The Grantville Gazette - Vol. 10 Part 13

"You mentioned he has a philosophy degree?"

"Oh, yes." Her face beamed with pride before she bent her head again to look at the tear she was mending. "Our son Adam originally went to theUniversityofLeipzig to study theology. He changed colleges, received his degree over five years ago and later became part of the faculty. Have you been inLeipzig ? He is, or was, the deputy headmaster at the Nicolai gymnasium inLeipzig . But he wrote recently to tell us he'd entered the service of Duke Friedrich of Schleswig-Holstein. He's to be the secretary to a diplomat and arrange their missions. Initially they were going toPersia and theRussias but he writes now that things have changed."

Carl chuckled, his blonde mustache spreading wide. "I've been toLeipzig and even visited the university but that was probably well after he left. I don't know if any of my audience was from the gymnasium faculty. My audiences are usually, ahem, somewhat less distinguished." He gestured towards his fiddle case.

Dolf listened as Carl chatted with the tailor and his wife about performing in city markets and taverns.

Why, he'd even been to the Grantville Gertrude Fischel talked about!

"There." Maria turned Carl's s.h.i.+rt right-side out. "Not quite good as new but no worse than many s.h.i.+rts in town. As I have cause to know."

"Thank you. How much do I owe?"

"Owe? After paying off those men? For not letting my husband get into a fight? Forget it."

Leaving the tailor shop, Carl squinted in the bright sun. "Where's the public bath? I stink."

Half an hour later, Carl emerged from the bath, his short hair still wet under his hat. Dolf rose from the shade of a doorway. "What are you going to do next?"

Carl c.o.c.ked his head. "Go to the market and put out my hat. I had to pay five pfennigs to enter town, I paid ten at Herr Oehlschlegel's shop and I'll have to pay your village for stabling my horse."

"But you've got more! I saw them."

"Sure. And if I want to eat tomorrow, I'll have to make more today. Come on, I'm already late starting."

Carl walked through the market, talking with the occasional seller. He approached a shaded stall with a smile. "h.e.l.lo,mein Herr . How goes business today?"

The elderly man with a dozen or so imperfect onions set out before him, stared back. Dolf's parents would never have taken such onions to market. They would rather have used them for meals.

"What's it to you?" the old man rasped.

Carl swung his fiddle case down into his hand. "I'm a fiddler. Let me use the shade of your spot and I'll guarantee more visitors to your stall. I'll buy an onion to eat if I can get it roasted somewhere."

The man jerked his head backward towards the street closest to them. "Woman three houses down bakes bread every morning. Oven may still be hot."

Ten minutes later, all the man's onions were cooking in a closed empty pot in the woman's oven. "Never thought to sell roasted onions," he admitted. "Not too old to learn, I guess."

Carl gave a lazy smile and tucked his fiddle under his collar bone after tuning it. He drew outward-curved bow drawn across the strings. "Do you have a tune I might already know?"

The man was totally unmusical, Dolf thought, listening to him mutter a tune. But Carl must have already known it because he began playing slowly along with the man. "And the words?" Carl began playing again, listening intently to the man and then nodded at the refrain.

People hear a fiddle over most other noises, Dolf noticed as Carl began to draw the bow across the strings more strongly. The fiddle responded and Carl speeded up the tempo. Soon a small crowd gathered to listen.

After five tunes, Carl took a break to retune. One of the audience grumbled in Dolf's hearing as they walked away. "We've got fiddlers who sing better and even better fiddle players here in town." Dolf was surprised by his remark and reported it to Carl.

"I don't doubt it for a minute. The first time I played in public was only a year and a half ago." He smiled again and gestured towards the market. "The thing to remember is that I'm here and they're not. So while I'm not being paid in silver, I am making money. The other fiddlers all have to work because, frankly, fiddling doesn't pay all that well unless you have a patron. But I'm free to move and travel as I like; they're not. It's the freedom to sleep under the bridge but it suits me."

