My jaw was probably hanging loose. The Frissault woman was the widow of an artist? A famous one, to boot? Plump, cheerful, unassuming Olga? The same Olga who had a thing going with a rude and crude barbarian?
What was the world coming to?!
Then I remembered the way Olga had browbeaten the lackeys in that exclusive lodge, and all those weird little ways in which Hrundig didn’t fit the image of a proper Alsask. And then—finally—the name registered.
Frissault? That Frissault? One of the few artists I’d ever actually heard of?! One of Grotum’s most famous national martyrs?! Olga’s husband?!
I was probably muttering to myself. I hate being caught unawares, like some kind of country bumpkin. However, while I was staggering to catch up, things were progressing apace.
“You’ll be seeking asylum, of course,” the Abbess announced. “In the Mutt, eventually, I should think. But, for the moment, welcome to the Abbey. You’ll be quite safe here, until whatever arrangements you need can be made for your further travels. Or, if you prefer, you may stay here indefinitely.”
Olga was smiling now. Then, chuckling. “You do understand, Abbess, that we are Joeists. So we’re in the odd position of seeking asylum in a Church institution from—ah, from—”
“The Lord Almighty Himself,” finished Hildegard. “I fail to see the problem. Really! Sauce for the gander, sauce for the goose. It would be quite unethical for the Old Geister to insist on being made an Exception to His own rules, now wouldn’t it?”
My brain groped with the peculiar logic involved with that last remark. I’m no theologian, to put it mildly, but I always thought the whole point of the exercise was that God was the exception to the rules.
But Hildegard didn’t leave me any time to flounder. She had already embraced Hrundig and Jenny and Angela, and was turning away, motioning all of us to follow.
“Come,” she commanded. “Let me introduce you to the others.”
When we were introduced to the Blockhead, he gave us a polite but distant greeting. A fierce-looking man, he was. I was awestruck, myself. Everybody says he’s the world’s greatest composer. Except when they say that Gramps is the world’s greatest composer, and he was the one we were introduced to next. Now Gramps was another kettle of fish entirely. He was one of the nicest and friendliest old gents you’ll ever run into, whether or not he or the Blockhead is the world’s greatest composer. Which is what everybody argues about except when they’re arguing that the Deadbeat is the world’s greatest composer, and he was the one we were introduced to next. Huh! Maybe he is the world’s greatest composer, I wouldn’t know. But he was certainly a silly little chap. Vulgar, too.
But the truth is, like most lowlifes, my taste runs to opera. And so the big thrill of the evening was being introduced to the Big Banjo and his old lady.
We’d met before, actually, but under the circumstances at the time I was sure he wouldn’t have noticed us in the crowd.
I was wrong. He interrupted the Abbess halfway through the introduction.
“I am already acquainted with the gentlemen, Hildegard,” he said. “In point of fact, I am deeply in their debt. These two were among the stalwarts who defended me at The Sign of the Trough upon that occasion when the Ecclesiarchs’ lackeys set upon me in the streets of New Sfinctr. Outraged, they were, at the implications of my latest opera. Fortunately, ’twas close to the Flankn, so I was able to effect my escape. Even so, it would have been sticky had it not been for the proper Trough-men.”
“Wasn’t just us,” rumbled Greyboar modestly. “Whole Flankn turned out, once the word spread. Gave the bootlickers quite the drubbing, we did.” Greyboar actually blushed a little. “Nothing really, for the national hero of Grotum.”
About the only thing that would arouse Greyboar’s very, very, very faint tinge of pan-Groutchery was the Big Banjo’s music. The chorus, sure, like everybody else, but he actually knew most of the other operas, too. Fortunately, he didn’t sing them.
The Big Banjo studied Greyboar intently. “Gwendolyn’s brother, are you not?”
Mutely, Greyboar nodded. The Big Banjo cocked his head a bit. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have any of your sister’s vocal talent?”
I choked. Greyboar grinned. The Big Banjo sighed.
“Pity,” he mused. “I’ve written the most splendid opera especially for her voice. She sang a few arias from it, when she and that marvelous Benvenuti fellow arrived in the Mutt some time ago. Months and months, it’s been now.”
He shook his head ruefully. “But—you know Gwendolyn! She spurned all my pleas. Said she’d only return to singing after the revolution triumphed.”