Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI Read online

  "Told ya'. I've been down at the library working."

  "Nobody works at the library. All you do there is read. What're ya' up to?"

  "Julio, you know how the cops saw to it I've got the name for bein' a philosopher. Shit, you and Ken helped make it happen. Well, if I've got the name as a player, I figure I oughta at least be able to talk about the rules of the game. So I've been spending some time down at the library trying to find out just what the rules are."

  Julio snorted. "It was a joke! Nobody but the visiting Kraut was serious. You ain't no more of a philosopher than I am."

  "Tell me something, Julio. Have you got three letters from Italy and another one from Morocco sittin' at home asking questions or invitin' you to come visit?"

  "Of course not," Julio said.

  "Well, I do. That Kraut I had dinner with has been bad-mouthin' Grantville, up-timers in general, and me in particular all over the place. As far as the world is concerned, I am Grantville's foremost philosopher. Oddly enough, he is reporting what we told him accurately, and in spite of his ridicule it seems it's being well received. Under the circumstances I think I oughta have some idea what I am talkin' about. Don't you?"

  An amazed Julio replied, "Three letters from Italy?"

  "Yeah, I've got two invitations to visit Rome from two different cardinals. The other invite is from Venice."

  Julio was impressed. "You goin' to go?"

  "Hell, no. Least wise, not until I know what I am talkin' about. Joe and Emanuel got me through the dinner. If I went off without them, I'd embarrass myself and all of us. So I've been spendin'-spending-time down at the library reading philosophy and learning Latin.

  "Emanuel is all over me about dropping letters and using contractions. He says if I'm sloppy with English I'll be sloppy with Latin, so he is after me to clean up my language. I tell you, Julio, being a philosopher is turnin'-turning-into a lot of work. But one of these days I am going to get cornered and Grantville's reputation will be at stake, so I need to know what I am talking about."

  "Wow, Jimmy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to land you in a situation like that. I mean, Ken and I just saw that Grantville was goin' ta be laughin' about the Kraut and we just figured we should help you laugh with 'em instead of bein' laughed at. I figured it would just blow over."

  "I figured the same thing. It worked too, at least for a while. But I don't want to get caught short again. If you know what I mean."

  Jimmy ate lunch, and left. He stopped in for a burger and fries for dinner and went home early. For the second, or at most the third, time in his adult life he had found something worth doing.

  ***

  A bit over a month after Jimmy had spent the night, Joe opened the back door to his house shortly before sundown and was hit with the unexpected aroma of dinner on the stove.

  Jimmy knew Joe's habit of eating a big breakfast, a solid lunch and a light dinner after the sun went down. When he stopped in town to pick up a bucket of Hungarian dumplings, he couldn't resist a pan of ready-to-bake biscuits. He also toted a six pack of a new root beer which had the teetotalers in town standing in line. At the sound of the door opening, without looking up from the book he was pouring over, Jimmy said, "Dinner in about half an hour. I figured it was my turn to cook."

  "Thanks. A fella' can get tired of eatin' his own cookin'." It was a polite lie. Joe was a good cook and enjoyed cooking the dishes of his childhood. He glanced over at the book Jimmy was reading. Joe had left his German bible on the table. When he'd read through it, he'd put it away and read the French. Now that he spoke Latin, he read it in turn, also. He was thinking of taking another stab at Greek and maybe Hebrew, just because he had the time to do it. "Your German is good enough to read it?" he asked Jimmy.

  "I've been over John, Chapter Six in Latin so many times I've got it memorized. So if I don't know the words I still know the meaning."

  "Emanuel is teaching you Latin out of the bible then?"

  "Yeah. He says philosophy is just secular theology and most philosophers are either arguing for or against scripture, so I need to know scripture to know what they're talking about. I think its all bull. I think the Latin in the Bible is what he is most at ease with so it's what he wants to teach."

  Joe had a different opinion. He figured it was just a way for Emanuel to slip bible study into a language-tutoring program. He also figured he might as well help it along. "Mathew Chapter Six? What do you think of what you're reading?"

