THE DEATH OF DISCO

         As he entered the house, the silent gaze of a young woman caught his eye. Being shy, he lowered his head and kept watch over her with surreptitious glances. She must have been seventeen or eighteen, no older. A bit of dogerel wafted through his head; perhaps one of his clients could use it, but which one?

         Clio had him working overtime with General Grant, helping him finish his memoirs before the reaper carried him away. At the same time, and in almost the same year, "Chinese" Gordon's journal needed attention. The poor man was a rock in a hard place, caught between the Mahdi's dervish army and his own incompetent Egyptian troops. Sometimes self-pity seemed to get the best of him. "Don't let this happen, McNabb!" Those were Clio's words to him as he left her office the day she gave him the assignment.

         He admired Grant's courage; the money the publishers would pay would keep his family from the poor house after the general met his maker. His cigars stank, and he imbibed too much liquor, but McNabb would have done the same were he human and in his place. On the other hand, Gordon was a strutting piece of vainglory, already painting in his mind statues of himself on horseback. "McNabb, I want one to be near Whitehall, so those blithering idiots can see where their policies led." Gordon had been abandoned in Khartoum; troops were finally coming to his relief, but "Mark my word, McNabb, they will arrive too late."

         The Mahdi couldn't get there soon enough for McNabb. If he never had to drink another Brandy and Soda on the job, he wouldn't care. How any man could write in his diary, "Got to sleep at three; then the bloody W.O.G.s starting beating their drum"

         "That doesn't work, sir."

         "Who's the general here, McNabb?"

         "Who wants to be sitting on a granite horse some day?".

         "How should I say it, Muse?"

         "Try 'One tumbles at 3 a.m. into a troubled sleep. A drum beats~~tup! tup! tup! It comes into a dream, but after a few minutes one becomes more awake, and it is revealed to the brain that one is in Khartoum."

         Three hours with General Insufferable and two spent on Grant’s deathwatch left him little time for his new client, or rather two clients. He’d been anxious to escape the History department, but his last diversion had been working for Melpomene, and that essay into Tragedy had ended when he couldn’t control the playwright Chris Marlowe’s temper. The words, “You’ll never eat lunch in this department again, McNabb,” still rang in his ears. Now Euterpe was giving him a chance with Music.

         Her office was unlike anything he had seen in Zeus Tower. There were tape machines and turntables surrounding her. She began to speak, but sounds of an orchestra drowned her out. She flipped a switch and the cacophony ceased. She stared at him; McNabb dared not tell her he knew nothing of music.

         “You look young enough to work with these two men, McNabb. I can’t send down one of the old farts, though I don’t understand this rock and roll music one bit.”

         “Where am I going, Ma’am?”

         “England, Liverpool to be precise, early 1960’s.”

         “Are they composing an opera, or a symphony?”

         “You weren't listening, McNabb; I told you it is something they call ‘rock and roll.’

         “I am rather busy, you know ma’am. My generals have to get their work done, and I kind of want to be there when the Dervishes chop off Gordon’s head.”

         She raised her voice. “McNabb! Do you want to be stuck with the military all your life? I saw Clio’s schedule; your next assignment is some guy named Heinz Guderian, some spittle throwing Prussian.”

         McNabb thought a minute and then nodded his head in assent.

         He found himself in the basement of a building; the room must have doubled as a dance hall and nightclub. A stage occupied the far end. It was the only part of the room in full light. On the stage was a piano, and seated at it was a young man dressed in a tee-shirt, jeans and with a mop of light hair over his head. He was tinkling the keys in what sounded like a pure random manner.

         “Cut the noodling, Paul.” The voice came from the semi-darkened area in front of the stage. McNabb could make out another man seated at the table there. He was holding what appeared to be a guitar in his hands. He continued to speak, “We’ve got to come up with another good song. You know what Brian said, ‘get a few hits and it’s America here we come.”

         “What, John? You want to do another “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah” two minutes? They’ll get tired of us.”

         “Well, I’ve got that one about hiding love away.”

         “Too slow, John, we need something more upbeat.”

         McNabb took a step toward the stage. The pianist turned toward him.

         “If you're a bloke that wants to audition to be the new drummer, the position’s taken.”

         McNabb cleared his throat. “I’m from your muse; I’m going to help you.”

         The one in the dark replied, “Muse? You from the Police? Some old ladies been bitching about the noise again?”

