Voices from the Cosmos: The Baines Saga

By John Trethewey

In Book 3 of the trilogy The Baines Saga, hotel magnate Graf von Lemke finances the wedding of his adopted protgs Zav Baines and Judi Peake in Australia before flying with them to his hotel in Bavaria. Employed as hotel musicians under the names Giuseppe and Giulia Cantatore and acting as undercover ambassadors for the von Lemke empire, they discover a Neo-Nazi plot to firebomb a Munich discothque. Despite them working against the clock to avert a double tragedy, a political rally is attacked, leaving many dead. During this, their cover is blown and von Lemke pulls them out and sends them to his Marbella Spa. Here a series of shocking events leads them to Gibraltar and North Africa, where a merciless adversary condemns them to what seems certain death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496985545

John Trethewey

Born in 1950, the son of grammar school teachers, young John Trethewey promised himself that he would never follow that profession. Although determined to be a composer, he embarked on his first novel at the age of eighteen. Over the following forty years, he has produced ten novels, a five-act stage play, and several major works for orchestra. A gifted linguist, in 1973 he decided after all to take up teaching. He has taught in several schools, with the twenty years leading to his retirement as teacher and director of studies in a Swiss international school. With wide interests, he particularly admires the music of Berlioz, the performances of the late Sir Colin Davis, and the lyrics of singer Al Stewart. This novel, the last in the series The Baines Saga, finally reveals the cosmic element that has increasingly been prevalent in events throughout the saga. It is a powerful dénouement to a long saga.

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© 2014 John Trethewey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/28/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8553-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8554-5 (e)

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CONTENTS

I CANTANTIIN AUSTRALIA

1. Thursday, November 1st 1974: Demons from Transylvania

2. Thursday, November 1st: The Enescu Challenge

3. Thursday, November 1st: Banco

4. Friday, November 2nd: The Truth about Enescu

5. Friday, November 2nd: Revelations

6. Saturday, November 3rd: Brevity, Babies and Bruch

7. Thursday, November 8th: Nuptials

8. Thursday, November 8th: Guests and gifts

I CANTANTIIN BAVARIA

9. Sunday, November 18th: Trust nobody

10. Sunday, November 18th: Schloss Kochel

11. Sunday, November 18th: Cheesecake Charlie

12. Monday, November 19th: Home truths

13. Monday, November 19th: Baader-Meinhof

14. Tuesday, November 20th: Gunnars Gunnarsson

15. Tuesday, November 20th: NPD – Nationaldemokratische Partei Deutschlands

16. Wednesday, November 21st: Politics

17. Wednesday, November 21st: Guarneri and Grünberg

18. Thursday, November 22nd: The Stradivarius Diaspora

19. Thursday, November 22nd: Club 57

20. Thursday, November 22nd: Something Rotten in the Kingdom of Bavaria

21. Friday, November 23rd: Death and destruction

22. Saturday, November 24th: Viva España

23. Saturday, November 24th: The Gypsy and the Gitane

I CANTANTIIN ESPAÑA

24. Saturday, November 24th: The Whispering Giant

25. Saturday, November 24th: Reunited

26. Sunday, November 25th: The Neapolitan Eternal

27. Sunday, November 25th: Susanna Mirabella

28. Sunday, November 25th: Misericordia

29. Monday, November 26th: Sticky Patterson

30. Monday, November 26th: The Rubinstein Syndrome

31. Monday, November 26th: Pinkerton’s

I CANTANTIIN CEUTA

32. Monday, November 26th: Ceuta III

33. Monday, November 26th: In pursuit

34. Monday, November 26th: Roman baths

35. Monday, November 26th: In Extremis

36. Monday, November 26th: Al mar

37. Tuesday, November 27th: Into the unknown… again

I CANTANTI

IN AUSTRALIA

I CANTANTI

IN BAVARIA

I CANTANTI

IN ESPAÑA

I CANTANTI

IN CEUTA

I CANTANTI

IN AUSTRALIA

1. Thursday, November 1st 1974

Demons from Transylvania

After an afternoon in the Casino learning the essentials of Roulette, Baines and Judi returned to the Harbour View Suite in the Von Lemke Plaza. Judi looked at her watch.

‘I was rather counting on us getting into Perth today.’ she said. ‘I haven’t got a single spare violin string in case one breaks. Violin strings…’

‘…do break. I know. We can still go now. I’ll call the concierge and ask if he knows an instrument dealer.’ He made to move to the phone.

‘Kappelle Musik are best, if there’s a branch in town. Boosey and Hawkes, at a pinch.’

‘What if there’s neither?’

‘I’ll just have to call on Mister Something-Will-Turn-Up. Again.’