  "The Lord's Prayer is nothing new. But I think Judaism makes a whole lot more sense. You've got, what, six hundred and thirteen laws. Three hundred and sixty-five of them are things you can't do and the others are things you must do. So, you got a list. Do it and you're all right. Don't do it and God will get you. That I understand.

  "But take the verse right after the Lord's Prayer. If you don't forgive others then God won't forgive you. Joe it ain't-it isn't-right. People do bad things in this world. I'm just supposed to forgive them and forget about it? I should just let them get off scot-free?"

  "Who says they do? 'Vengeance is mine,' sayeth the Lord, 'I will repay. Be sure your sins will find you out. It is appointed unto man once to die and after this the judgment. Let no man deceive you with vain words: for because of these things cometh the wrath of God upon the children of disobedience.'

  "The point of forgiveness is not for the benefit of the forgiven. It's for the benefit of the forgiver."

  "What do you mean by that?" Jimmy asked.

  "Someone does somethin' to you. So you get even. How? By doing something bad back. You've just hurt yourself by taking on an evil deed. Then of course they're gonna get even and then you need to do something else. Vengeance does not go long un-revenged.

  "Now let's say someone does somethin' and you don't get even. You just stay mad about it. So you carry the anger and bitterness around with you and it contaminates your whole life. You not only let them hurt you, you helped them to go on hurting you.

  "If you've got a pack full of old hurts and grievance you're carrying around, then at the end of the day you're tired and worn out. If you dump 'em and let 'em go, your life goes easier. Chances are it doesn't make any difference to the other party if you forgave them or not. In most cases they don't even know it, unless you are actively tryin' to hurt 'em. Then instead of you havin' fun and enjoyin' life you're lettin' them dominate your life 'cause they're in your thoughts and you are just letting them drag you down. In most cases even if they do know they don't care.

  "Jimmy, the point of forgiveness is not for the benefit of the forgiven. It's to make life easier and more pleasant for the forgiver." Joe could tell from the look on Jimmy's face the idea was new to him. He figured he should let Jimmy think on it. "I've got a critter that's been eatin' up my garden. I'm gonna sit out on the porch and watch for him. You give me a holler when the vittles are ready."

  Jimmy sat there staring at the text but not seeing it for the longest time. What the old man said made sense. For all these years what Bina did had dominated his life. She moved out and took his baby girl with her. Then she made life miserable and wouldn't let him have his visitation rights. What she took from him-his reason for living, his baby daughter and his loving wife, crushed him. It not only ended his life at the time, it rode him like an old hag, like a burden that was almost… no… was too much to bear. For all the years of Merle's life, his life was pain and emptiness filled with hate for Bina and pity for himself.

  It was time to just let it go. He wasn't a young man but he still had a life to live. Why in the world should what Bina did all those years ago ruin what life he had left?

  "God, I don't know if I believe in you or not. But if you do exist, help me to forgive Bina and let go. And God… if you don't exist, I guess I'll just have to let go of it on my own."

  Jimmy sniffed the air. Something was burning. "The biscuits!" he yelped. He stood up to get to the oven. What should have been just enough energy to lift his tired bones sent the chair flying and cause
d the table to move, he felt physically lighter, almost like he was floating.

  "Everything alright in there? "Joe called.

  "Yeah, Joe, I'm fine."

  The biscuits weren't burned too badly. They could still be eaten. Jimmy smiled. Life was good.

  ***

  Wedding Daze

  Virginia DeMarce

  Grantville, August 1634

  Velma Hardesty took a good look at herself in the mirror.

  Jacques-Pierre Dumais came to the trailer and talked to her for an hour or two at least three or four times a week and gave her ideas on which she was to Meditate. She smiled at her reflection, a little sourly. She bet there wasn't a single soul in Grantville who would believe that he only offered her Spiritual Comfort. She scarcely believed it herself.