         McNabb motioned both of them to come to him and then talked to them quietly. A few minutes later, both went back to the piano. One played and both sang the “Yeah Yeah” song, and then they sang the ditty about hiding love.

         “You could put a ‘Hey’ before the line, ‘You’ve got to hide your love away,’ and make it an ascending sound. HEY! Like that.”

         “John, I think he’s got it.”

         “I still think we need something more upbeat; the song's in a minor key. Got anything else, muse?”

         “Don’t let Euterpe hear you call me ‘muse.’ I am not a muse, I am only her helper. I really must run now; I help others too.”

         “Hope it’s no one in the States, especially that Orbison guy.”

         “No, you are my only musicians. I will see you tomorrow.”

         “But we’re playing a gig in Germany tomorrow.”

         “Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

         When he checked the assignment board at the office, he saw that he was to attend a film premiere in London for a story about General Gordon. A reception would follow. The American actor who played the General would be reading excerpts from his journal. McNabb thought to himself, if they've made a film, then Gordon must be dead and the assignment ended. He called Dora in Scheduling and she confirmed his guess. As he descended the gentle steps in front of the office, he grabbed a railing and did a buck and wing.

         He did not care to attend the film, but dressed casually for the reception, and took a taxi to the site of the ceremony, a private house in a once-fashionable part of the City. As he entered the house, the silent gaze of a young woman caught his eye. The words that sloshed around in his brain would not fit General Grant, and now that Gordon had been rendered into bronze, he would be doing no more writing for him, but there were the two young men, Paul and John.

         He found them the next evening in the basement of a bierkeller in Hamburg. They were on stage with two other men, playing and supposedly singing, but more like shouting over the noise of the audience. He retreated to the bar, quaffed a beer and waited for the show to end. He heard the drums beating a deafening tattoo and knew that this must be the finale. He was correct; shortly the audience left and he approached the stage.

         “Don’t go anywhere, George, Ringo. This bloke’s our muse, he says. He’s going to be our ticket to America. Any ideas, Maestro?”

         “Maybe; I don’t write music you know. But last night I went to this party, and there was this girl, maybe just seventeen, standing there eyeing me up, and every time I would look, she’d be there, just standing there, like watching me if you know what I mean.” While he talked, Paul was jotting down something on a napkin, writing furiously. McNabb shook his head violently, and said more to himself than anyone else, “What is happening to me. Why am I talking like this.”

         “Keep talking, Mr. Muse. You're giving me ideas.” Paul began to play the piano, slowly at first and then he began to sing,

“She was just seventeen,
You know what I mean
And the way she looked
Was really very rare
So how could I dance with another
When I saw her standing there?”

         “Make it ‘Was way beyond compare,’ Paul.”

         “That’s good, John, but it still lacks something, like Mr. McNabb’s ‘Hey’ that he suggested last night.”

         McNabb walked to the piano; Paul had scribbled the lyrics on a scrap of paper, with the accompaniment jotted in roughly. McNabb borrowed a pen and made an entry. “Now, Mr. Paul and Mr. John, I don’t think you need much help from me, but I have made this one suggestion, and do draw the word out, like a train whistle.”

         Within minutes he was on his way to the dying General Grant. A picture of Guderian ran through his mind and he shuddered. He would have to talk to Clio about that assignment.

         Six months later he was summoned for an evaluation in Euterpe’s office. Clio was seated next to the desk, but Music was doing the talking.

         “You outdid yourself this time, McNabb. I am very proud of you.” She pushed a button and a blue-lit panel on the wall began to glow. A human figure could be seen in two dimensions on the wall. It was an older man. He was raising his arms and shouting,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Beatles.”

Over the screams of thousands of young girls, a song could be heard.

         “Listen carefully, Clio, to young McNabb’s stroke of genius.”

“So how could I dance with another
OOOOOOOOOOOH
when I saw her standing there.”

         “Need I tell you, Muse of History, who added the ‘Ooooooooh? I think it’s time this young man is taken off the Guderian account. With music, he seems to have found his niche. I sent him to help another artist, and he seems to have picked up something called Disco.”

         Clio tossed her hair back on her head. “So that’s where it came from. I saw Guderian in a leisure suit the other day, heading into Wehrmacht headquarters snapping his fingers to some invisible beat. The next thing I knew he and Rundstedt were leaving, the latter in a white suit and pointed shoes. Disco, bah! I have always wondered what effect that might have had on others around them.

(1874 Words)
Valatie, September 19, 2003