Asimov's SF, January 2009 by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-10T14:11:31+00:00

Short Story: MESSIAH EXCELSA by E. Salih

E. Salih tells us he is a “youngish Londoner working in finance. An amateur photographer and untutored writer, ‘Messiah Excelsa’ is my first story. It’s a time-travel story, because they have always been my favorite stories to read. I am not a musician, but I liked the premise of the world’s most coveted Stradivarius violin and the colorful characters that have figured in its history (and I liked the challenge of weaving a yarn through all the conjecture).”

Ten miles yonder, on the left shore of the Po, arose the sanctum citadel of a thousand wishful dreams. On cue, the string quartet I had recently acquired in Palermo launched into Handel’s Air in F major—a challenging recital upon the forecastle of an uncouth East Indiaman.

The mighty Serendip, laden with spice, heaved with purpose: vast grey-brown hempen sails furling above; dusky cordage tackled on the quarter—swarthy, strong-armed merchant seamen hauling heavy line, exchanging salty bonhomie. And center stage, wielding a scrimshaw cane, strode pug-faced Cap’n Bill, barracking, bawling, happy as punch. Pleasures abounded: the padana plain (on the patella of Italy), green velveteen stretched to the far horizons; Serendip‘s sharp prow slicing through luminous blue water creating ripples that swept into a backwash of frothy turquoise. Ahead, upriver, neath a gathering of soapy-white clouds, the beckoning turrets of Cremona sparkled with lemon spring light, while inside me airy butterflies tickled well-tugged heartstrings. My mission was bold: to meet with the maker of the Messiah and to claim the creation for my own.

Ha-llelu-jah … Ha-llelu-jah … Ha-llelu-jah … Subversive rejoicing (G.F Handelwork yet unwritten) underscored my advance on the City of a Hundred Towers, where glory awaited.

Post arrival, my confident masquerade—”Prince Sander Janivou of south sea Cerise”—endorsed by the premier East India coterie, ushered me into all the best soirees. With sartorial pomp I commanded respect from the dandyhood, with royal aplomb I displayed two statuesque dandizettes—who drew the green-eye of Ladydom—a saintly smile and a demon hand at primero. And when out and about my Arabian-horse-powered equipage, ivory-white from fetlocks to forelocks, turned Cremonese heads like Roman busts on swivel stands. And I, maned in perrucca tresses—King Louis style—blithely throwing coinage at the feet of shoeless bambini, offering passage to well-heeled gentry, high grade snuff proffered with grandiose courtesy. Then one evening, fete champetre at Piazza del Comune: accompanied by my Sicilian players, standing on the “preacher’s pulpit” outside the ornate Duomo Cathedral—Madonna and child centered in a portico neath the thirteenth century rose window—a celebrated castrato sang trilling arias to delighted folk, outrageous cadenzas soaring to the summit of the Torrazzo, highest tower in all Europe.

That night greater heights of performance art were scaled by this self-styled libertine with the assist of a lady magnifico twin set and the Kama Sutra teachings. Post coitus I renewed the pledge, revised the plan: stage one, an offer of work. And so one fine heyday, having breakfasted indulgently—soft-poached quails’ eggs atop butter-fried olive bread soaked in brandy sauce

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