
It was a pity he didn’t have one of those American “backpacks,” so he could carry them with his hands free. No matter. He loaded them, and a rope, into a sack and carried them outside. Hans realized that it looked a little suspicious to be carrying a sack like that at night, but Hans figured that an ax and a saw would look even worse.
He sidled into an alley, and worked his way behind Words International. Too bad. No windows on this side. He tied one end of the rope around the mouth of the sack, tight as he could, and the other end around his waist. He struggled his way up a drainpipe, pulling himself at last onto the roof. He collected himself, let his breathing settle down. Then he gingerly hauled up the sack, hoping that neither the rope nor the sack would give way.
He took out his tools and, moving in a half-crouch, examined the roof, looking for a likely spot to begin. He couldn’t waste time, it would be dawn soon enough. But had to work cautiously to minimize the noise he made.
Hans was equally worried about being seen. But there was a peculiar metal structure on top of the roof. He figured that he could use it to block any view of him from the street. And that would let him use a bit of light, which would make the search go faster.
Hans took out his lighting kit, and huddled over it. He tapped out the tinder into an untidy pile, and struck the steel with his flint. Sparks flew, and flitted into the tinder. There were glows here and there, which he blew on carefully. At last, he had a decent flame. He quickly lit the lantern, and snuffed out the tinder with his foot.
What was that? he thought. There was some kind of panel on the structure. He studied it more closely, bringing the lantern close up. Yes, there was a bit of separation on one edge. He forced the pick end of his ax into the crack, and started prying. His muscles strained—damn American technology—and then all at once it popped free. He almost dropped the ax.
There was an empty space beyond the opened panel, and beneath it, some kind of shaft. He stuck his head into the dark opening, and listened for a moment. He didn’t hear anything suspicious, but he did feel warm air coming up. That was interesting. Was this a way inside? What was it, anyway? An up-timer would have recognized it as a rooftop air conditioning unit, but it was completely beyond Han’s experience.
Hans held the lantern inside the structure and tried to look down. Metal glinted but he couldn’t really tell much. He carefully tied his rope around the handle of his saw, and gingerly lowered it down. After a few feet, he heard a chink, of metal against metal. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Hans considered his options. It would be nice not to have to cut through the damn roof. But he didn’t think he could take his lantern with him into the shaft, so any further exploration would be blind.
He shrugged. He tied one end of his rope around a pipe that came out of the roof just beside the RFU, and the other around his waist. It would keep him from falling, if there were something odd about the shaft, and also make it easier to back up if he had to.
Taking a deep breadth, he leaned in. He pressed his hands and thighs outward against the sides of the shaft, to control his descent, and he started to snake down. The blood rushed to his head. After a few moments, his hair grazed the bottom of the shaft. He explored, first with one hand, then the other. It seemed like there were horizontal passages. Narrower, unfortunately, than the shaft he was hanging in. It all seemed very familiar all of a sudden, like something he had seen in an American movie at the Gardens, on their TV.
Hans wrinkled his nose. Mama didn’t raise a boy stupid enough to try crawling through a passage that small in the dark, with no one to pull him back out if there was a problem, he decided. He would leave the vent-crawling to Bruce Willis.
Hans pushed himself off the bottom of the shaft, and laboriously worked his way back the way he had come. Outside, he untied himself with relief.
What was the American phrase? “On to ‘Plan B.’ ” Hans spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and hefted the ax.
* * *
With a combination of axing and sawing, Hans had made a Hans-size hole in the roof. Well, a few feet across, at least. The lantern beam revealed a maze of cables and vents. Looking at the vents from this angle, Hans gave thanks that he hadn’t gone any further with his John McClane imitation.
Below the tangle was a peculiar checkerboard structure. It appeared that there were square panels of one of the peculiar American materials, resting between, and perhaps on, metal strips. Ah, yes, he remembered now. The ceiling of the translator’s shop had a square pattern. Hans had thought it was some kind of decoration, he hadn’t realized that the squares were removable.
At least, Hans hoped they were removable. He looked for nails and screws, but didn’t notice any. Then he started tapping the structure gingerly with the top of his ax. He wondered whether it would take his weight, let him crawl around and pick exactly where he dropped to the floor of the store.
