instruments had been modified over the ages to render the playing of that note impossible or at least very difficult and subject to monstrous penalties. We alighted in the centre of the Bowl and listened for quarter of an hour. These G sharpless melodies were a heavy emotional burden on the shoulders of my ears, and I was grateful when we departed, though the strains of the current piece, the ‘Wurst Hassle’ song, an irritating hotdogger, followed us into the low clouds. And these clouds were like curtains covering my shame, which was climactic. Then we flew onward and landed next to the National Museum.
I expected something mighty from such an institution, for Tiepolo had informed me there was now a one world state and that the words national and global were synonymous. The Cussmothers, it seemed, had realised their political dreams. Their meddling in my own time had led to all this. Over the centuries, the secret seeds they planted in the separate countries of the world had sprouted and grown and tangled themselves into one big permanent knot. That’s a bad analogy. A better one might be that the plots and schemes of my former colleagues were the acids which dissolved borders until there was only one country left in the world, the world state itself, governed from this city which was also an island. Not bad for a musical band! I felt a brief pang of regret I hadn’t remained with them during their time of success, but in fact our fates were still linked in a remarkable way. Not that I had an inkling of this yet, though Tiepolo kept looking at me in a significant manner.
We entered the museum and approached the first exhibit in the first room and he pointed at the glass and said: “Music was a martyr to him. This belonged to the dirtiest traitor to melody.”
A shudder ran the length of my body, starting as a slight quiver and ending in a tidal wave of flesh which crashed against one set of ankles. My shudders have enough room in my frame to gain phenomenal power. I regarded the skull on its cushion and panted: “The lost head of the man who destroyed the note G sharp? The head which was punched off his shoulders?”
“The very one,” winked Tiepolo.
I sobbed. “What a marvellous woman that Bridget was.”
“You have become curiously sentimental.”
I gripped the edges of the case to stop myself fainting. “Yes, but this is a totally unique exhibit.”
Tiepolo laughed. “One of many. It’s a fake.”
My relief was tangible but I concealed it well. “Really?”
“A plaster replica. Like all religious, political and cultural relics , there are thousands of originals. Let me show you some others.”
And he led me through a series of adjacent chambers, each of which contained a glass case with a skull resting on a cushion. Some replicas were superior to others. A few were too good, too flawless. Others were shapeless lumps of baked clay. Those of average quality were just right. The same probably holds true for the souls in my different bodies. There were no exhibits of any other description in the museum. This explained why we were the only visitors. Tiepolo declared:
“Before the countries of the world were united, many museums in various lands all claimed to possess the one true skull. Once the states were merged, so were the museums, and then it became apparent we had a surplus of authentic heads. Now we pretend to display them here, but really they are in storage.”
“You can’t throw them out in case one isn’t a fake?”
He rubbed his chin. “Are you hungry? Let me buy you a meal.”
I agreed to this proposal with alacrity.
We left the building and took again to the air. This time we landed at the edge of the city, beneath a smoking mountain. There was a cellar club in the side of this formidable cone of rock. It was called UNDER THE VOLCANO and was unlike any restaurant I’d ever visited. I wondered if this might be a possible venue for gigs, but it wasn’t that kind of place. Food
I expected something mighty from such an institution, for Tiepolo had informed me there was now a one world state and that the words national and global were synonymous. The Cussmothers, it seemed, had realised their political dreams. Their meddling in my own time had led to all this. Over the centuries, the secret seeds they planted in the separate countries of the world had sprouted and grown and tangled themselves into one big permanent knot. That’s a bad analogy. A better one might be that the plots and schemes of my former colleagues were the acids which dissolved borders until there was only one country left in the world, the world state itself, governed from this city which was also an island. Not bad for a musical band! I felt a brief pang of regret I hadn’t remained with them during their time of success, but in fact our fates were still linked in a remarkable way. Not that I had an inkling of this yet, though Tiepolo kept looking at me in a significant manner.
We entered the museum and approached the first exhibit in the first room and he pointed at the glass and said: “Music was a martyr to him. This belonged to the dirtiest traitor to melody.”
A shudder ran the length of my body, starting as a slight quiver and ending in a tidal wave of flesh which crashed against one set of ankles. My shudders have enough room in my frame to gain phenomenal power. I regarded the skull on its cushion and panted: “The lost head of the man who destroyed the note G sharp? The head which was punched off his shoulders?”
“The very one,” winked Tiepolo.
I sobbed. “What a marvellous woman that Bridget was.”
“You have become curiously sentimental.”
I gripped the edges of the case to stop myself fainting. “Yes, but this is a totally unique exhibit.”
Tiepolo laughed. “One of many. It’s a fake.”
My relief was tangible but I concealed it well. “Really?”
“A plaster replica. Like all religious, political and cultural relics , there are thousands of originals. Let me show you some others.”
And he led me through a series of adjacent chambers, each of which contained a glass case with a skull resting on a cushion. Some replicas were superior to others. A few were too good, too flawless. Others were shapeless lumps of baked clay. Those of average quality were just right. The same probably holds true for the souls in my different bodies. There were no exhibits of any other description in the museum. This explained why we were the only visitors. Tiepolo declared:
“Before the countries of the world were united, many museums in various lands all claimed to possess the one true skull. Once the states were merged, so were the museums, and then it became apparent we had a surplus of authentic heads. Now we pretend to display them here, but really they are in storage.”
“You can’t throw them out in case one isn’t a fake?”
He rubbed his chin. “Are you hungry? Let me buy you a meal.”
I agreed to this proposal with alacrity.
We left the building and took again to the air. This time we landed at the edge of the city, beneath a smoking mountain. There was a cellar club in the side of this formidable cone of rock. It was called UNDER THE VOLCANO and was unlike any restaurant I’d ever visited. I wondered if this might be a possible venue for gigs, but it wasn’t that kind of place. Food
Similar Books
