Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 7. Chapter 7: "All Very Operatic"

Chapter 7: "All Very Operatic"

A rockaby melody played. It swayed back and forth on a gentle lento created by a bassoon and clarinet playing in unison over the top of scintillating strings. Sluggishly painting the picture of happy children settling minds overactive with anticipation, the magic of Fry's symphony worked on all assembled.

Jacob Jordan glanced at his program notes.

The children, now safely snuggled in bed, drift slowly off to sleep while the strains of a Lullaby play. What follows is Stillness; all being hushed in slumber.

Musical warmth and peace reigned, but the strings dropped out of the lilting beat measure by measure to become more agitated. The foreshadowing was one of approaching inclement weather; it creeped to the warm panes of the children's bedroom window.

Jordan lifted his eyes up and away from the performers. Beyond the evergreen wreaths, beyond the flickering shadow of light cast by their lit tapers, the night sky on the other side of the broad expanses of glass glowed too. Powdery flakes of weightless moisture floated and drifted at angles as they gently fell to earth.[1]

No sight could have been more beautiful to Jacob Jordan, sitting as he was in the Exchange, putting his own disquiet anxieties to rest. Everything was working out perfectly, although…although, it hadn't always seemed that it would.

He let his sight drift all the way up to the palatial ceiling. Twenty-three thousand square feet of surface area was divided into frescos. The central panel was the largest, featuring his city – the Great City of the West – as a luminous goddess upon clouds in a blue sky. The blessings of the Mississippi and Missouri Valleys came with their bounty. Agriculture brought her tremendous sheaves of wheat and barley, plus bushels of wine grapes; she also sat upon a mounding of cotton bales. Stoneworkers presented finely wrought capitals of Missouri limestone – white and flawless – with blocks of crimson sandstone, and worked columns of quartz-rich, rosario-hued granite. Mining brought onyx and alabaster, with jasper caskets over-spilling opals, and river pearls too. Industry, with the blessings of gold coin, sprinkled it like raindrops or snow flurries on the men who usually inhabited the Exchange floor sixty-five feet below the fresco.

The two flanking panels, one on the east and a companion on the west, contained seated figures – aged and hoary – representing the 'old world,' specifically the four corners of the globe. They stretched envious fingers towards the city's prosperity and products, and offered their own in exchange.[2]

He sat back to watch the performers, chuckling internally that perhaps modern life was too steeped in allegory and allusion. Such a line of thought reminded him of Barr's float and the glorious model which formed the centerpiece of the store's grand opening in the Julia Building. That day in late September he had no idea what he'd do to fulfill Barr's wish for a memorable holiday season, but he also did not realize then how adventurous and spectacular the night of the VP parade and ball was going to be.

He saw through the powers of recall the silk flags of the Association members hanging in the Special Events area, and particularly the mystically symbolic banner of the Veiled Prophet steering the world's ship of commerce.

Jordan chuckled to himself, and thought how gloriously operatic the whole thing was….

˚˚˚˚˚

They were walking around, but Monk was distracted. He could look up and see smokestacks belching coal dust clouds into the environs just beyond the confines of this immense lumberyard.

He felt his throat tightening, his pulse threading from temple to temple. The reporter experienced a flashback of the final night of the General Strike. The heat of that July night three years ago prickled his skin anew and raised gooseflesh on his arms. His nostrils inhaled phantom gun smoke, and his eardrums reverberated with the long-silent percussions of grenades. His city became a war zone that night, a class war with few fatalities, one of which was an unfortunate girl who loved him with her whole, innocent heart.

A proto-formative slip of verse presented itself.

Who amongst us can speak of loss

Any greater than his fellow,

When with voice keening or mellow

Every soul must bear its own cross.

Monk snapped out of it. He extracted his notepad and tentatively glanced at Charles Slayback. Impeccably well dressed, with the latest-style four-button jacket only buttoned on the top fastener, this man with his close-cropped ashen blonde hair and Southern Gentleman demeanor looked every bit the denizen of the Exchange, and one of the richest and most powerful men of the West. He was a knight of commerce, only his armor was a sack suit, a carnation in his lapel, and an unflappable reserve.