* * *
Nicole Hawkins hadn’t planned to stop by the Words International office that morning. But she hadn’t been able to find her earring at home, or at her classroom, and she was getting desperate. The pair had been a gift from her second husband, Barry, who had been left up-time.
She opened the door, flicked on the lights, and locked the door behind her. Girl couldn’t be too careful, even in Grantville. She headed over to the desk that she usually worked at. The earring wasn’t on the desktop, or on the floor nearby. Sighing, she got down on hands and knees, and expanded her search area.
* * *
That’s when she heard the noise. Rats, she wondered?
She heard a more pronounced thump. Definitely not rats, unless they were of the man-sized variety. It seemed to be coming from the ceiling. Somewhere above the ceiling, to be precise. It was a standard office-type suspended ceiling, with big two-by-two acoustic tiles.
She thought for a moment of running out the door. But if someone had somehow broken in above, he might have an accomplice waiting outside.
Nicole, moving as slowly as she could, unlocked the special drawer. A revolver had been kept there ever since the Croat Raid, just in case.
She readied the weapon, hid behind a desk, and waited.
She saw a side of a ceiling tile lift up, ever so slowly and the ceiling tile started to slide away.
Nicole fired at where she guessed the burglar would be perched.
There was an answering shriek.
* * *
Hans was lucky; Nicole wasn’t a great shot.
But he didn’t know that, and he wasn’t eager to present the shooter more of a target.
Hans hadn’t tried to crawl around on the suspended ceiling, he had just pulled up the tile directly under the hole he had made in the roof. So he was able to pull back quickly enough.
* * *
Nicole, still holding the revolver, and keeping her eye on the opening, picked up the phone. She took the receiver off the hook, and dialed the police station one handed. “Come quickly, someone is trying to break into Words International. From the ceiling. I shot at him. I don’t know if I hit him.”
“Help’s on the way,” said the dispatcher. “What the heck are you doing in the shop at this hour, Nicole?” The dispatcher was Jim Watteville, Nicole’s cousin.
* * *
Hans made it safely away, leaving the tools behind him. Still, he could predict, well enough, how Bullfrog Eyes would react to the news of the bungled burglary.
He left his employer a brief note explaining what had happened, packed his bags, and hurried out of town.
Blackmail, he figured, worked only if the blackmailer could find the blackmailee.
* * *
The fireman came down from the roof. “I put back on the inspection panel for the RTU return air plenum. And I covered the hole with a tarp, to keep the rain out. But you’re going to want to get a roofer out here, quick as you can.”
Nicole nodded.
“Nice to know you can shoot when there’s need,” he added.
“I didn’t hit the guy.”
“You sure scared him,” said Jim approvingly. He had hurried over as soon as he found someone to cover the phone. “Left all his stuff there. If he’s been arrested in Grantville before, we’ll have his fingerprints on file.
“After something like this, we need to give you a fitting nickname.”
“Nickname?” Nicole sounded suspicious.
“Yep. How ’bout ‘Raptor’ Hawkins?”
“Raptor?” asked the fireman.
“Right. Remember Jurassic Park?”
“Oh, yeah. When everyone was hiding up in the suspended ceiling, and the raptor was leaping up at them.”
“That’s enough,” said Nicole with raptor-like ferocity. “Out, both of you. I better call some roofers right now.”
The men chuckled as they went out the door.
“Grrr,” said Jim to no one in particular, one hand held in imitation of a claw, as the door swung shut.
“Grrr yourself,” said Nicole.
* * *
Bullfrog Eyes crumpled the note, and tossed it into the fire. Watching it burn, he wished the same fate upon Hans.
He felt his chest tighten, and forced himself to calm down. Well, he decided, he would have to visit Words International himself, this very day, and hope that someone was in. And that whoever was there had the book, and hadn’t examined it too closely.
Just in case...he made sure his dirk was well concealed.
* * *
“What a day,” Nicole muttered. Having gone to the trouble of going to the office, not to mention scaring off burglars and sweet-talking roofers, she had decided to stay there and get some work done. Not without an occasional nervous look at the ceiling. At least there were plenty of people on the street by now.
There was a knock at the door; she ignored it. The roofer had come and gone, the police had come and gone, she really, really didn’t want to talk to anyone. Then came another knock.
Can’t they read the sign? she thought. It says closed...in ten different languages.
The knocking became continuous.