‘Oh, yes, your invisible Cosmic friend, Micawber. Why at a pinch?’

‘B & H tend to favour Thomastik, and I’m not playing them.’

‘You’re that choosy?’

‘I’m not. Il violino Sebastian is. In professional work, the violin dictates what’s the best string for tone and brilliance. I’ll call.’ She picked up the phone. ‘We’ll need some Nellie,’ she said, ‘and don’t forget your Signor Cantatore badge.’ She spoke to the concierge. Baines went to the room safe and took out their cash-cow, Nellie.

The taxi dropped them off at the Kappelle Musik store, a vast building with musical instruments on two floors and every conceivable sort of manuscript and scores over the remaining levels. While Judi was enquiring after available makes, Baines went up to the chamber music section. He had left Nellie with Judi. After half an hour, and two purchases, he went down to the violin section. Judi didn’t seem to have made much headway. He looked around for any sign of a sales person; there was no-one behind the counter.

‘I’ve asked to see the Manager.’ Judi said firmly, her lilting, clipped South African accent underscoring her irritation. ‘The sales git must be in Thomastik’s pock-it.’ The upward swing at the end of every phrase was unmistakably an indicator of annoyance. ‘I’ve told him three times I don’t want that make. He just goes on and on…’

‘What’s wrong with this… Thomas-thing?’

‘Nothing. It’s a fine product, and their top of the range strings are used world wide. It’s violino Sebastian that’s the problem, not Thomastik.’ Baines was at a loss.

‘Meaning?’

‘Sebastian is temperamental. He sings like an angel with a Pirastro Tonica set, or a Pirazzo synthetic gut core string. If I make him eat Thomastik, he sings like a heifer. Despite my best efforts. And the Pirazzo have a very short stretching and settling in time.’

This was all gibberish to the piano player, Baines.

‘So you’d opt for these Pirelli things? I thought they made car tyres?’ Perhaps fortunately, the instrumental sales manager now approached. Baines could see no sign of the sales git. The reason became clear. Under the not entirely erroneous impression that Judi and Baines were celebrity musicians, "I Cantanti", he addressed Judi in Italian.

‘Signora Cantatore, mi dispiace tanto! Il venditore imbecille! Mi dispiace. Quindi, si vuole cordi di violino? Che fabbricante vuoi?’

‘La mia preferenza è per la marca Obligato. In mancanza di questo, posso accettare la marca Pirazzo, o Pirastro Tonica.’ Judi’s mastery of Italian had not a shadow of a South African accent. Baines, who understood no Italian, but was accustomed to Judi’s extravagances, watched impassively. The Manager fluttered his hands dramatically.

‘Ma, niente più facile! Venditore imbecille! Quanti ne avete bisogno?’

‘Cinque serie.’ The Manager licked his lips at the unexpected late afternoon upturn in sales. Obligato string sets were not cheap. Five sets equated to a small fortune. He rang a tiny hand bell with urgency. A callow youth appeared from behind a screen.

‘Due bicchieri di spumanto per la Signora e il Signor.’ The rabbit faced youth hurried behind the screen, to reappear with two glasses of Prosecco.

‘I thought Kappelle Musik was a German company.’ murmured Baines. ‘Couldn’t you have spoken German? Or better still, in Australia, English, perhaps?’

‘It’s all about the image, Giuseppe.’ She was cut short by the sales boy returning with five packets of Obligato strings. Baines thought for a moment that the obsequious Manager was about to demand of the incapable youth that he gift wrap them. Fortunately, calamity was avoided. He did not. They drank the sour champagne Ersatz, and Judi pulled a bankroll of Nellie from her pocket. Baines studiously avoided having any cognisance of how much weight Nellie lost in exchange for the strings. Minutes later, a taxi drew up in response to the Manager’s urgent call.

‘What’s that you’ve got in the bag?’ demanded Judi.

‘I was going to show you when we get back to the hotel,’ protested Baines. In vain.

‘Now!’

The taxi was immovably stuck in a rush hour traffic jam. Baines made no effort to open the bag.

‘You know the Schubert quintet, the D 956?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘This is why.’ Baines drew from the bag a piano and violin arrangement. ‘I was thinking the slow section of the second movement would be good evening ambient music.’

She seized the music, scanning the violin part. Baines pushed the other item he had bought deeper into his jacket pocket. Judi closed the music and took him in her arms. The taxi driver was not the first in that job to be embarrassed when he looked at Baines and Judi in his mirror. But he felt like it.

Despite the traffic jam, they were back at the Von Lemke Plaza by seven. An hour until their evening performance. Judi closed the safe; Nellie away for the night.