The correspondent knew some softening up was in order, and played his role as color man to a tee.

"Thank you, Mr. Slayback, for giving the Globe an exclusive look behind the scenes." Monk tamped down his nerves; if this man said no, he'd be out of options to help his cousin.

"Why, not at all, sir; Mr. McDonough."

The man rolled his vowels around like the long inhabitant of New Orleans that he was.

"Call me Monk, if you please."

Sounds of hammering intruded. They walked in silence a moment. They rounded the end of a tall stack of 6x12's, discovering the source of the hammer blows to be up ahead; colorful flashes of paper and flower petals drew them on.

"Again, I'd like to personally thank you for this tour and introduction. I know you have your reservation about newspaper men."

Monk observed carefully how his veiled reference had landed.

Slayback turned acerbic, joking blackly, "At least the Globe-Democrat is not as bloodthirsty as some of the other rags in town."

And there it was; a small, wan smile informing Monk that the man was opening to discussing the General Strike and its aftermath. However, the reporter set aside and played up a common enemy – two, really.

"Yes, sir. At least I can assure you the Globe is still a local paper, not governed by a man like Joseph Pulitzer, sitting at a desk in New York, and snidely preaching via telegram what our city and her priorities should be through a mouthpiece like the Post-Dispatch."

"Indeed."

He had only spoken one word, but Monk knew the man was watching him.

They drew up to a float under construction. Workers were busy assembling moving parts, which were painted like clouds. In the center was a milky-white sphere being expertly dappled with papier-mâché craters – this was a moon pavilion, and as the float rolled along, clouds would appear to slowly obscure and reveal the seated Luna Prophet with uncanny regularity.

Monk made notes, casually remarking, "The parade is exactly two weeks and one day away, Mr. Slayback. Will all be ready?"

"We shall be ready, sir. All preparations are on schedule."

"Speaking of schedule, since this is a presidential election year, is your organization expecting President Hayes to be among the dignitaries on the Custom House balcony to witness the parade?"

"The Republicans refused to put Hayes on the ticket again, and Garfield – well, you know how those Ohio men are. But officially, for your newspaper that is, we are likely to be entertaining the Democratic nominee."

"Mr. Hancock will be in attendance?"

"Very likely, sir. Both parade and ball."

"Another Veiled Prophet success."

"We may only hope so."

This was spoken with such sincerity, Monk's mind drifted to the 'system' and how it all worked. "Tell me, whose idea was it to keep the identity of the man playing the Prophet a secret every year?"

"Well, as you probably well know, the initial year of our efforts we did publicize the person elected to play him, and did it to show our gratitude."

Monk stiffened; the idea of 'gratitude' was hard to bear, since its ramifications were broad. The first man was the one who brutally put down the General Strike and re-established the elite's control over the social order.

Slayback must have sensed the correspondent's ambivalence because he shifted his tone slightly. "Since then, the honor is kept a private matter between the organizers and the man tasked with bringing magic, joy and ceremony to the everyman."

"And he's chosen, based on what criteria?"

"Oh, well. I had hoped it was rather clear to the public at large, but he is selected for his selfless service to the whole community over the course of the preceding year, and naturally, how active a promoter he has been to the Organization as well."

Monk chuckled. "And might the readers of the Globe get the scoop on who the gentleman playing the Veiled Prophet is this year…?"

"Certainly not, sir," chortled the Southerner. "However, just between you and myself, I might say the Prophet for 1880 is one who's brought newfound glory of a commercial variety to our fair city this year, and richly deserves to be honored. Now, shall we?" Slayback's arm gestured, and Monk felt the man relenting his reserve towards him.

Moving on in silence, the reporter tried not to glance to the sky, and the sooty smoke rising there, lest it put him in a bad place again.