  She used to read a lot about Spiritual Enlightenment. After all, the astrology magazines at the grocery stores, up-time, before the Ring of Fire, were really into it. She hadn't really believed that it worked, though. But three months of receiving regular Spiritual Comfort from Jacques-Pierre had done wonders. She had to admit it. Having someone who listened to her-really listened-had made so much difference.

  Although she didn't like to admit it, even to herself, his stern admonitions that slurping down your wine like it was water did not give you an opportunity to appreciate the bouquet properly had done wonders, too. Jacques-Pierre's father owned a vineyard in Languedoc. He absolutely forbade her to drink anything stronger than wine. It interfered with Spiritual Enlightenment, he said, not to mention having a destructive impact on the palate. So she sipped rather than slurped (well, most of the time).

  And tried to Meditate, just as he said. For each of the Themes he gave her, she was to walk around town every day until she had spoken to at least four people with whom she could share Words of Enlightened Wisdom. She was supposed to share each Theme with four different people. She didn't bother with that, though. Whenever she had a new one, she shared it with the receptionist at the Probate Court and the receptionist in Judge Maurice Tito's office, since she would be talking to them about money and custody of Susan anyway, dropping off papers and things like that.

  She sort of wished that Jacques-Pierre would get on the stick about helping her with Susan and the money. She'd have to remind him. Though, to be honest, now that she wasn't thinking as woozily as she had been last month, there might not be much that he could do. Garbage collector just wasn't the most influential job in town. It was nice of him to have offered, though.

  But she had to do extra walking to find enough people to share the rest of the Themes. By now, she knew almost every place in town where she could be sure of finding a captive audience. Checkout line at the grocery store. Circulation desk at the public library. She figured that even if she just said it to the person behind the counter, she had shared it with everyone in line. That saved a lot of walking, but even so, she'd lost eight pounds.

  She looked back at the mirror. None of it from the boobs, she noted with satisfaction. Those had been a worthwhile investment.

  ***

  A couple of weeks later, their Spiritual Comfort session was accompanied by a good-sized glass of the best French wine, newly delivered from a friend of Jacques-Pierre's, a guy named Laurent Mauger. Jacques-Pierre told her that the man went as a Dutch merchant from Haarlem, which he was. But his grandparents had been Huguenots from Dieppe.

  Jacques-Pierre told her that Mauger's wife had died three years before, and that his family-the sons, the unmarried older sisters and half-sisters, the widowed sister and half-sister, the nephews and half-nephews-had taken advantage of his grief to get him to sign a pledge that he would not remarry and beget another family. The marriage had not been a great romance, no. But it had endured for two decades and they had reared children together. Mauger had mourned his wife when she died. Such a thing was a quite legally binding document in private law-signed, notarized, and duly filed with the family's attorney, beyond a doubt. Mauger was too strict a Calvinist to go whoring. And, though fat, he was quite healthy, as evidenced by the energy with which he pursued the business affairs that took him around Europe on these frequent trips.

  The guy had to be lonely, Velma thought.

  The next evening, Mauger joined them for their glasses of wine. He sat there, fat and fiftyish, saying little, toying with his goblet and contemplating Velma's cleavage. But that was all. A couple of days later, he left again. Jacques-Pierre promised to let her know just as soon as he got back in town.

  October 1634

  Velma started looking through her closet. Jacques-Pierre never would be interested her, personally speaking, except for providing Spiritual Comfort. Mauger was fat, but… she'd been really short on other forms of comfort lately. He wasn't that fat. Jacques-Pierre said that sleeping around interfered with her Spiritual Enlightenment. Mauger was one of Jacques-Pierre's friends. Maybe he'd make an exception for a friend.

  Or maybe she'd just interfere with her Spiritual Enlightenment and get back on track after Mauger left on his next business trip.

  She pulled out a lovely dress of mauve faux leather with slits in interesting spots. It had matching boots. Sighed. Not yet. Five more pounds, at least, if she didn't want to strip the teeth out of the zipper. Closer to ten. Back to the closet. She didn't think that Mauger was the type to go for a fire-engine red jumpsuit. Anyway, not with the henna on her hair. That suit had been for a blond. She dug deeper. Ah.

