A California road trip to save the world...
Torn from the past, two historic figures return to prevent an unimaginable disaster.
Barreling down the highway in a classic Lincoln Continental convertible, are none other than Abraham Lincoln and Sergei Rachmaninoff. Stretching into the depths of history and imagination, they contend with the powers in Heaven and the greed of humankind to prevent the looming ecological disaster facing the earth. Along the way, they encounter the ghosts of tribes long past and a face Lincoln thought to never see again. A fantastical journey of modern struggle, humor, music, and earthly love, with true words spoken and written by Lincoln, Rachmaninoff, and Ulysses S. Grant in their lifetime.
The mission is critical. The outcome will change everything.
A California road trip to save the world...
Torn from the past, two historic figures return to prevent an unimaginable disaster.
Barreling down the highway in a classic Lincoln Continental convertible, are none other than Abraham Lincoln and Sergei Rachmaninoff. Stretching into the depths of history and imagination, they contend with the powers in Heaven and the greed of humankind to prevent the looming ecological disaster facing the earth. Along the way, they encounter the ghosts of tribes long past and a face Lincoln thought to never see again. A fantastical journey of modern struggle, humor, music, and earthly love, with true words spoken and written by Lincoln, Rachmaninoff, and Ulysses S. Grant in their lifetime.
The mission is critical. The outcome will change everything.
I dreamed I had a dream of making a difference. I had been depressed about global warming for so long, as well as living a lonely life observing the travails of the planet. And now I was dreaming of a pilgrimage up the California coast to stop climate change with my heroes Abraham Lincoln and Sergei Rachmaninoff. Sent by God, they were arriving in Los Angeles to start their mission and I was going to help them!
I was only a nobody, just a music and history lover, but this was my dream. I would be the narrator of their journey as they returned to earth on a special assignment from Heaven, to be the Superheroes the world desperately needed in the 21st century. I was thrilled to assist them in their task, which as yet I only knew was to help the world.
Their divine assignment, with me as facilitator, entailed driving up the coastal route of Highway 1 to the target destination, 720 miles north. We had five days.
Now I waited with anticipation at the historic 125-year-old Angel’s Flight Railway in Downtown L.A., strangely empty of the usual crowds of tourists, workers, students“and the unhoused. I stood alone outside the bright orange Victorian station on Grand Avenue, as the cable car, Olivet, arrived at the end of its 298-foot climb to the top of Bunker Hill.
Incredibly, Abraham Lincoln stepped out from the funicular station, looking much older than his fifty-six years at the time of his death. He wasn’t wearing his signature top hat and long black coat, but khaki slacks and a black polo shirt, a black and white cardigan draped over his lean shoulders. He wore a checked woolen newsboy cap over shaggy hair and was surprisingly clean shaven. His snappy outfit was rumpled and offhand.
“Mr. Lincoln! Such an honor.” My excitement was profound as I rushed to extend my hand in welcome. Talk about a dream come true.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, clasping my hand in his large one. He spoke with a unpredictably high reedy voice that startled me.
“How was your trip?” I asked. “The funicular is only one block, but I know you came from much farther away.”
“It was quite agreeable, thank you. I always wanted to explore California after we put the South in order, especially to see the sites of the Gold Rush, but unfortunately life, or…,” here he paused and grimaced, looking down at his athletic shoes, “…intervened. I was able to make Yosemite a State Park, but I never saw its natural beauty.” His expression changed and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “And now here I am on a sacred mission. To what end I don’t yet know.”
His high voice and lean body seemed unrelated, even more so when considering what a powerful and great leader he was. I didn’t know what I expected, but his voice was a surprise.
“Let’s go get Sergei now,” I said. “He may be waiting at the bottom of the hill. Do you two know each other, you know, on the other side?”
“Yes, I met Mr. Rachmaninoff when the Almighty called us together to give us our tickets for the SkyTrail, our destination. He is not a man of many words, even less than me.” He chuckled. “I always say, better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.”
“Here’s our automobile, our ‘horseless carriage’. It’s called a Lincoln, you know, named after you.” Mr. Lincoln and Maestro Rachmaninoff were both exceptionally tall, and so in this my dream I made sure we had a vehicle comfortable for all of us: a teal-blue 1967 Lincoln Continental convertible, with AC, a great sound system, and plenty of head and leg room for the statuesque icons when the top was up.
I opened the passenger door for him and fastened the seat belt around his slim frame. As I rounded the car to the driver’s side, he studied all the dashboard buttons and gadgets with fascination. In preparing for this adventure, I had learned a lot about both heroes. Lincoln was intrigued by mechanics and had even taken out a patent in his lifetime for a device to lift boats over shoals, maybe something he figured out when working on the Mississippi as a young man.
