|
|
|
mike_cunningham@tiscali.co.uk http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/mikesbookpagesonline/ |
|
Mike's Book Pages Online |
|
does not wish to hear his own work performed, at least once. My first and only query, in view of this rather unusual request, Monsieur, is that the final payment be for a hundred and twenty-five marks; purely because of the er, exclusive arrangement, you understand?" |
|
|
|
The tall young man on the other side of the table smiled briefly, and made a motion for a pen to be brought him. As Mozart wished always these implements ready, he simply waved to the watchful cafe-owner, made a writing motion, and a pen, ink and sand were immediately available, but it was with incredulity that the perpetually penniless composer watched the following words spread on to the paper; "In Truth, Monsieur, I cannot allow you to settle for anything less than one hundred and fifty marks upon completion!" A shaken genius grabbed the hand of his mute benefactor, while gabbling again in fractured French; "Your work shall be completed, complete with all annotations and notes in fourteen days, Monsieur. I shall be able to hand everything to you here at the cafe. I hope that this is acceptable to you?" The face of the visitor opposite softened into a smile, then the youth stretched across and shook the hand of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, before his silent guest rose, bowed deeply and strode away across the plaza. |
|
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
|
|
|
Jon Martin, the editor of the Washington Post nearly fell out of the upholstered chair upon hearing the reply to the assignment he had handed to the staff reporter. "What did you say, Maschek? Did I hear you right? You can't go out to cover the Senate hearing because you are waiting for a phone call. That is what you said, about thirty-five seconds ago? |
|
"Yes, boss; and I know that you may feel a little upset right now, but ...." The mild-mannered reporter, a looming six-foot-three, quailed before the righteous anger of his editor, as that man prepared to enter orbit without benefit of boosters. The Post staff in the immediate vicinity of the explosion sat back and grinned complacently, for a repeat of a Martins 'wobbly' had been overdue for quite some time, and they were well placed to enjoy the whole spectacle. A short man, Jon Martin seemed to grow by at least six inches as he poured scorn upon himself for not giving in to temptation and slinging the reporter's butt onto the street without using the elevator. He suddenly grew quiet, and |