The second float was a wild, artistic dragon. More Saint George lizard with bat wings than a scaly wonder-beast from the Asian continent, it was nonetheless painted in vibrant hues of peacock blues and greens. As they flanked it, Monk was truly taken by its size and complexity. Suddenly, men shouted, and the monster's head moved with a smooth motion. Glass eyes blinked, huge saber teeth appeared from its opening maw, and white smoke in amazing profusion shot straight out of its angry nostrils.

Charles Slayback spoke gently in his ear and startled Monk back to reality. "There is a man inside. He primes the smoke boiler, then operates a set of organ bellows to release the smoke."

"It's amazing. You'll have children clinging to their parents' limbs."

"Yes." He smiled. "But also watching with at least one eye open. They will be enthralled and entertained, of that I can be assured."

The newspaperman started to make notes quickly.

After a minute or two, Slayback said, "There is an amusing little anecdote to relay concerning the Prophet's dragon, sir, if you'd like to hear it?"

"Yes, naturally."

"Well, it seems this Saturday last, just as the monster was outfitted with his fire-breathing equipment and sealed up in his pasteboard scales, one of our more eager young prophets was keen to be the operator. He stripped down and laid his hat aside to climb inside, and spent a merry hour or two rehearsing. The workmen, being done for the day, went home to their suppers and beer. A few hours later the man's wife came to me and disclosed he had not returned home. We thought it nothing unusual, until she reappeared Sunday, frantic. The association drafted a missing persons ad and rushed it to the papers, but the offices were closed. Our man with the ad then got himself arrested so he could inform the police of the missing person, but still to no luck.

"In any event, workmen returning to the lumberyard Monday morning found the young prophet's hat and clothes, and helped extricate the man from the dragon. Naturally, he was fine, although a bit embarrassed and hungry. Now we've selected a more slender volunteer to operate the smoke apparatus."[3]

Monk laughed. "Dedication to the cause. It's an admirable story, Mr. Slayback." By the end of the story, the man's Louisiana charm had slipped out fully, and Monk relaxed to know his host for the day was at ease.

They strolled on.

Monk said conversationally: "It's not a controversial statement, sir, to say it's well known you conceived of the Veiled Prophet charitable organization, and have worked tirelessly in the three years since to help the needy and offer the citizens of this city the greatest festival night in the nation. My question, Mr. Slayback, is what inspired you? How did you come up with such a grand concept?"

"I wonder, Mr. Monk, if you are familiar with Tony Faust's Oyster House."

Not sure why he was replying, Monk said, "Yes. The warm weather months find me frequently enjoying Faust's rooftop beer garden."[4]

"Ah, yes, so you have occasionally seen stage shows there?"

Faust did musical comedies and operettas in the open air. "Many times, sir."

Slayback slowed his step. "Have you also been to the Apollo Beer Garden and its adjacent theater? The city's German Opera Company has done Lohengrin and Tannhäuser there. Did you see either one?" Sly intrigue shone on the wealthy man's face.

"I must have missed them."

"Wagner, sir. Stagecraft, performance art, and pageantry above all else meld in the maestro's work to overwhelm the senses and make a man fulfilled and content."

Monk was confused; did any of this answer his initial inquiry?

"You see, sir," continued Slayback, "my brother and I never missed a performance. We sat rapt and lost in the magic of the theatrical experience. Following the Four Nights in July and its ramifications, I saw Tannhäuser again with a grieving heart, and just at the time I and a concerned band of citizens wondered if the social and class rift opened up by so close a moment of revolution could be healed again, I came to a near-Roman concept of a spectacle for the people – make the rich pay for the poor man's holiday and throw him a party."

"A Saturnalia approach?"

"Yes, Mr. Monk, but one grounded in Wagnerian-style stagecraft, mystery and awe."

"I'm not sure I see the connection."

"Oh, come now. The costumes, the rituals, the traditions…." His Southern charm slipped out as he said, "People need pageantry, holidays and ceremonies to break up their workaday lives, and the VP Organization is in a position to do good with charities, like the fine ladies of the Colored Relief Board, and to offer spectacles and celebration." [5]

"Christmas in October?"

"Yes, sir. In many ways that's exactly what it is."

"Public theatre, in the round. It's all very operatic."

