problem.”
“A problem? What kind of problem?”
“The more conservative landowners suspect that the selling of the slaves once they converted was some kind of plot to keep them under Jewish control. Especially given the circumstances of your previous relationship with Don Diego.”
Mustafa held up his hand as he saw Sampson’s face turn red. “I know, I know. Ridiculous. But to ease those suspicions, Melek Ahmed requests that you marry your slaves, if that is your desire, or sell them to him. That will ease the criticism he is getting from the Kadizadelis in the city.”
Sampson smiled. “Anything to please my patron. You may tell Melek Ahmed Pasha that I will marry the slaves.”
A lilting, seductive voice came from the house. “Oh master, your bedchamber is ready.”
Sampson leaned closer to Mustafa. “But we don’t need to tell Lara and Lina just yet. Agreed?”
Mustafa laughed. “Agreed, agreed. My lips are sealed.”
The Sound of Sweet Strings: A Serenade in One Movement
Grantville
December 1633
The music came to an end. Atwood flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.
“And that was the beautiful ‘Nimrod’ movement from Variations on an Original Theme for Orchestra, Opus 36, called the ‘Enigma’ Variations, by Edward Elgar. That was a foretaste of things to come. We will play the work in its entirety some time next month. I think you will like it.”
Atwood had a smooth bass voice, and he had put it to use over the years from time to time serving as a radio disc jockey. He’d never expected to be doing it in this situation, however, over three hundred years before he had been born. But he’d been assured that there were plenty of crystal radios out there in Thuringia to tune into his show, so he’d agreed to do it.
He looked down at his notes. “To close out this evening’s program, we’re going to play a very different piece of music in a very different musical style. It’s what we call ‘bluegrass’ music. Those of you who listen to Reverend Fischer’s morning devotionals have already heard music like this. This particular piece features an instrument that wasn’t invented for close to another two hundred years, called the banjo. This is ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown.’ ”
Atwood cued up the CD. After a moment the music began to sound. He leaned back and just listened to Earl Scruggs’ picking. Atwood could play the banjo, but it wasn’t his best instrument and he enjoyed hearing it played by a master.
All too soon the music was over, and he leaned forward again. “That was ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown,’ and I hope you enjoyed it.
“Thank you for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I look forward to joining you next Sunday evening.
“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”
A few weeks later
Lucille Cochran turned from the front door’s peep hole. “It’s for you, dear.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, there’s only one of him, he’s a down-timer, and he’s carrying something that looks like one of your old gig bags. He doesn’t look like a lawyer, so I don’t think he came to see the probate judge. That leaves you.”
Atwood levered himself from his recliner, muttering something about people coming around on Saturday evening when a man should be able enjoy some peace and quiet. He opened the door. “Yes?”
“Herr Cochran?” The man on the doorstep was short, dark-haired, dressed in reasonably fine but not new clothing, including a large hat with a bedraggled feather. And he did have what looked for all the world like one of Atwood’s old soft-sided guitar gig bags on his back. Atwood guessed it had a lute in it. The man appeared to be in his forties, and by his accent he was not from the Germanies.
“That’s me.”
“I am Giouan Battista Veraldi. I was in Magdeburg when I heard your radio program with the music of the… banjo?” He pronounced the last word with care, as if he wasn’t sure how it should sound.
“Come in, Signor Veraldi.” Atwood opened the door wider. The Italian beamed at the up-timer’s recognition and stepped through the door. Lucille appeared in the door to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, this is Signor Giouan Battista Veraldi…did I get that right?” The still beaming Italian swept his hat from his head and made a very courtly bow to Lucille. “Signor Veraldi, this is my wife, Lucille.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Cochran.”
“So, at a guess you would like to know more about the banjo.” Atwood’s curiosity was piqued.
“Yes, please.” Veraldi’s smile widened.
“Come with me, then.” Atwood led the way through the kitchen and opened the door into what used to be the garage. Veraldi sniffed in appreciation as he passed by the stew simmering on the stove. Atwood followed his guest down the step into his studio.
The late afternoon light flooded through the windows at the end of the room. There were posters of famous guitars and famous guitarists on the walls. The room was furnished with a couple of stools and music stands, plus a table under the windows and another at the other end of the room. There was a black cabinet in one corner, and leaning up against it were several odd-shaped cases.
“Where are you from, Signor Veraldi?”
Atwood gestured to one of the stools, but the Italian stood looking around with eyes wide. After a moment, he started and replied, “As you guessed, I am from Italy originally, but I was a lutenist at the Swedish court for a number of years. I left not long ago. The pay was good, but the weather…” He shivered, and they both laughed. “I have been working my way back to Italy. I’m not in a hurry, but it will not be long now before I am back in the land of fine music and olives. I miss olives…”
Veraldi’s German was better than his own, Atwood decided. His accent gave it a lilt that neither up-timers nor native down-timers gave it. “It is always good to return home,” Atwood said.
“True; and I have been gone for a long time,” Veraldi replied. His eyes had by now gravitated to the open case lying on one of the tables. “Such a large vihuela I have never seen,” he breathed.
“ Vihuela?” Atwood asked.
“Do you know guitarra, or guiterne?” Veraldi replied without looking around.
“Oh, guitar. Sure. It’s a classical guitar.”
Veraldi caressed the guitar with his eyes, then turned to Atwood. “May I…”
Atwood gestured in reply. Veraldi set the instrument bag he was carrying down on the table and picked up the guitar. He held it up to the light and peered at it closely, then ran his hand all over the body. At last he plucked a string, and his eyebrows rose at the strong resonant sound. With a sigh he replaced the guitar in its case.
“Very fine vihuela; very fine guitar.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat.” Atwood waved at one of the stools and sat on the other. Instead of doing so, Veraldi opened his bag and took out a lute, which he handed to Atwood.
Atwood hadn’t handled a lute since a class in Renaissance instruments during his college days. He received it gingerly, holding it in his two hands as if it were a baby. It was a beautiful instrument. The spruce sound board was unvarnished and had darkened a bit from its original white. The ribs of the bowl-shaped body gleamed with a satin patina. And the neck-now there was a joy. The neck was short and wide, supporting ten courses of two strings each. The head bent back from the neck at right angles. He plucked a string, and nodded at the sound. Not as deep and resonant as the guitar, but louder than he had thought it would be.
