Powers, Richard - Orfeo

Els flipped his collar up around his face, calling even more attention to himself, and stepped into the cold. Cars thrummed from the interstate and frontage road to the south. To the north, towering halogen streetlights illuminated a fairyland of chain stores. Down a car-choked gauntlet of stoplights there spread a copy of the same preassembled strip that seeped northward from Naxkohoman, emblazoned with logos that every toddler in the country learned along with her ABC’s.

A street sign shone in the distance: Town Center Boulevard. When Els lived in this town, there’d been nothing here but the richest topsoil in the world, all the way to the horizon.

The lobby of the motel was a cartoon Southwest: quarry tile, muted earth tones, and above the reception desk, pastel paintings of Pueblos. He’d somehow wormholed through into Arizona. A circus-colored popcorn machine stood between the reception desk and a small breakfast area. The room stank of synthetic butter. A bowl of apples so perfect they might have been props for a musical about Eden sat on the reception desk. On the wall above, a flat-screen newscast split into three simultaneous video feeds with two text crawls and a title box beneath.

A twenty-five-year-old in T-shirt and blue blazer looked up from his computer and smiled. Els braced, but the clerk kept grinning.

Hey, there! What can I do you for tonight?

Els glanced over his shoulder, gauging the distance to the lobby door. Would you have a single free?

You might be in luck, the clerk said. He punched some keys and bugled victory. Smoking or non?

The clerk produced a sheet for Els to fill out. Name, address, phone, contact info, driver’s license, make and model of car, plate number. .

Els took the form and held it in front of him. I’m paying cash .

No problem! the clerk assured him.

Els stood, pen in hand, regarding the form. The clerk looked up from the computer and swiped the air.

Not to worry. It’s just for the files.

Els filled in the form, inventing freely.

You have a loyalty card? the clerk asked. Triple-A? Anything?

Els blinked.

AARP? Maybe you left your card at home? No problemo. Ten percent off, for the man with the honest face.

Els traded his money for a key card. On the molding behind the desk, another little webcam glared at him with a cyclops eye.

The room was like the afterlife in a French existentialist novel. Bed, chair, bedside table, clock-radio, wall-mount TV. You could sail to the next galaxy in it, or serve out a life sentence in its minimum-security oblivion. Els showered, almost scalding himself. He lay in a towel on the bed and flipped on the television. He found the news channel, cowering between fourth-generation reality shows. The day’s events unfolded in twenty-second clips. The screen filled with shaky footage from Cairo. Tens of thousands of people fanned out across Liberation Square, clapping, chanting, and marching. As in every large production Els had ever worked on, chaos called the tune. The demonstrators, after dwindling to a trickle, were back in force, in numbers beyond anything the nascent Arab Spring had yet seen. The military were changing sides; the protesters sensed triumph, and all because of one infectious melody.

With a quick crosscut, the scene turned into a Bollywood musical. A singer drifted his way across the square, singing an upbeat tune that could have been the theme song to a sitcom about young cosmopolitans enjoying their star-crossed lives. People held up hand-lettered signs. Vendors proffered food while lip-synching along. Old men in knit caps and women in headscarves mouthed the hopeful, defiant words, which scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The anthem had gone viral over the weekend, saving the revolution.

One more government brought down by a catchy hook. Another crosscut, and the song morphed back to reality. The crowd of euphoric protesters probed each other for clues to what would happen next. Els saw why Socrates wanted to ban all those modes.

But for now , the Cairo correspondent said, this revolution seems to have turned around. . on a song.

Els stood, shut off the television, and found Kohlmann’s phone. Merely powering it up created more traceable data. He didn’t care. The phone played a little tune and reported eight missed calls and a dozen texts. He dialed.

Where are you? Klaudia said, before he heard a ring. Are you all right?

That had all the earmarks of a trick question. I’m fine. I’m alive.

Have you heard the latest?

Probably not, Els said.

All the IV bags from the Alabama deaths came from the same pharmacy.

Of course , Els said . But let me guess: somehow that story isn’t getting as much coverage as the first.

They still haven’t ruled out malicious tampering at the pharmacy site itself.

Oh, for God’s sake.

The authorities are advising increased vigilance at similar facilities.

Giving the all clear, while asking everyone to stay terrified.

Your man from the FBI dropped by to talk. Somebody here must have alerted them about the class.

Oh, Christ.

He asked if we knew your whereabouts. He wanted to know if you were preaching anything crazy.

What did you tell him?

We told him it doesn’t get crazier than Messiaen. Lisa Keane had some pretty good notes, which she shared with the man. Turns out he had someplace he needed to get to. You’d think we Q-tips terrified young people.

Did they ask about your phone?

Don’t worry. If they do, I’ll tell them you stole it.

I, too, had nothing to say, and I tried to say it as well as I could. What harm could so small a thing as saying nothing do to anyone?

Els stayed on in England after Paul flew home. Expense no longer mattered. He could stay for years now, without any sacrifice.

He saw the poster on a notice board in the back of St. Paul’s. He might have created it by imagining. A concert: prestigious Baroque chamber ensemble playing works by unknown composers at St. Martin-in-the-Fields that Saturday. The music had no interest whatsoever for Els. But in the middle of the photo — a dozen musicians in concert dress — holding a cello, was the mother of Clara Reston.

Then the mother turned into the child. The girl had cut her four-foot fall of hair. She wore a tight perm now, silver-blond. Els rejected the evidence, until the evidence rejected every explanation except Clara.

He went to the concert. The two hours of formulaic music were shot through with fleeting, wild phrases and startling harmonies that wouldn’t occur again until the twentieth century. Els couldn’t decide what was clumsiness and what was neglected genius. It didn’t matter: the night held out a string of misshapen pearls that might have gone forgotten forever.

All he could hear was the Firebird. Els couldn’t take his eyes off the cellist. She stroked her instrument as she had at twenty, her graceful neck nuzzling the fingerboard. Something was different about her, aside from the hair and weight and middle age. It took Els many measures of Sweelinck to name it: she had turned mortal.

She was bolting from the church with her packed instrument when he found her. He stepped in front of her. She stopped, annoyed, and then, with a cry, she wrapped him in a bear hug without letting go of her cello. She stepped back, girlish, flushed, palm to her forehead, taking her own temperature. I can’t believe it. It’s you! Her accent had drifted British. Els wondered if she’d forgotten his name.