She went to the window, saw that the intruder was a well-dressed, foreign looking gentleman. Presumably not the mysterious burglar.
She put the chain on the door and opened it cautiously. “The office is closed.”
“I am so sorry, so sorry. My servant, he brought the wrong book to be translated. I have the correct one here. The book he brought, it was one I borrowed from an acquaintance, and I must return it before the owner leaves for Amsterdam later today.”
“Did your servant give you a receipt?”
“Yes, yes, here it is.” He stuck the paper into the gap, and Nicole took it from him.
“One moment, I’ll check the ledger.”
Nichole pulled the ledger out and ran her finger down the list. She walked back to the door. “It was one of the books we gave to Federico Ballarino to be translated.”
“Where can I find this Federico?”
“At Cair Paravel.”
Bullfrog Eyes raised his eyebrows. “Cair what?”
“I’m sorry. That’s what Princess Kristina calls her official residence, the place she stays at when she visits Grantville.”
“This Federico Ballarino, he is a member of the Swedish Court? But works for you as a translator?”
“He is the princess’ dancing master, but he also teaches part-time at the high school. He speaks several languages.
“Anyway, I think he is on his way to Magdeburg today. He’ll probably have the book with him. So he has reading matter for the train to Halle, and the barge ride afterward.”
Bullfrog Eyes bowed slightly. “I will try to catch him at the train station, then. What does he look like? How does he usually dress for these trips?”
* * *
“Federico Ballarino? Yes, I know him,” said the ticket clerk. “He’s a regular. Got on the 9:30 to Halle.”
Bullfrog Eyes cursed.
“Hey, don’t work up a sweat. The 9:30 is a local. There’s also a 1:10 express. If Federico is going to Magdeburg, he’ll take the boat tomorrow morning.”
“I have never met Signore Ballarino. Can you tell me what he was wearing?”
The clerk told him, then added. “Hey, I have a picture of him! He gave me a flyer for this dance exhibition he’s doing in a few weeks. You want it?”
Bullfrog Eyes took it. There was just enough time, he figured, to go home and pack. Just the essentials. Like the Suhl-made rifle he was fond of.
* * *
The press at the dock was much greater than Bullfrog Eyes had expected. Every time he tried to move in the direction of Federico’s distinctive hat, someone got in the way. He wished he had one of the Americans’ machine guns. That would clear a path nicely.
The upshot was that Federico was on board, and Bullfrog Eyes was left watching the boat work its way into the main channel of the Saale.
Well, there were alternatives. The boat moved slowly, and there were several stops. Bullfrog Eyes would buy a horse, and get ahead of him.
* * *
Federico shrugged off the backpack Nicole had lent him, and rummaged inside. It was time to read some more. He chose, by feel, the thinnest of the books. He pulled it out; it was a green-covered octavo.
He zipped up the backpack and put it back on. He had mixed feelings about the backpack. Yes, yes, it made it easier to carry things. But he didn’t like what it did to his balance.
* * *
Bullfrog Eyes was in a clump of woods, not far from the landing at Bernberg. He still hadn’t decided whether it was better to talk to Federico, find out what he knew, and, if he were ignorant, retrieve the book without arousing suspicion...or to just shoot him. The latter would silence him, but if the book couldn’t be recovered, there was always the possibility that the police would take interest in it.
* * *
Federico was a bit puzzled. This book, it was interesting enough, he supposed, but not really the sort which down-timers were likely to pay to get translated. He inspected the inside covers, wondering whether there was anything written there which revealed the identity of the owner, and thus, perhaps, why we wanted the translation.
That’s when Federico noticed the slit in the binding. He probed with his fingers, there was a letter there; he pulled it out. It was sealed. He wondered what it was doing there.
* * *
The boat came around the river bend, moving slowly as it made the turn. There was Federico, all right. But what was that in his hand?
Bullfrog Eyes raised the rifle, and took aim.
* * *
Federico had one hand on the letter, and the other on the book. When the shot rang out, he had no hand to spare for the boat.
On the dance floor, Federico was extremely graceful. He also didn’t normally wear a backpack. Bullfrog Eyes’ shot grazed Federico’s cheek. Surprised, he lost his balance, and toppled backward into the water.
* * *
“Got him!” thought Bullfrog Eyes. He watched anxiously to see whether Federico resurfaced.