We drove down to deserted Hill Street and sure enough, there was the lone figure of the lofty and imposing great composer, Sergei Rachmaninoff, waiting in front of Angel’s Flight lower station. He was smoking a cigarette as the vacant Sinai car began its ascent up Bunker Hill. He wore the same glum expression as in most of his photos.
“Mr. Rachmaninoff,” I called from the Lincoln, waving. “Here we are! Please get in! But no smoking I’m afraid.” I had moved the driver’s seat up to give him room behind me for his impossibly long legs.
He opened the back door, crushing the cigarette under his sneaker, and gracefully climbed in, wearing a gray jogging suit, and a gray linen baseball cap on his gray buzz cut. Despite his casual dress, he appeared elegant, impeccable, noble.
It’s funny how he looked so European and Mr. Lincoln so American. And even though Mr. Rachmaninoff had died at sixty-nine, thirteen years older than Lincoln, Lincoln looked more aged by far.
I introduced myself, and the two great men self-consciously touched their caps. Naturally Sergei knew in his lifetime about the illustrious historical figure of Lincoln, but of course the opposite wasn’t true. Unless earthly things were kept up with “up there.”
On the surface, the two luminaries had little in common—Rachmaninoff, a Russian aristocrat, a great conductor, composer, and one of the finest if not the best pianist of the 20th century, and Mr. Lincoln, the eloquent, kind, wise president who kept our country together in the Civil War. Digging deep, I thought there would be much to discuss on the journey north. Music of course, and history and politics, but also a lifetime of depression, like me.
It was a little uneasy in the car with the bigger than life legends. I gripped the steering wheel tightly as my heart pounded in my chest. I was in awe of the personages close to me, anxious they would enjoy themselves, we all would connect, and most importantly, they would accomplish what they were sent here to do. This was my dream, that these illustrious historic figures would change the troubled world in in the 21st century.
Aside from basic pleasantries and handshaking, the two personalities were reserved. They had a lot of mutual traits despite superficialities of country, culture, and century. Perhaps neither knew of their many shared attributes, and that they both suffered from Marfan Syndrome, an inherited disorder affecting connective tissue, bones, and eyes, and the possible reason they were so tall.
Driving the streets of Los Angeles, we passed trash and debris littering the avenues and sidewalks. The tall iconic palm trees lining the boulevards offered no shade to the makeshift campsites beneath them. Unlike native canopy trees, palms didn’t sequester carbon at the same rate. And they were favorite homes of roof rats who lived off the trash heaped below. I lived in Koreatown near downtown Los Angeles, a highly dense area with more high-rise buildings built every day. But there was not one park or green space where families could relax outside of their cement block apartments. No grass, no canopy trees, but block after block of stately palms that looked stunning against the sunsets, nonindigenous trees planted decades ago as a real estate attraction decorating souvenir postcards.
No matter how much recycling was emphasized, the quantities of landfill items only increased. I was sorry these greats from the past would comprehend how modern America had become a land of refuse, and for that matter, that the whole world was becoming a giant landfill.
It was autumn, and the lack of rain and the resulting drought had made everything dry as dust. It was forbidden now to water your lawn and garden more than once a week. Lake Mead was almost dried up, and when the Santa Ana winds hit, the wildfires would rage. The World Bank predicted that in thirty years, 216 million people would be displaced due to climate-driven migration. Now in Los Angeles, tens of thousands lived on the street and under bridges. As I drove, we saw block after block of tent encampments, many topped with large American flags.
We circled Mexican Olvera Street and Chinatown, and I took a little detour back to Grand Avenue to pass the historic Beaux Arts-style Trinity Auditorium with the stained-glass dome. Built in 1914, the stunning theater/hotel had been vacant for a decade. “Look, Maestro,” I called, waving my hand. “Here is where you had your Los Angeles performance debut in 1923!”
“The first of 28 performances in L.A. area,” he recounted with a hint of pride.
Then up to Echo Park as we cruised along Sunset Boulevard on the way to the coast and Highway 1. Suddenly enthusiastic, the maestro leaned forward in his seat. “My church. Holy Virgin Mary.” He gestured to the north. “Russian Orthodox. Big funeral for me with Requiem Mass—but not my music.” He smiled tightlipped. “Lots of Russians. Wherever I live, Russian music…a long dark coda into night,” he sighed. “Here on earth, I felt like ghost in alien world. Even air smells different in America. I never felt well or myself here. No creative fire. So made my own little Russia wherever I was.”
That summed up his life, I thought. His terrible attacks of depression and his misery at being prohibited to return to Russia. The need to make money by constantly practicing and giving concerts diverted his energy from composing. Only his Symphonic Dances had been composed in America, and at the end of his life. He seemed to have left his energy for composing in the Russia of his youth, and instead tried to recreate the lavish lifestyle of Old Russia wherever he lived.