While Carl got ready to play again, Gertrude came up to them. "Good morning. My name is Gertrude Fischel and I'm with the Ascherleben CoC. Do you know any progressive tunes?" The blonde woman wore an expectant smile.

"Can't help but know them if you travel around. Old tunes with new words and sometimes new tunes."

He began to sing and play, "There was a Committee maid, whose hair was bright and gay . . ." The song went on for several minutes, ending with how she'd never be afraid and would only marry a good CoC man.

When he finished, some of his audience, like Gertrude, applauded loudly. Others just stood with their arms crossed on their chests waiting for the next tune. Given the uneven response, Dolf doubted that Carl would be playing many tunes of that nature today.

After the crowd drifted away following the end of his set, Carl emptied several small coins from his hat and bent slightly so only Dolf could hear. "Never let the audience think you're making much money. But always leave a coin or two, just to let them know that others have appreciated you and how much to contribute."

"But why do you keep stopping?" Dolf was puzzled, looking upwards to Carl.

"Right now, because I know those onions should be ready. Second, I have to retune. Third, my arms are tired. Finally, this lets my audience continue their shopping. Never bite the hand that helps feed you, in this case the people who are selling the goods that first drew them to the market."

Dolf and Carl each ate a cooked onion. The old man paid the woman who roasted the onions and then doubled his price. He sold out almost immediately. "I should have tripled the price."

Carl shook his head, his eyebrows raised as if in pity. "What and have other vendors roast their onions as well? Then where would you be?" The old man growled but gave a grim smile before walking away.

A few more sets of tunes and then Carl put his fiddle away. "Getting too hot. You can see how the market is emptying." His bag over one shoulder, the fiddle case over the other and his thin walking stick in his right hand, he was about to leave the area when Gertrude stopped him.

"Herr Johantgens, where will you be playing tonight?"

"Thought I'd check the local taverns. At least one of them won't have a fiddler."

"How about trying the Golden Lion? The Aschersleben Committee meets there and I'm certain you'll get a lot more applause when you sing their tunes."

With both Dolf and Gertrude at his side, Carl entered the dim tavern. Dolf recognized Heinrich behind the bar and took half a step back. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Gertrude?" The tavern keeper beamed.

"I have an entertainer for you, Herr Grueber." Dolf was somehow rea.s.sured that she was not on a first name basis with the man. "This is Carl Johantgens who arrived in the city today. Did you hear him playing in the market?"

"No, but that's not unusual. How do you do, Herr Johantgens?"

"Well enough if I can make a few coins tonight and sleep under a roof,mein Herr . Fraulein Fischel tells me that the people who come to this tavern are receptive to progressive tunes. Not that they're all I'd be playing."

"No, indeed. I like all sorts of music myself. Come, sit down at the table. Let's discuss this over a mug of beer." Gertrude excused herself while Heinrich drew two mugs of regular beer and a small beer for Dolf.

"Good." Heinrich smacked his lips after his first sip and gave Carl a broad smile. "Now, on to business . . ."

Dolf watched the two men negotiate using very different styles. Heinrich was jovial but aggressive, laughing frequently. The much younger Carl was mild and almost diffident. He turned aside what might be considered slights with a soft smile but often revisited issues where there'd been no agreement. It seemed to Dolf that Carl might even be getting the better deal, including the right to sleep in the back room after closing. On the other hand, Carl promised that at least half of his tunes would be common or drinking songs people could sing with and that CoC tunes would not be over a quarter of those played. The most surprising part to Dolf was watching Carl write down their agreement and copy it. Each man signed both copies. "My father was, is, a merchant and ingrained in me early that written agreements save a lot of arguing later."

When they emerged from the tavern, it was late afternoon. Dolf was curious. "Did you get the better deal?"

Carl gave a shrug and a weary smile. "Who knows? We both got what we really wanted. You'd better get home, Dolf. I'm certain your parents are wondering what you've been doing. I'm going to wander around town."