‘Zav, what d’you think Eve ate before she went all crazy about vitamin C, and apples?’

‘Uh…’

You know, in that Garden place. What did they live on?’

‘Manna from Heaven?’ suggested Baines, trying to find a thread.

‘And that girl, Cinderella-Something, didn’t she eat charcoal?’

‘Giulia,’ said Baines severely, ‘we had one feeble glass of crummy, watery Prosecco. You can’t be pissed. Anyway, she was only called Cinders, the guy who ate the coal was…’

‘Buttons! I remember now!’ Baines was finding this an uphill battle. But the mountain was about to become a maze. ‘And that girl Gretel… you know, Hansel’s kid sister, or something incestuous, didn’t she have this longing for… what was it?’

‘A house? Or just the gingerbread craving.’

‘Yuh. That was it. Craving.’ Baines’ wondered what was coming next. ‘I have this sudden craving for a massive cheeseburger. And fries. No ketchup. Byeugh!’

‘Judi, I really am beginning to wonder about you not being pregnant. We’re playing in an hour.’

‘Time enough for the burger and a dessert, then. I need to fortify myself for your wedding present!’

‘Which one?’ Baines asked, bleakly.

‘The Schubert from Kappelle Musik, of course. Premièred tonight.’

‘Way beyond me. Need hours of practice.’

‘Not when I’m playing it. So bring the parts; I’m off to the Wallaby for my burger. What are you having?’

‘Kittens!’ replied Baines frankly, picking up the music. But it was several minutes before the Harbour View Suite door closed behind them.

Even using a knife and fork, Judi was in need of a cloth serviette to remedy the effects of her outsize cheeseburger. While Baines went in search, Hotel Manager Brodocz caught sight of her and moved quickly to their table in the Wallaby. He sat down as Baines returned.

‘Glad I caught you,’ said Brodocz. ‘Wanted to warn you.’

‘Here we go again.’ said Baines to Judi.

‘Sshhh!’

‘You’re playing in the Fraser Island tonight, that right? Uh-huh. Well, we have some triple-V-IPs just arrived, regular residents. Dunno why they like it here, certainly don’t come for the spa or the therapeutic bum-ride at the Never-Get-Well-Here centre. They’re as fit as world class athletes.’

‘Triple-V-IPs meaning three VIPs?’ asked Judi. Brodocz shook his head.

‘No. I mean VVVIPs, and yes, there are three of them. I thought I should warn you. They are unreasonably demanding.’ He looked awkward. ‘If you weren’t as good as you are at what you do, I wouldn’t tell you this. They gave our last piano player but one a nervous breakdown. Poor bugger’s still in a convalescent home.’

‘Great!’ said Judi. ‘Tell us more.’ Brodocz looked at his watch.

‘We’re running out of time. I personally couldn’t care less what time you start and finish, but tonight… with these three…’ He looked at his watch again, seeming strangely nervous. ‘If you’re ready to start, we ought to be getting down. You’re wearing your…? Good.’ His eye had fallen on their two alias badges, Giulia and Giuseppe Cantatore. ‘And your violin’s already there?’ The nervousness had increased. What on earth… wondered Baines. Judi nodded. Brodocz looked relieved. They crossed to the lifts.

‘We have three Romanian exiles staying; they were kicked out of Romania a few years ago, something to do with them having been Royalist Chetniks, as opposed to Communist partisans. President Ceausescu gave ’em the choice of prison or exile. It’s all gibberish to me. But anyway, Contele Mephisto is a Romanian aristocrat, had a castle in Transylvania; Count Dracula territory.’ he added, as the lift doors opened. ‘He’s accompanied by two other aristos from Transylvania: Ducesă Vortex, probably his mistress, although less than half his age, and Printesă Giaour, known to be the Contele’s protegée. For that, read mistress in waiting. Not even a third of his age. This is where you ought to dig out some plainsong, preferably the bit with "Santa Maria, Ora pro nobis", if you take my meaning?’

‘It’s that bad?’ Baines was half ready to believe that Brodocz was making this up. ‘We need to call on Saint Mary to hear our prayer?’

‘Didn’t help the last chap.’ said Brodocz morosely.

‘Sounds like something out of Ruritania.’ remarked Baines as they entered the lounge and made their way to the piano at the far end of the room. Brodocz remained by the door, looking anxious. ‘Into the lions’ den, then.’ murmured Baines to Judi.

‘Nothing we can’t handle.’ Her markedly clipped South African accent belied her optimistic words. ‘Where is Transylvania?’