"With the VP's charity work, parade and ball we've created a figurehead – the Mystical Prophet – bringing altruism, warmth and goodness for the masses, regardless of income or race, or anything else. With the pageantry we can bring the classes together and give back to the community in one fell swoop."

"It's a truly grand concept, Mr. Slayback. The rapid success of the parade can only attest to the public's love of the spectacle."

Monk saw an opportunity to make his appeal. "Speaking of the Organization's charitable spirit, I've recently come to know about a group of misfortunates who could use our assistance."

"Oh. Who?"

"The vocational bakers in the city's House of Refuge, sir. These young men prepare the most delightful and diverse pastry for city officials, but receive little recognition for their talents."

"How do you expect the VP can assist?"

"Let the boys cater their baked goods at the ball. With the goal to provide a wider knowledge of the young men's talents to the business community, who ultimately could and should employ them after being released."

"Their 'success story,' Mr. Monk? A display of judicial worthiness?"

There was a troubling shift in Slayback's countenance, but Monk could not read it. Nevertheless his heart sunk a bit; if this man said 'no' then Waverly, the boys and he would be back to square one.

"What do you know of my brother's tragedy, sir?"

Monk knew what most knew from the horrific newspaper accounts. "That he was slain unjustly, Mr. Slayback. In cold blood."

"So, in consequence, 'Justice' is a cold principle to me, Mr. Monk. Alonzo was unarmed the day he entered the office of the Post-Dispatch's editor, but as a gentleman, sir, my brother felt beholding to redress some of that paper's printed slanders about our family. So what if voices were raised; so what if demands for retractions were made? Where is the justice for Alonzo when John Cockerill extracted a pistol from his desk drawer and murdered my brother in front of others? I do not understand it."

"No one, sir, could comprehend the lack of charges." And indeed, the editor was never charged, not even arrested and questioned.

"I could. Party affiliations should never come into play when righting a wrong is at stake. Our family's Democratic leanings protected Cockerill, allowing powerful, corrupt GOP influence from Washington to keep the newspaperman free. 'Just a 'nother dead "Crat"' they'd say. 'Killed plenty of them in the war, what's one more?'"

Monk felt sickened. As conspiratorial as it sounded, there was little else to explain how one of this city's most prominent citizens could be shot dead before witnesses and the perpetrator not arraigned on any charges, unless said perpetrator happened to be Joseph Pulitzer's right hand man in Saint Louis. And why? The mogul had his hands on the levers of Republican power as surely as any creditor does a debtor.

Slayback put words to Monk's thoughts. "Justice should not be a commodity, Mr. McDonough."

The simple statement had a profound impact on Monk – there was no justice for 'her,' and he is here today to seek redress of an injustice against his cousin and the lad's associate.

The VP organizer halted his step. Monk did as well and noticed the smokestacks belching coal-black clouds above and behind the man's head.

"I hope you will help these boys, sir. Charity, as you well know, is at the heart of these current times. And certainly a noble part of the modern, post-war business mood."

Slayback allowed a wily smile to appear. "Concerning the 'misfortunes' of our wayward Prophet trapped in the dragon float, I and my fellow organizers would feel proud, and dare I say slightly indebted, if such a charming anecdote found its way into the pages of the Globe-Democrat."

"Well, shall I see what can be done to accommodate?"

The smile became broader; warmer. "I leave it in your hands, Mr. Monk. As for the charitable matter of the Refuge boys, I do not see a particular impediment. But…."

"But, what?"

"It's an intriguing idea, and a noble one, however – it will be up to you to convince the authorities to allow it. The VP Organization is behind it, sir, and you may use our cloud, but you must make the arrangements."

Monk's pulse went thready in his temple; his inhalation became more rapid; panic tingled along his spine. As he smelled the phantom gun smoke and felt trembling rise through his feet from three years ago, the notion that he'd have to go to the seat of civil power in the city raised profound dread in him.[6]

Hidden flames raise ashy discord

Where memories stoke only Fate

To make the victim choke on hate

And imprison him as Her ward.