At supper Dolf related everything he had seen and heard.

"You remember the Aesop fable about the ant and the gra.s.shopper?" his father asked, his brown eyes serious. He took another spoonful of soup. "Farmers like us are the ants and your friend is the gra.s.shopper. It gets very cold under the bridge in the winter."

True, Dolf thought. Then remembered that Carl would be sleeping in the back room of the Golden Lion tonight, not under a bridge.

The next morning Dolf found Carl leaning against a wall near a doorway, chatting with Gertrude and an older laundress.

"Ah, here's my would-be match maker." Carl teased Dolf with a slight smile, his light tan face crinkling.

"It's all your fault, Gertrude. Leading him astray with all that progressive talk. Right, Dolf?"

Dolf blushed. He was warmed by Carl's easy companions.h.i.+p but he didn't know the laundress at all and Gertude Fischel hardly any better.

"Don't tease him, Carl," Gertrude said. "It's your fault anyway, talking about walking up and down the countryside when he should appreciate that a good farmer stays with the land he knows best. Oh, by the way, Dolf," she said, bending over and looking into his eyes, "Listen carefully. I plan to marry a stable, dependable man, not a wanderer. And one, ahem, more mature."

"Huh!" Carl mimed being shot in the chest by an arrow and fell back against the wall. A moment later his twisted smile and raised eyebrow showed his skepticism. "So how's that new-fangled machine that Gertrude tricked you into buying a few weeks ago working, Elina?"

"It works fine except for being a little hard to turn when I first start," the older woman replied. She took a few steps backward into the doorway and turned the wringer handle. It screeched loudly in the small room.

"Put some grease on it!" Dolf yelled, holding his ears.

Gertrude was clearly unhappy. "He's right. Unless it's greased regularly, that's what happens. Sorry if I didn't make that plain."

An older man wearing a black leather ap.r.o.n walked up to the small group. Dolf guessed he was a printer. "Herr Johantgens? In answer to your question yesterday, I didn't receive your lucky Saxon Groschen . Our guards must have used it to make change."

Carl made a sour face and lifted his hands in regret. "I hadn't realized which coin it was when I gave it to them, Herr Wagner. It's really my fault."

"Call me Jan. Several people mentioned that you gave an excellent performance at the Golden Lion last night."

"Thank you, Jan. You can call me Carl. Always nice to receive compliments. It's even better when accompanied by coins, preferably silver." He grinned, turning towards Gertrude. "And best when it's from a sweet fraulein like Gertrude." She gave him a dismissive sniff.

Dolf watched the byplay and looked at the older man. So this was Jan Wagner, the Aschersleben CoC leader Heinrich had mentioned. Jan was similar to Papa but with a heavy mustache and a goatee. He didn't look any more forgiving than Dolf's own father.

The older man turned abruptly and strode away. Dolf had the feeling that he'd expected more of a response from Carl. As he was thinking that, Carl left Gertrude and Elina, heading towards the market.

Dolf hurried to catch up. "Carl, why did you not talk longer with Herr Wagner?"

Carl stopped and gave a sigh. "How many Committee members would you say there are in this city?

One in five? One in ten? One in fifteen?"

Dolf shrugged.

"If this is like most cities, one in twenty or fewer." Carl's voice was full of resignation. "Many more will know about them but with a greater or lesser knowledge of their convictions. If I'm known as a friend of Herr Wagner this early in my stay, I become identified with the CoC. Because I'm an outsider, many people would think I'm an agitator, someone who's ready to upset the current situation. Understand?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Remember how I make my living? People give me money for playing music. If they don't like my politics or for any number of other reasons, how much do you think they would put into my hat? Besides, last night at the Golden Lion, I made five times the money singing drinking songs as I did playing the others. Sure, most of the crowd enjoyed hearing them, but for some reason they thought that I should play them to display my solidarity with the working ma.s.ses, not for money."