Courageously, they opened with the fragment of the newly acquired Schubert. Impressed, Brodocz took a seat at a distant table. Judi was adjusting the tuning when she and Baines both saw an extraordinary sight, a Central European trilogy of sixteenth century aristocracy. The thirty guests in the lounge all turned to look at the new arrivals and a sudden silence fell like a guillotine on conversation.

Contele Mephisto and his entourage of Ducesă Vortex and Printesă Giaour made a Grand Entry. Their very stately and regal appearance, their slow, measured steps, transformed the doorway into an Ottoman Great Gate of ornate, medieval splendour. But their aura of unmistakably aristocratic presence was hugely enhanced by their outrageous attire.

Contele Mephisto, every inch The Count with his tall, lean build, his aquiline nose and pale swarthy physiognomy would have been an impressive figure anywhere. He was wearing an immense, flowing black cape thrown over his shoulders, the hem of which was less than an inch above the floor; a six foot cascade of Dracula black. All that were missing were the fangs.

On his arm was the Ducesă Vortex, truly a Ruritanean parody of a Duchess. She appeared to be wearing what might have been the first of her several wedding dresses, the original sheen of the once beautiful cloth long since faded and even slightly grey. She had omitted the train, but this was more than compensated for by the ludicrous, diamond encrusted tiara which she wore high on her immaculately plaited head of copious false blonde hair.

Judi and Baines watched as the non-wedding procession advanced at excruciatingly painful snail’s pace towards a reserved table. Now the Printesă Giaour came into view. Here, at least, was some relief from the sombre, vampire like appearance of her elders. And elders they were by a very long way. She looked like a petulant adolescent, scarcely more than fourteen years old.

The Printesă Giaour was incipiently gorgeous, and would one day make any previous Miss World look like the Ugly Sisters. But right then, she looked plain cheap. Unlike the adults, she was wearing skin tight jeans that hugged her contours in all the places that are considered erotic. Her elasticated leotard top clung to a bosom that had no place on a fourteen year old girl, and her hair was shining with a million glints of sparkling multicoloured spray dust. Orange lip gloss ensured unmitigated vulgarity.

‘If the girl’s what Brodocz said,’ remarked Baines to Judi, sotto voce, ‘we may be into the realms of paedophilia, here.’ Judi winced and said nothing.

The cortège arrived at their reserved table. Contele Mephisto raised an imperious hand to summon a waiter. Little by little, the other guests resumed their conversation in hushed tones.

‘Mephisto…,’ murmured Judi to Baines. ‘Isn’t that Satan, the Devil?’ Baines nodded. ‘So who were… or are Vortex and Giaour?’

‘They were his gleaming black horses, the ones on whose backs Mephisto whipped his victims to the abyss. And Hell.’ he added bleakly. ‘Time for Santa Maria, Ora pro nobis?’

‘If it didn’t help the last guy, it’s probably wasted effort. So we can add horse whip sado-maso flagellation to the mix. I’ll play the Sarasate while waiting for this git to get drunk.’ She raised her violin, stepped forward to her usual position and launched the wild, gypsy music with unusually reckless abandon. Her long red hair literally flew with the seemingly impossible rapidity of her bow and the dexterity of her fingers. Baines watched her with his customary adulation. He failed to see a similar look on the face of Contele Mephisto, who was in raptures.

2. Thursday, November 1st

The Enescu Challenge

Judi’s wild attack on the Sarasate gypsy piece left her flushed and breathless. Baines, who had not played in the piece, had gone across to the bar and now returned with two cold, long drinks.

‘Prince, you’re a gem.’ murmured Judi, putting down the violin and quenching her thirst. But the ovation did not cease. The thirty-plus guests, and in particular Contele Mephisto, were actually calling for more. Ducesă Vortex, however, had remained seated, and was stone faced. Attractive younger women had this effect on her. Meanwhile, a bored Printesă Giaour was visibly contemplating a move to the hotel disco.

‘Next?’ prompted Baines. ‘Schubert song?’ Judi shook her head.

‘Later. Let’s capitalise. The Mozart slow movement.’

‘Good idea.’ Baines pulled out the piano and violin parts. Judi infused the concerto with more than her habitual warmth and resonance. Again, the audience rose to its feet; this time, even Ducesă Vortex relieved her chair of the crushed wedding dress and rose to express muted acclaim. Now Contele Mephisto made his move; the one which had, for Baines’ predecessor, been fatal.

He approached Judi and Baines in their corner. His black cape seemed to sway with unspoken menace lurking in its numerous pleats. Additional bar staff, magically drafted in and perhaps not dissociated with the presence of fake royalty, passed among the guests. It was more like a cabaret than a hotel lounge. The under age Printesă Giaour was discretely drinking an alcohol drenched double Marguerita, the rim of her glass generously sprayed with white crystals. She knew what was coming. But Judi did not.