  ***

  She'd been right. There was nothing quite like a halter top with sequins to focus a man's attention where she wanted it. Laurent Mauger had returned precisely when he had promised. He focused. He practically panted. But he rose courteously when she announced that it was time for her to go home. He didn't offer to accompany her. Damn.

  She would have found it less damnable if she could have heard his subsequent conversation with Jacques-Pierre, who was putting the most favorable spin on things. Truth, if Jacques-Pierre didn't manage to get this woman out of his way, he thought that he would go quite insane. Madame Haggerty was one thing. A useful source of data. Not especially time consuming. Madame Hardesty, on the other hand… if only her son was not Frank Jackson's liaison to Don Francisco Nasi. The things that a man had to endure for the sake of his country.

  "Ah, Laurent. Yes, twice widowed. Most unfortunate." He saw no need to bring up that until the Ring of Fire, both of her former husbands had been quite alive. They were now legally dead. The courts had ruled on that. "A first cousin of Prime Minister Stearns, I understand." There was the tragic recent death of one of her daughters. Jacques-Pierre racked his brain. There was the fact that the youngest girl did not live with Velma-he could say that it was for the purposes of attending school-and thus would not have to be taken into Laurent's household. And there was, of course, the lovely, casuistic, thought that Laurent had only pledged not to take a second wife who would complicate the inheritance by bearing him more children.

  Another idea came to Jacques-Pierre. And, of course, she understood the importance of clothing. Laurent's sisters, fine women, all of them, had not adapted to the new villa and the country estate. They still dressed as if they were of the bourgeoisie, with their respectable black dresses, white collars, and caps. But that was no requirement of the Calvinist faith. Certainement, the Huguenot nobles of France, such as the wife of Duke Henri de Rohan, did not dress so. Nor did the court of Frederik Hendrick of Orange. Such a wife as Madame Hardesty would display to the full the dimensions of Laurent's wealth. And it was that wealth which would enable him to obtain daughters of the lesser nobility as brides for his sons and nephews.

  It was a long conversation, but a little jerky on Mauger's part. Jacques-Pierre suspected that his mind kept drifting back to the sequins, which was a good thing.

  ***

  "My religion?" Velma asked. Why did Laurent Mauger want to know her religion, of all things? "I'm, uh, Presbyterian." Well, she was. Or had been, once upon a time. When she was baptized. Her mother was defini
tely Presbyterian. Tina's disastrous funeral had been held in the Presbyterian church. Not that the Reverend Enoch Wiley thought very highly of her, but "Presbyterian" would do.

  She was wearing a lemon yellow eyelet blouse with ruffles that nicely accented the deep V-neck. It was a tie style, with no buttons, so the ruffles moved nicely when she breathed. She leaned toward him, breathing. It should be apparent, she thought, that no artificial means of support were present. And she didn't think that the seventeenth century knew about boob jobs.

  "Presbyterian." Laurent Mauger sighed with satisfaction.

  "Don't you believe, Monsieur Mauger," Velma asked, "that some things are just Meant?"

  Mentally, Mauger briefly compared the stiff corsets in which his late wife had encased herself throughout most of their marriage to the delightful flexibility of Velma's upper torso. He reached a decision; some things were indeed Meant. Presuming, of course, that Meant signified predestined. Given the religious whirlwind of this town, that this elegant cousin of Prime Minister Stearns was Calvinist had almost been too much to hope for. It must be Meant, indeed. "Madame, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"

  Velma blinked. She had not expected that. The most she had really been hoping for was a bit of non-Spiritual comfort and a few nice gifts. But Jacques-Pierre had dropped the information that Mauger had money. Pots and pots of money, apparently. Pots and pots of money were not to be sneezed at. But if she ever let this old goat anywhere near Enoch Wiley before the knot was tied, the reverend would give him a version of her life story that would scare him off for good.

  "Only if you're willing to marry at City Hall," she said. "I don't really hold with church weddings."