“Maestro, for your services in New York, your All-Night Vigil was played, the ‘Vespers.”
He smiled slightly with dignity. “My best religious composition. I am glad. And many Russians there. I would have preferred interment in Russia close to Scriabin but was not allowed, you know. I was called ‘violent enemy of Soviet Russia.’ Communists against me until I sent huge donation, many thousands dollars, in early 40s. Then I was honored composer once more, but still, couldn’t return. Too late. So at last I became American citizen one month before I died.”
“You could not have chosen a better country, Mr. Rachmaninoff,” said Mr. Lincoln.
I pulled over into an empty $.99 Store parking lot and stopped. “Would you gentlemen like to share the driving? Our journey will be hundreds of miles in only five days, too much for me. You just need to practice a little. Who would like to go first?” I got out, holding the door open.
Sergei was quick to unfold his long limbs from the back and into the white leather front seat I pushed to the rear as far as it would go. Mr. Lincoln and I switched places; he moved to the back and I sat in the passenger seat. “I know you never passed your American driving test,” I said, “and you always employed chauffeurs when you weren’t racing around Europe in your many sportscars. But I heard you were quite the vehicle fanatic.” The maestro had been a big fan of fast cars, speed boats, airplanes too. He even got involved with manufacturing a helicopter. He always sent his car along with his Steinway piano to Europe when on tour and on vacation. He had been quite the Car Guy back in the day.
“Mr. Lincoln,” I said, “you will be next. You never drove an automobile before, but with all your horsemanship and carriage driving, it will be easy for you to get the knack of it.”
Lincoln replied from the back seat with one of his country sayings, “You have to do your own rowing no matter how tall your grandfather was.”
“Mr. Rachmaninoff, this car has an automatic transmission, something not available in your day. You don’t need to change gears. Put it in D for Drive and off we go. No clutch either. Be careful as it also has power steering which means you barely need to move the wheel. Let’s try it. But be sure to fasten your seat belt.”
The maestro responded with a confident shrug. “Driving is like conducting, qualities that make one also make other. The conductor only adds sense of music.”
“At least at first, let the music be lento,” I tried to joke. “I heard you were frequently stopped for speeding.” I hoped he was taking my comments the right way and wasn’t too macho about instructions from a woman. Lincoln remained silent behind me but I felt his alert energy.
I held my breath as Sergei maneuvered forward, at first too fast, and the power brakes grabbed once or twice. He drove like he played, with precision and rhythm, his huge hands almost covering the steering wheel. I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands, powerful yet graceful and in perfect control. If only I could see them on a keyboard!
I glanced at Mr. Lincoln grinning in the back seat, his long legs stretched out to the side. After a few minutes of going around and around the parking lot, Sergei decided on his own to exit onto Sunset. We sped along the deserted boulevard without incident until we found another empty parking lot in a mini-mall, and he pulled in. “Now Lincoln, your turn,” he announced.
“Perhaps it is best not to swap horses while crossing the river, sir. However, I am more than willing to try,” Lincoln said, unbuckling his seat belt.
I trusted Mr. Lincoln to have good judgment and ability no matter what. And I was happy his sense of humor had well survived a hundred and fifty years.
They exchanged places and Lincoln took the wheel. Slowly he investigated the gear shift, the steering wheel, the brake, the rearview and side mirrors. After gently pressing the accelerator, we advanced carefully around the lanes, the lighting stanchions, the shopping cart returns. Then he called out, “R is for Reverse?” as he simultaneously threw the gear shift into Reverse. He backed up prudently and with confidence.
The maestro was backseat driving Lincoln’s every move. Leaning over the seat, he cautioned loudly, “Careful there, Lincoln! Slow down, man! Watch out!”
“What a flabbergasting machine this is! Saves the horses, doesn’t it?” exclaimed Mr. Lincoln unperturbed. “I wonder what Old Bob would make of this?” recollecting his favorite old carriage horse that had been brought out of retirement to walk riderless behind the hearse in Lincoln’s funeral cortege.
As we continued along Sunset, despite knowing there was no time to waste, I couldn’t help acting like a tour guide, pointing out various sights and places I loved about my city, ignoring the tents and litter, dried vegetation and dying palm trees. Born and raised in Los Angeles, I was proud of it despite the negative changes occurring daily. Too bad we were going in the opposite direction to the Music Center, and Disney Hall, the home of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. But as we passed Highland Avenue in Hollywood, I gestured to the right. “The Hollywood Bowl is up there, Maestro, remember performing there in 1942?”
He nodded. “My last concert in Los Angeles.”
