musicians of old

Chapter 962 Performance Application?

On the first day of the new year, at four or five in the morning, the streets were empty and quiet. Snowflakes were falling lightly, and the smell of gunpowder from fireworks still lingered in the air. Houses and roads everywhere were bathed in the cold, iron-gray light of a winter dawn.

The “40th Harvest Arts Festival Organizing Committee” has not been dissolved, and much longer than usual has passed since then. Its office is still located in the west wing of the estate provided by the San Pelto Friends of Music Association.

A secluded courtyard, with holly and rose bushes trimmed too neatly, including a round townhouse and several apartment buildings with steep gray tile roofs. All the curtains in the windows were drawn tightly, with not a single gap letting in any light. The glass itself seemed to have been specially treated, so from the outside it was just a somber, dark expanse.

On either side of the gravel path leading to the villa's main gate, every five steps a policeman in a black uniform, wearing a round table and knife insignia, stood solemnly. They were like iron stakes driven into the ground, completely unresponsive to the falling snow. In the shadows further out, occasionally a figure in plainclothes, with an even more obscure aura, would flash by.

Fanning had somehow acquired a gray briefcase, and Shilan, Roy, and Joan behind him looked at him, sensing his weariness.

Looking back belatedly, he realized that his state during this period could hardly be described as "spirited," but why was he so exhausted to the point of being heavy? It was as if some enormous burden beyond his comprehension was consuming his originally abundant inspiration day after day.

As Fan Ning, carrying his briefcase, led the three men through the thin snow and approached the heavy steel gate, all the erected "iron stakes" moved simultaneously—they all turned to the side in perfect unison, raising their right hands to their foreheads in a standard, almost menacing salute.

The sound of the wind generated by the movement was short and consistent.

These people stared straight ahead, meeting the approaching figures without moving. The glaring lights on both sides of the road were turned on one by one, illuminating their taut jawlines and neck muscles.

The call was made about half an hour ago from the second-floor office lobby of the Walstein villa.

At Fanning's instruction, Sheeran picked up the phone and dialed the number at the top of her desk's contact list. The phone rang a few times in the empty villa before being answered. A serious and highly alert male voice came from the other end: "...Festival Organizing Committee Emergency Duty Room. Your identity? Reason?"

“This is Turner Theatres, Sheeran Cornell.” She tried to make her voice sound calm and formal. “Please tell Inspector Lassus that Mr. Fanning will be arriving in about half an hour.”

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a series of suppressed, frantic sounds. It wasn't the person answering the phone, but rather one or more people standing up abruptly from their chairs and bumping into something. There were also hushed, hurried conversations and the faint sound of wind caused by overly vigorous hand gestures.

A few seconds later, the male voice sounded again, completely awake, only tense and respectful: "Understood. Pass it on immediately. Please tell Mr. Fan Ning... he can come at any time. We... will be prepared." The call was abruptly ended, leaving a busy tone.

Sheeran put down the receiver, glanced at Fanning who was leaning on the table, and then exchanged a look with Joan and Roy behind her: "They... sound nervous."

“Carol, we don’t have to be afraid of these guys anymore, right?” Joan said.

Fanning simply stood up, patted the back of Sheeran's chair, and gestured for everyone to go downstairs.

His expression carried an indescribable heaviness and loneliness.

Walking along the gravel path leading to the "Preparatory Committee Office," this somber "welcoming" atmosphere continued forward. In the latter half of the path, the figures of investigators began to appear, moving forward every five steps and to the left and right every five steps, like a large group of silent chess pieces placed on the snowy lawn, their black and white stripes illuminated by searchlights.

The three girls felt strange walking among the crowd. They sensed an intense tension, even fear, beneath the respectful facade. It was as if Fan Ning, walking ahead, was not a person, but a moving, unpredictable source of disaster. Yet, on the other hand, they felt a sense of being "surrounded," as if some intangible, intangible will, like the "perspective of a superior," had inexplicably "inherited" from them in this atmosphere, making them feel like they were the superior.

In the spacious foyer above the steps, Lassus sat in the center, a whole row of inspectors standing there in a row, waiting. It seemed that all the Insightful Personnel and Investigators that the Special Patrol Department could muster had arrived.

As soon as Fanning's leather shoes stepped onto the steps, the crowd parted to both sides, and two investigators standing guard by the door opened the glass door.

"Boom"

An overly warm "office atmosphere," with only a faint scent of ink and coffee, wafted in, dispelling the chill outside.

All the furniture and decorations in the main hall were removed and transformed into a semi-circular open office area resembling a wartime command post. The blinding white carbonized lamps poured down from the high ceiling, illuminating every inch of the space. The desks were piled high with documents, files, typewriters, telegraph machines, and of course, there were still slightly steaming coffee pots and ashtrays full of cigarette butts, as well as countless maps marked with red and blue arrows and symbols.

The three people following behind Fanning could imagine that at least 50 people in uniform or civilian clothes had been working in this hall. They could even “hear” the clicks of typewriters, the beeps of telegraph machines, the hushed conversations, and the rustling of papers not long ago. But perhaps just half an hour ago, the place was suddenly “cleared out” as if facing a major threat.

The investigators were left outside the gate, while only a dozen or so inspectors followed them in.

“Miss Shilan should have received her New Year’s gift.” Lasu said hoarsely as he reached for the door. His suit was still neat and appropriate, but he looked at least ten years older, with bloodshot eyes and prominent cheekbones. “However, there are no visits or invitations for the time being, because the series of instructions left by the leader before he went up the tower did not include these matters.”

He seemed to be explaining, and doing so proactively without being asked.

Fanning must have heard it, but he didn't stop or respond. After stepping over the gray carpet at the door, he continued walking into the hall with his briefcase. Sheeran, Roy, and Joan couldn't help but take another look at the people following closely behind them.

Those gazes held a deep weariness, an undisguised unease, a cautious scrutiny, and a faint, almost imperceptible desire—a desire to read some kind of "judgment" from Fanning's face. Of course, they were not actually sure of Fanning's intentions; he might be there to announce some result, or to demonstrate a "liquidation and counter-liquidation."

"Where are your staff here?" Fan Ning asked, his tone flat and emotionless.

"What?" Lasus asked in surprise.

"Haven't you started work yet?"

Fan Ning continued walking inside until he reached a curved marble counter that resembled a "service counter," where he placed his briefcase directly on the mountain of files piled up in front of him.

With a "hiss," the zipper was pulled open.

He took out two books, one thick and one thin.

It turned out to be sheet music, along with documents, complete with all the formalities.

"Turner Arts Centre has requested a performance; please approve it."