He resumed walking. "In the market where we're heading, people will give money more quickly to someone who makes them feel good, not thoughtful. They want to hear light music. Not dancing music, not drinking songs."

"But you played that tune about the woman who ran away with her lover."

"Uh huh. For which she was punished, you might say. He was also punished for the murder." Carl gave a grunt of laughter. "That sort of song is popular with parents whose daughters might be less than obedient.

A morality tale, you see."

Carl didn't walk directly to where he'd played the day before. Instead he talked again to the vendors, introducing himself to some, calling others by name, asking how sales were going today. He bargained for an apple from one vendor and a stoppered jug of fresh cider with a mug from another.

"Good morning, Carl." Georg welcomed him to his stall. "I'm having two dozen onions roasted. Hanna set aside some small rolls, too. We'll slice the rolls open and pop in a hot cooked onion. Delicious and you won't burn your fingers." He paused a moment. "So how many should I save for you?"

Carl looked at him with a soft smile as he lifted amused eyebrows. "That's as smooth as I've ever heard it done. Put me down for two-one for me and one for Dolf."

He lifted his fiddle from its case and began tuning it. "Any tunes you want to hear today, Georg?"

"How about that one you played yesterday calledFrenchman's Retreat ?"

"Not until my fingers are really loose. How aboutDu bist mein Sonnenschein ?"

The old man frowned, the wrinkled skin of his face moving into deep folds. "Don't know it."

"That's right. I only played it at the tavern. It's easy to remember and anyone can sing it." Carl began playing the simple tune and singing along with it. Before long both Georg and Dolf were joining in and several market visitors walked over to listen.

Later Carl and Dolf were sitting on the ground in the shade with their backs to the building. Carl poured cider into a mug for both of them. "So what have you learned today, Dolf?"

After taking a sip, Dolf looked up at Carl. "What do you mean?"

"You watched everyone and saw everything that happened. I played about a dozen songs. Which tunes gathered the best response? Which ones received the worst?"

The boy frowned. "I hate to say it, but the two CoC tunes got the worst response."

"Uh huh. But in other towns those same ones are some of the most popular, especially where there is an active Committee chapter. So what does that tell you?"

"That it isn't very popular?"

"Right. Not popular and it's an organization which is supposed to be by and for the working cla.s.s, women, the poor and younger tradesmen. The type of people who frequent the market. I suspect that what we saw in Herr Oehlschlegel's tailor shop was only one example. That said, having talked with Jan Wagner last night and seen the obvious improvements, the organization as a whole is doing a lot of good."

Dolf was torn. He wanted to blurt out what he'd written to Spartacus, but didn't want this man who'd befriended him to get into trouble. He might look strong, but Heinrich had at least four other men he could call on. So he drank his cider.

Carl stood, brushed off the back of his trousers and began tuning the fiddle.

"Will you be playing in the tavern again tonight?"

"Yes, but it'll be my last night. I'll be leaving the area mid-afternoon tomorrow, as soon as the market crowd dissipates. I should be inHalle before nightfall. So don't let my horse go out with the other horses in the morning."

"You're leaving? So soon?" Dolf couldn't believe his new friend would leave.

"Uh huh. Always leave your audience wanting more. Tomorrow's Sat.u.r.day, always a good day for tips.

But Sunday? Best to be in a new town. Besides, some of the other fiddlers here in town might decide to give me some compet.i.tion next week which would cut down on my income." He stepped forward and played a dramatic downstroke on the violin strings, quickly vibrating the bow back and forth.

Then he gave a bright smile. "Good morning, everyone. Before I play, I suggest that you purchase Georg's roasted onions for your noontime meal. Good for your health and placed inside a freshly baked roll, so you won't burn your fingers. I also recommend Maria Deitz's cider. Do any of you have any tunes you'd like to hear?"

"How aboutMein Freiin ?" Gertrude's voice was clear in the distance.