Contele Mephisto bowed ceremoniously. Judi, declining to curtsey, extended her hand with regal disdain for the creep. Mephisto kissed the back of her hand momentarily. She retrieved her hand, resisting the temptation to wipe it on her skirt. At least he hadn’t bitten her. Mephisto studied their identity badges. A sinister smile seemed to spread across his swarthy face.

‘Signora Cantatore… Signor Cantatore… You are Italian?’ Before either could reply he continued. ‘Vorbiţi româneşte? So maybe you also speak Romanian?’ His optimism was short lived. Two head shakes. ‘Nevertheless, you may understand a few words. Stii muzica de Enescu?’

Judi put her violin on the stool beside her chair and sat down abruptly. She was looking at the slender sheaf of papers which Contele Mephisto had extracted from his folder. Not that! she thought. Not, however, in trepidation, but in disbelief. Oh Micawber, what did I ever do to deserve you? If I’m right…

‘Enescu? Solamente Rapsodia română. È molto conosciuto. Enescu was the teacher of Yehudi Menhin, the world famous violinist.’ she added. Mephisto showed unduly pronounced gratification. He presented her with the violin part of exactly that. The Rapsodia română. Judi looked at Baines.

‘It’s extraordinarily difficult.’ she informed him, which was true. What she did not add was that her orchestra in South Africa had played Enescu’s Rumanian Rhapsody as Finale and Encore every night for three months only a year previously. She knew it by heart.

‘Contele Mephisto,’ She decided to ham it up, ‘molto grazie, ma è molto difficile!’

‘Per favore, Signora!’ The Contele kissed her hand again, and stepped back to his seat. With an imperious wave of one hand, he indicated to Judi to commence. Silence had fallen over the entire lounge; even the barman had stopped polishing glasses. Judi opened the music, raised her violin. She was fearless. Every night for three months equated to ninety evening concerts, and as many rehearsals. Any violinist who cannot play a piece after one hundred and eighty performances should take up coal mining.

She attacked the extract which Mephisto had provided. Baines’ first impression on hearing the opening bars was that Contele Mephisto had, indeed, to be the personification of the Devil. The Rumanian Rhapsody is a diabolically difficult piece. Now even Printesă Giaour was giving the performance her full attention. And there was every reason. It was a virtuoso, gypsy tour de force such as none present had ever witnessed. Judi’s mane of red hair danced in wild abandon. ‘I’ll show the bugger,’ she was thinking, adding a juicy, vicious sinew which Enescu had certainly not foreseen.

Now Judi was into the double stopping and multiple harmonics which cannot be performed by any sight reader. Far from looking gratified, Contele Mephisto was haggard, his face grey like moist old parchment, and his jowls deeply imprinted. For this latter day vampire, his fangs were the impossible music which he demanded be played, preferably by a beautiful young woman, his bite was the complete failure of the latter, and the blood he sucked synonymous with her defeat. For the first time in memory, his bite had failed to draw blood. He looked like Count Dracula caught unawares by the first rays of sunlight at dawn, and paying the price. His companion Ducesă Vortex, on the other hand, was showing inhabitual appreciation of Judi’s extraordinary, bravura performance. This had nothing to do with any love of music in the Ducesă, she wouldn’t have known the difference between a construction site pile-driver and a trombone. It was due entirely to the fact that, for the first time in living memory, the sexy, big-breasted, red head bitch had resisted his vile bite. Sadism was not unknown in the Ducesă’s psyche, and she derived the greatest satisfaction on the rare occasions that the Contele was denied consummation.

Brodocz, still seated by the door, was unaware that his stinging eyes were informing him that he had not blinked for almost three minutes. Judi finished the extract with a flourish. She had intended to direct some barbed comment to Mephisto in Italian, but the rapturous applause in admiring appreciation stymied that. She bowed, closed the music, and crossed to where Mephisto was also on his feet. He was not applauding. She handed him back the music, but he refused it; he looked at the manuscript as if it were Cleopatra’s asp. He gave a strange, clipped little bow, turned on his heel and left the lounge, followed by his entourage. Judi returned to her stand with the Enescu score, and acknowledged the applause. Brodocz was already there, summoning the barman urgently.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Brodocz, and looked at Baines. ‘Well. There’s no arguing with that. Jesus!’ he repeated, then, turning to Judi in incredulity, ‘And you play on cruise ships?’

‘It’s a living.’ she replied indifferently, reaching for her violin case. ‘What’s taking the barman so long?’ Now she looked at Baines. His eyes were moist with tears, and as he groped for