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akjeDecided there's no room for this chapter during another round of editing, so had to kill more darlings. (╥︣﹏᷅╥)
March 4, 1888
"So where's the band?"
Guests filtered into the presidential mansion, but there was still no entertainment yet. President Sully Suborn planned to make this gala the event of the season, but that depended on the most famous band in history showing up to provide the music.
Carothers flitted among the household staff, demanding to know what was delaying the musicians, but no one had called to report an accident or other holdup.
"Maybe they were killed, sir," a maid offered, "and we won't know until it's reported in tomorrow's papers."
Carothers whipped around, tugging at his hair. "Don't be daft! Everyone in the country knows they're appearing at this function. Hell, most of the diplomats wouldn't have come at all if they weren't performing. If they've been in an accident, the hospitals would surely call us."
While the Carothers of the Pettifog administration would be an unflappable swell who'd seen it all, this was twenty years before that. His career was only beginning, and if everything didn't go perfectly tonight, his upward climb might end right here.
President Suborn intended to show the world a spectacle and solidify his image as a powerhouse who gets things done for the national good. On the schedule tonight was a magic lantern show, followed by a mock naval battle in the indoor swimming pool, then a concert and fireworks. The highlight was the reunion of all seven original members of Alexander's Ragtime Band, who hadn't played together in over a decade ─ not since they'd retired after forty years in the business.
"So where's the blasted band?" Carothers demanded. The household staff flustered about, but as of 8:30 the musicians still hadn't arrived, and the music was supposed to start at nine.
Just outside the capital, the pianist was changing a flat tire. "I hope their piano's well tuned, for I'll likely have to go onstage the moment I walk through the door. I hope the others aren't furious with me for being so late."
Not likely, for the others were having problems too. The drummer, flugelhorn player and cellist shared a carriage, which was now stuck in traffic a few blocks from the mansion after one of the horses pulling a beer wagon ahead of them broke its leg tripping in a pothole and had to be put down. The saxophonist, violinist and cornetist were each in separate vehicles, but all were stuck behind the carriage due to that same traffic jam.
At the moment the president and guests were unaware of any delay. Suborn remembered the first time he saw the band live back in his teens. They'd been young and handsome then, masters of their instruments, and idolized by the populace. Girls used to sneak into their hotel rooms after bribing desk clerks and chambermaids, and more than one scandal was attached to them. But scandals only increased their renown, and there wasn't a home in Imperium that didn't play one of their songs on the gramophone or pianola every now and then.
The musicians hadn't aged well, but they'd lived hard, drunk hard and played hard. There were rumors of drug addictions, babies born out of wedlock, and fiancées jilted at the altar. But none of it stained their reputation as Imperium's greatest band, and teenage upstarts today could only dream of achieving such heights.
Carothers ordered the mock battle in the swimming pool to continue long enough to cover the hasty entrance of the band members as they straggled into the proceedings an hour late. Instruments were hurriedly tuned, guests were seated, and the band launched into their first number.
But almost no one heard it, despite the delays and conjecture and anticipation. No one paid attention to the music at all as they compared the band members to one another and to their own memories of how they used to look decades ago. The only thing one heard for the rest of the evening was the continuous buzzing of one query:
"Oh my god, the piano player! What do you suppose happened? He's over sixty, but he looks like he's still twenty years old!"
March 4, 1888
"So where's the band?"
Guests filtered into the presidential mansion, but there was still no entertainment yet. President Sully Suborn planned to make this gala the event of the season, but that depended on the most famous band in history showing up to provide the music.
Carothers flitted among the household staff, demanding to know what was delaying the musicians, but no one had called to report an accident or other holdup.
"Maybe they were killed, sir," a maid offered, "and we won't know until it's reported in tomorrow's papers."
Carothers whipped around, tugging at his hair. "Don't be daft! Everyone in the country knows they're appearing at this function. Hell, most of the diplomats wouldn't have come at all if they weren't performing. If they've been in an accident, the hospitals would surely call us."
While the Carothers of the Pettifog administration would be an unflappable swell who'd seen it all, this was twenty years before that. His career was only beginning, and if everything didn't go perfectly tonight, his upward climb might end right here.
President Suborn intended to show the world a spectacle and solidify his image as a powerhouse who gets things done for the national good. On the schedule tonight was a magic lantern show, followed by a mock naval battle in the indoor swimming pool, then a concert and fireworks. The highlight was the reunion of all seven original members of Alexander's Ragtime Band, who hadn't played together in over a decade ─ not since they'd retired after forty years in the business.
"So where's the blasted band?" Carothers demanded. The household staff flustered about, but as of 8:30 the musicians still hadn't arrived, and the music was supposed to start at nine.
Just outside the capital, the pianist was changing a flat tire. "I hope their piano's well tuned, for I'll likely have to go onstage the moment I walk through the door. I hope the others aren't furious with me for being so late."
Not likely, for the others were having problems too. The drummer, flugelhorn player and cellist shared a carriage, which was now stuck in traffic a few blocks from the mansion after one of the horses pulling a beer wagon ahead of them broke its leg tripping in a pothole and had to be put down. The saxophonist, violinist and cornetist were each in separate vehicles, but all were stuck behind the carriage due to that same traffic jam.
At the moment the president and guests were unaware of any delay. Suborn remembered the first time he saw the band live back in his teens. They'd been young and handsome then, masters of their instruments, and idolized by the populace. Girls used to sneak into their hotel rooms after bribing desk clerks and chambermaids, and more than one scandal was attached to them. But scandals only increased their renown, and there wasn't a home in Imperium that didn't play one of their songs on the gramophone or pianola every now and then.
The musicians hadn't aged well, but they'd lived hard, drunk hard and played hard. There were rumors of drug addictions, babies born out of wedlock, and fiancées jilted at the altar. But none of it stained their reputation as Imperium's greatest band, and teenage upstarts today could only dream of achieving such heights.
Carothers ordered the mock battle in the swimming pool to continue long enough to cover the hasty entrance of the band members as they straggled into the proceedings an hour late. Instruments were hurriedly tuned, guests were seated, and the band launched into their first number.
But almost no one heard it, despite the delays and conjecture and anticipation. No one paid attention to the music at all as they compared the band members to one another and to their own memories of how they used to look decades ago. The only thing one heard for the rest of the evening was the continuous buzzing of one query:
"Oh my god, the piano player! What do you suppose happened? He's over sixty, but he looks like he's still twenty years old!"
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