Schonberg, dated 1938; he put those aside for later reading. Schonberg had
been a composer, Michael remembered; perhaps the letters mentioned the
concerto.
Then he found the Stravinsky oratorio manuscript, Stravinsky had composed
The Rite of Spring early in the century, and Disney had set the work to dying
dinosaurs. Every adolescent knew Stravinsky.
Holding the oratorio was like holding a piece of history. He lightly touched
the signature and the accompanying letter, savoring the roughness of the
fountain pen scratches.
, the letter was dated. He could almost imagine, outside, a calm bright spring
day, the cars parked on the street and in the brick driveways all rounded and
quaintly sleek, like the Packard in the garage; silver DC-
3s and Lockheed Vegas flying in to Burbank airport, tall palms against the
sky, everything more spread out, less crowded, almost sleepy&
Michael looked up from the manuscript with a glazed, distant expression.
Before the war. Days of the late
Depression, easing now that Roosevelt was rearming the country.
Days of comparative peace before the storm.
Kristine seemed to regard Westwood a* the center of the universe. She knew ail
the best restaurants there "best" meaning good food on a slightly more than
meager budget and she had chosen a less crowded one this evening. It was
called the Xanadu, which both discomfited and amused Michael. The decor was
dark wood paneling inlaid with somewhat oriental, somewhat Art Deco scenes
beaten into brass sheets. White silk canopies depended from the ceiling. Its
fare was not Chinese food, but nouveau
French, and Kristine assured him everything was very good despite the
reasonable prices. "The chef here is young," she said. "Just getting started.
He'll probably be gone in two or three months; some body else will hire him,
and I'll never be able to afford his cooking again." They were seated at a
corner table by a waitress dressed in tuxedo.
Kristine gauged his reaction as the waitress wobbled away on high heels. "So
it's not consistent," she said, laughing.
"Xanadu's an odd name, isn't it?" he asked. "For a restaurant like this?"
She shrugged. "I suppose they intended it to mean& a pleasurable place,
extravagant, not necessarily
Chinese."
Michael felt a strong, all-too-adolescent urge to bring up his unusual
familiarity with Xanadu, but he resisted. He would not impress Kristine by
being any odder than he already was.
"Have you been reading about those hauntings?" she asked.
"Yes. In the papers."
"Aren't they strange? Like the flying saucer waves. Really spooky, though."
He glanced down at the side of his chair, where he had laid the envelope
containing the copy of the manuscript. Time to change subjects completely, he
decided. He brought it up to table level. "I made a copy," he said.
She glanced at the envelope, obviously aware of the gingerly way he supported
it on his fingertips. "How did it come out?"
"You can look for yourself." He handed it to her.
"It's very clean." She pulled it halfway out of the envelope. "I didn't think
it would copy nearly that well."
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-...0Power%2002%20-%20The%20Serpent%
20Mage.html (45 of 208) [5/21/03 12:44:31 AM]
Bear, Greg - Songs of Earth and Power Vol. 2 - The Serpent Mage
"We're in luck," Michael said.
Page 47
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Thank you." She riffled the pages, returned it to its envelope with a broad
smile and slipped it in her voluminous canvas purse. Her smile changed to
concern. "Are you feeling all right tonight?"
He nodded. "I'm a little nervous," he admitted.
"Why? Is it the restaurant?"
"No. What will you do with the manuscript now?"
She shrugged, an odd reaction, as if it all meant very little to her. Then an
excited smile broke through her nonchalance, and she rested her arms on the
table, leaning forward eagerly. "I'll show it around ^ie department. There are
plans for a concert in the summer& July, I think. If we can get it prepared by
then, perhaps we can perform it. And I'll show it to Edgar." The waitress
returned for their orders, and Michael chose poached halibut. There were no
vegetarian dishes on the menu; he felt less uncomfortable eating the flesh of
sea-creatures but knew that a Sidhe would abhor even such non-mammalian fare.
Kristine ordered medallions of salmon. The waitress poured their wine, and
Michael sipped it cautiously.
He had drunk wine only once before, at the Dopso's house, since his return,
and he had reservations about how it might affect him in his present nervous
state. He did not want to become even mildly drunk; the very thought bothered
him. But the wine was agreeably sweet and light, and its effects were too
subtle to be noticeable.
One evening, the soul of wine sang in its bottles&
Baudelaire. Why the line seemed appropriate now, he didn't know.
"I'm starting to have my doubts about this whole thing, about putting on a
concert," Michael said, inching back into his chair.
"Why?" Kristine asked, startled. "Aren't you supposed to promote Waltiri's
works? Isn't that what an executor does?"
"I'm not precisely an executor, I just manage the estate. I don't know." He
opened his mouth to speak again, then shut it and shook his head. "I don't
know what in hell I'm doing here. I'm giving you something you can't possibly
understand "
"Now wait a minute," Kristine flared.
He pointed to her bag, with the corner of the envelope sticking out. "When [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]