Ghosts of Columbia Read Free

that name had never appeared on any sign or map that I knew of—that wound up the hill through the mortared stone walls dating back to the first Dutch settlers. The driveway was dark under the maples that still held most of their leaves, but I had left a light on between the car barn and the house.
    I let Llysette out under the light, opened the barn, and parked the steamer. It was warm enough that I didn’t worry about plugging in the water tank heater.
    She was waiting under the light as I walked up with her bag. I kissed her cheek and took her chin in my hand, gently, but she turned away. “You are most insistent tonight, Johan.”
    “Only because you are a beautiful lady.”
    A flicker of white appeared in the darkness behind her, and I tried not to stiffen as I unlocked the side door and opened it for Llysette. She touched the plate inside the side foyer, what some called the mud entrance, and the soft overhead glows went on.
    “Do you want a bite to eat? There’s some steak pie in the cooler, and I think there’s still some Bajan red down in the cellar.”
    “The wine, I would like that.”
    I closed the side door and made my way down into the stone-walled cellar and to the racks my grandfather had built. There was still almost half a case of the red. I picked out a 1980 Sebastopol. It’s not really Bajan, but Californian, and a lot better than the New French stuff from northern Baja, but I wasn’t about to get into that argument with Llysette, and certainly not after her recital.
    “No Bajan, but a Sebastopol.”
    “If one must.”
    “It’s not bad, especially now that Ferdinand has cut off real French wines.”
    “The Austro-Hungarians, they have already ruined the vineyards. Steel vats and scientists in white coats … bah!”
    I shrugged, then peeled back the foil and twisted the corkscrew. The first glass went to her and the second to me. I lifted the crystal. “To a superb performance, Doktor duBoise.”
    Our glasses touched, and she drank.
    “The wine is not bad.”
    That was as much of a concession to a Columbian wine as I’d get from my Francophilic soprano, and I nodded and took another sip. The Sebastopol was far better than “not bad”; it was damned good.
    We made our way to the sitting room off the terrace. Llysette took the padded armchair—Louis XX style, and the only mismatched piece in the room, but my mother had liked it, and my father had thrown up his hands and shrugged his wide Dutch shoulders. The rest of the room was far more practical. I sat in the burgundy leather captain’s chair, the only piece in the room that I’d brought back from Columbia City.
    “Still I do not like the later Mozart.”
    “You did it well, very well.”
    “That is true, but …” Llysette took another long sip from her wine glass. “The later Mozart is too, too ornate, too romantic. Even Beethoven is more restrained.”
    “Money has always had a voice in music.”
    “Alas, yes.” She lifted her left eyebrow. “It still talks most persuasively. Two
hundred dollars—a hundred crowns—for a single song and a line on the program. I, even I, listen to such talk. It is almost what little I now make for half a month of hard work.”
    “Don’t we all listen to that kind of money talk?” I laughed and got up to refill her glass. I leaned down and kissed her neck on the way back to my chair.
    “It is sad, though. Gold, gold and patience, that is how the Hapsburgs have conquered Europe. My people, the good ones, left for New France, and the others …” She shrugged. “I suppose they are happy. There are no wars in Europe now.”
    “Of course, a third of France is ghost-ridden and uninhabitable.”
    “That will pass.” She laughed harshly. “Ferdinand always creates the ghosts to remind his enemies of his power.” Abruptly she tilted her head back and swallowed nearly all the red in one gulp. Then she looked at me. “If you please …”
    I stood and refilled her glass. “Are you