Page 2 - Effable Encounters

Scarlatti’s Deathbed Sting
(Fantastic Transactions 1, 1990)

Van Gartner followed the master’s wife up a narrow flight of stairs,
wondering how soon her attire would change from mottled grey to
solid black. The day was already turning out hotter than he’d
expected; but a foreigner in Madrid had little chance of anticipating
the caprices of its climate.
The woman opened the door to an upper bedchamber and stood
aside. “Do not linger, Señor,” she murmured. “He has very little
strength.”
“Yes, of course.”
A small window poured pitiless light upon the gasping old man
propped up in bed. Van Gartner pulled a chair close to the invalid,
wrinkling his face at the sickroom smell.
“Maestro Scarlatti: can you hear me?”
He spoke in a normal tone of voice, not knowing whether a shout
or whisper would be more appropriate.
Domenico raised his heavy hooded eyelids, but his gaze fixed upon
the wooden crucifix on the opposite wall. “Who is there?” he
croaked. His bloated torso shifted slightly under sheets no paler than
the ghastly pallor of his skin.
The visitor cleared his throat. “My name is Matthias van Gartner. I
am here on behalf of the House of Canarius, music publishers.”
“Eh? Your accent—you are not a Spaniard.”
“No, my native land is Flanders. I am here on business.”
Scarlatti coughed weakly, sending a shudder through the other
man. “Flemish.” The master was silent for a moment. “I have often
wondered about your country. The gypsies of Andalusia call their
music flamenco, but they do not appear to have learned it in Northern
Europe. What do you know of this?”
Van Gartner shrugged. “I have not paid much attention to that
riff-raff; in my home town, the city fathers periodically drive them
from the gates when their corrupting influence becomes intolerable.”
“I am not surprised,” wheezed the master. “Your country has
not produced a single composer of note. Here in Spain, the songs
and dances of the Moors and the gypsies are well-loved by the
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