The Devil's Opera(78)
Mary busied herself in pouring more coffee for the two of them, and then sat for a moment, staring at her cup but not drinking. Okay, Amber thought to herself, she’s got something to tell me, and she’s either not sure how to say it or she doesn’t like what she’s about to say. Either way, that’s not good.
“I’ve had a request,” Mary finally started. When she lifted her eyes, they weren’t exactly pleading, but they did ask for understanding. “One of our backers—the merchant who’s footing half of the production costs, actually—wants to watch the rehearsals when you start in the opera house.”
Amber blew air through her lips. She was right. This wasn’t good news. She really really really didn’t like having producer types hanging around her rehearsals. The performers needed to be focused, and that was hard enough to achieve without the distraction—and often, the interference—of people with a vested interest in the production at hand.
On the other hand, in the theatre world, the Golden Rule was “those who have the gold make the rules.” It was just a fact that sponsorship and special privileges went hand in hand. And it wasn’t the first time this had happened to Amber in her career as a director.
“All right,” she sighed. “I don’t like it, but I’ll let him watch from the audience or one of the box seats, not on stage. But if he gets disruptive or tries to interfere, I’ll kick his august and wealthy butt out the stage door.”
Mary smiled. “Thanks, Amber. That’s all I can ask for. And that’s what I told him. I think it will really help in getting the production publicized.”
“Hope so. By the way, have you nailed down yet just exactly when opening night will be? I have a need to know that, you know?”
Mary laughed. “Yes, I have. First night will be March 25th.”
“March 25th?” Amber searched her memory. “Not the first day of spring. Old beginning-of-the-year day?”
“Nope,” Mary responded with a grin. “But I did ask the pastors what would be the best day in March for the debut, and they came back with the 25th. Seems for Lutherans that’s the Feast of the Annunciation, and it’s the most important feast day in March, so that’s what we went with.”
Amber shrugged again. “Maybe I need to get Heinrich to include ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’ in the overture.”
The meeting ended in laughter.
Chapter 32
Pietro nudged Ciclope.
“There he comes now.”
Ciclope waited for a moment, then looked around with a casual air and let his gaze seemingly by accident pass over the average looking down-timer who was walking by. His eyes ended up looking up the street beyond the man, and he didn’t look back until after the man had passed them by. Only then did he look back to Pietro.
“You are sure he’s the one?”
“Si. Head accountant for Schiffer. I found out from three different people, and they all said he is the one in charge of the payroll.”
“Come on,” Ciclope said, as he pushed away from the wall and turned in the direction the accountant had gone. “I just hope you did a better job of disguising your questions than you did your fire.”
“That was not my fault!” Pietro complained. “There wasn’t supposed to be anything left there.”
“Quiet,” Ciclope ordered, and his partner, wonder of wonders, obeyed—at least to the extent of dropping off into unintelligible mutters.
Now what, Ciclope began wondering, could they do with the accountant and paymaster?
* * *
Franz Sylwester stumbled in the parlor, tripping over furniture that his early-morning bleary eyes could barely see. He did manage to avoid dropping the lamp, but only at the cost of a bruise on his shin that was going to hurt later.
Whoever it was that was playing tympani riffs on their front door was noticeably impatient. He would barely allow for a couple of breaths before resuming his hammering. There was a glimmer of light coming in through the parlor window curtains, so if it was not dawning yet, it wasn’t far from it. Franz not being what Marla called a morning person, he was not happy about being aroused from some of his best sleep of the night.
He finally made it to the door, set the lamp on the nearby table, and pulled the bolt and yanked open the door in a single motion.
“Who the…” Franz stopped in mid-tirade as he realized that a large fist hung directly in front of his nose. After a moment, the hand dropped, and he recognized the man to whom it belonged.
“Thomas?” It was Thomas Schwartzberg, one of his best friends for years, and an intimate member of the musicians who had coalesced around Franz and Marla. “What the devil are you doing here at this hour?”