“I thought you both might be wearing white,” I jabbered on. “In the most famous musical play of the 21st century—about the American founding fathers. incidentally—when they passed away the actors all wore white. It was about Alexander Hamilton, by the way,” I said, with a quick look at Mr. Lincoln. “It’s playing in Hollywood. I wish we could go. Great music!” I glanced at the maestro. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the theater to Mr. Lincoln.
“Mr. Rachmaninoff is a great composer and the greatest pianist of the 20th century! Too bad, Mr. Lincoln, he was after your time. You are well known as a music lover who went often to the opera.”
“Yes,” Lincoln agreed as he drove smoothly west, “Especially the two ‘M’s: Mozart and the opera Martha by Friedrich von Flotow. I even asked the Marine Band to play opera, and the people thought I was plumb crazy. I especially liked when they played their rendition of ‘The Soldiers’ Chorus’ from Gounod’s Faust. I suppose the Marines make it the three M’s! Ha!” He pressed his lips together in a grin, at ease behind the wheel.
“Let’s listen to some Mozart now,” I said, searching for the classical radio station on the dashboard. “Maestro, shall we pass by your old house in Beverly Hills?”
“Nyet, Lincoln, keep going to the sea. Cannot waste time. Anyway, Horowitz no longer next door. You know he played my Third Piano Concerto better than me? We enjoyed piano competitions at our homes and duets on my two Steinways. And went to jazz clubs to hear Art Tatum. Horowitz was great pianist, good man, best friend.” Sighing, Rachmaninoff stared out the window as strains of Mozart came from the radio.
“Will we arrive in time?” Mr. Lincoln asked, navigating a curve.
“Da, I wonder too,” Sergei interjected.
“Yes,” agreed Lincoln. “I am very much looking forward to viewing the Pacific. But we understand there is an ominous and sinister energy working against us, so time is of the essence.”
“It is said that with the warming of the seas and the melting of the glaciers, California will fall into the ocean, at least the coastal cities.” I wrung my hands. “Meanwhile we’re due to have bomb cyclones, thundersnow, atmospheric rivers…and the Pineapple Express.” It was hard not to laugh at that last one, as serious as the subject was. I thought these new weather terms probably made no sense to the visitors.
“All the more important to arrive at the destination exactly on the dot, as ordained,” Lincoln continued. “It is written here, on my ticket.” He pulled out a yellow paper from his cap, his left hand controlling the wheel with confidence.
“I have same,” said Rachmaninoff, patting the pocket of his jogging jacket. “We must accept our commission, our reason to be here, before then. Not sure where we will learn details.”
“Ok, we will,” I promised, although I didn’t know when or how it was supposed to happen. “Meanwhile let’s enjoy the ride.” I unexpectedly was so happy; I was a part of the plan to help the earth, and I was spending time with my heroes. It was the best of dreams.
I leaned into the dashboard and clicked on the GPS, asking, “What music shall we listen to next?”
“I hope to God none of my damned Preludes!”
Lincoln and Rachmaninoff Walk Into a Bar by Cherie Magnus is a short fantasy, following the adventures of an unnamed narrator as they race across America to save the world from the perils of forest fires and climate change. Their quest is supported by a cast of comrades living and dead, notably including former American president Abraham Lincoln and the Russian-American composer Sergei Rachmaninoff.
As far as plotting is concerned, this is not a particularly well thought-through book. The overall premise of Lincoln and Rachmaninoff Walk Into a Bar is somewhat questionable and the triggering incident is not introduced until about halfway through the story. This comes after a succession of scenes where characters talk about their past achievements while trying to comprehend modern technology in the 21st Century. Only when a spiritual figure appears to inform Rachmanioff and Lincoln they are to compose and write the lyrics for a song to save the planet does the story start to develop a sense of pace. It is a plot that is never fully realised, at least not in a way that provides a satisfactory conclusion.
The first person narrator's statement in the opening lines that they had a dream they met Lincoln and Rachmaninoff rather sets the tone for the rest of the book. The dream statement is touched upon several times in the story, yet there is no moment of "and then I woke up", leaving readers to guess for themselves the blurred lines between what could be reality and what could be a dream sequence. Is the whole story a work of character imagination?
The book has a lot of grammatical and spelling mistakes and the overuse of unnecessary adverbs becomes very grating, very quickly. There is also a strange subplot in the story where Destiny, a music student, and Lincoln strike up a flirtatious relationship. This part may have been intended as comedy but instead it feels more uncomfortable than funny.
The intended climate change message of Lincoln and Rachmaninoff Walk Into a Bar is lost in its poor execution. It is not to a high enough standard to recommend it to other readers, even if the historical research is commendable.
AEB Reviews