The other passengers on the barge had taken cover, as best they could. Still, it was only a matter of time before they spotted Bullfrog Eyes. While he was in disguise, that wouldn’t help if he were caught before he had a chance to change back to his normal appearance.
The barge continued its ponderous movement downstream. In the riverbend, there was no sign of Federico. Or even his hat.
Bullfrog Eyes nodded with satisfaction. It had been a perfect assassination, Federico dead, and the book and letter lost forever. He worked his way back through the brush to his horse, pulled off the cloak he had been wearing, and rode off in the direction of Halle.
* * *
Federico had, somewhat to his surprise, managed, despite his unexpected dip, to hold on to both the letter and the book. Somewhat the worse for wear, thanks to treading water briefly with them in hand. Once he had recovered from his shock, he had tucked them both inside his blouse and swum to the side of the boat.
Federico held on, using the hull to conceal himself from the shooter. “Could he really have been aiming at me? he wondered. “And if so, why? Because I am Catholic, but am the dance instructor for a Lutheran princess? Because I told the shooter at some dance class that he had two left feet?”
* * *
It had been a lousy weekend for Federico. He had to give a statement to the dim-witted constable in Bernberg. Then another at the police station in Magdeburg. Once he got to the palace, the palace guard had more questions for him. Could this possibly be part of some plot against the Princess Kristina? More than a bit snappish by that point, Federico suggested that they interrogate the Ice Queen. He learned by this to never, ever, make a joke when questioned by the police. Their uniform entitles them to make all the jokes.
* * *
“Welcome back, Federico.” The speaker was Jim Watteville, Nicole’s cousin. He was still in uniform, having just come off duty.
“I could wish you weren’t in uniform, Jim.”
“Trouble with the police?”
“Trouble is too strong a word. ‘Exasperation,’ that will do.” Federico explained.
“Weird,” said Jim. “Care to join me for a drink? It is the least I can do, to make amends for the follies of policedom.”
“That’s fine. But I have an errand to run first, I want to drop off the last of the books I was supposed to translate on this trip. And explain to the owner what happened. He’s about a five minute walk from here.”
“I’ll join you; we can go straight to the Gardens from there.”
* * *
You go in, Federico, I’ll wait out here,” Jim said.
Federico knocked. A servant answered. Not Hans, of course.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Tell your master that it is a representative from Words International.”
* * *
“Ah, he must be here to apologize for the loss of my book. I will let him grovel a bit, then tell him that I will waive my claim for the loss. Bring him in.”
A moment later, Federico strode into Bullfrog Eyes’ study.
“Urkhh,” said the dumbfounded would-be murderer.
“I am Federico Ballarino, a translator in the employ of Words International. I regret to inform you that the volume you entrusted to us is a bit damaged.” He held up the infamous green-bound octavo.
“And then there is the matter of the letter that was inside.” Federico held that up; Bullfrog Eyes could see that it was no longer sealed. He moved his hand, very slowly, toward a drawer that held a small pistol.
Just then, Jim walked in. “What’s taking so long?” Out of habit, his hand rested near his service revolver. Back in West Virginia, police dispatchers didn’t go around armed, but since the Ring of Fire, it had become normal.
Bullfrog Eyes whitened. There were two of them. Federico had his sword; the hilt was visible through a fold in his cloak. Jim had a handgun and was primed to use it. Clearly, they were ready to arrest him. There were probably Swedish armsmen, in Princess Kristina’s service, waiting outside.
Fighting didn’t seem wise. And he couldn’t flee easily, either; they blocked the only readily accessible exit from his study. They would hardly stand by while he broke a window.
Fight. Flight. Fight. Flight. His mind raced back and forth between both unpromising alternatives, like an animal pacing inside a box trap.
Then his body selected a third choice. His chest tightened convulsively, his vision blurred, and the floor reached up to slug him.
* * *
The EMT shook his head. “Sorry. He’s dead, Jim.”
“I guess we’ll have to notify his next of kin,” the dispatcher said. “Federico, was that letter addressed to anybody that might qualify?”
“I couldn’t say.” Federico shrugged. “I was just about to apologize to the guy—the letter was probably a treasured love letter, or something of the sort—but after its swim in the Saale, all the writing was smeared beyond recognition.”
“Lost in translation,” Jim quipped.