The Figaro Murders

by Laura Lebow

  * * *

  I sighed as I watched her go. Vogel was a lucky man! As I turned to take my cloak and stick, my eyes caught the gleaming books on the shelves before me. Surely no one would take offense if I lingered a few moments to survey the collection? I crossed over to the nearest shelf and ran my fingers over a row of books at eye level. The leather felt soft, warm from the sunlight. I smiled when I saw that I had chosen the shelf that contained the baron’s poetry collection. I scanned the titles on the book spines: Dante’s Divina Commedia and La vita nuova; Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso; Tasso’s La Gerusalemme liberata and a few volumes of his Rime; a collection of poems by Metastasio, the imperial poet who had died just after I had arrived in Vienna. I pulled out a volume by Petrarch, my favorite of the great Italian poets.

  The beautifully bound book felt substantial in my hands. As I opened it, my mind traveled back to my first experience with the printed word, back in Ceneda, where I had been born. Fathers, of course, are notorious for giving little attention to their young children, but to be fair, after my mother died, mine had spent most of his waking hours toiling in his leatherworking shop in order to feed three young mouths. Thus my younger brothers and I grew into adolescence with little supervision and no formal education. I was a quick-witted child, curious about everything around me, burning for knowledge, yet, I am still ashamed to say, I did not learn to read or write until after age ten. The children in the town snickered at me, calling me “the brilliant dunce.” I laughed along with them, but to this day, my cheeks burn when I remember their teasing.

  One day, when I was about thirteen, I climbed up to the attic of our small house to explore. To my astonishment, I discovered a treasure trove—a carton of dusty, yellowed books, left there by a previous generation of the family. I dragged the box down to my room and hid it under my bed. Thereafter, I read whenever I had the opportunity. I pored over volumes of medieval romances, collections of country tales, and tomes of ancient history. My favorites, however, were the slim volumes of poetry, which I had studied for hours. I must have read each book in the box four or five times.

  The soft rustling of the drape in the window drew me back to the present. I turned to the first page of the Petrarch, and read aloud. “‘You who hear in scattered rhymes the sound of these sighs…’”

  “‘You who hear in scattered rhymes the thounds of these thighs,’” a loud voice said. I jumped and turned toward the window.

  “Who is there?”

  “The thounds of these thighs. The thounds of these thighs,” the voice mocked me. I put the book down, crossed to the open window, and pulled back the heavy drape. A slim boy of about sixteen sat cross-legged on the deep sill. He wore the breeches of a livery uniform and a rumpled, untucked white shirt.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Have you been eavesdropping on me this entire time?”

  He grinned. “Yeth, I have,” he said. He pushed me aside, climbed down from the sill, and threw himself into an armchair. He tilted his head to one side and studied me.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  He raised his voice to mimic mine. “What ith your name?”

  I gritted my teeth. “I am Lorenzo Da Ponte. You must be the Auerstein boy—Florian, is it?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and grinned again. “Must I be? I think I must be!”

  “Why didn’t you make yourself known before?” I asked. My right hand balled into a fist. I took a step toward him. “What gives you the right to listen to private conversations?”

  He did not answer, but instead jumped out of the chair and darted over to the fireplace. He began to bounce from foot to foot. He was not tall for his age, and his delicately sculpted features and long, curly hair gave him a girlish appearance.

  “What do you know about Johann Vogel’s parents?” I asked. “Why won’t you tell Miss Haiml what you know?”

  His mouth curled downward. “She will not play with me,” he said sadly.

  I fought the urge to go over and shake him. “Aren’t you the son of a great prince?” I asked. My voice rose. “It is not very chivalrous to exploit the unhappy fortunes of an innocent woman to gain advantage over her.”

  He waved his hand in the air and gave me a bemused smile. “She is the one with the advantage over me,” he said airily.

  “What do you mean?” My voice shook with anger.

  “I love her.”

  My cheeks grew hot. I went over to him and wagged my finger in front of his pert little nose. “You love her! Liar! What do you know of love? You are just a boy. She is a grown woman, engaged to be married.”

  He wriggled away from me and moved to the sofa. “Yes, she is,” he said, “but she cannot marry unless I help her. So she must love me back.”

  I lunged at him, but he jumped from the sofa and began bouncing around the room, humming a tune I did not recognize. “See here,” I said, trying to corner him. “Tell me what you know, so I can help her.” I stopped still and put my hands on my hips. “If you really love her, as you say you do, you would want to make her happy.”

  “Of course I love her!” He threw back his head and whooped. “She is a woman! I love all women!”

  My patience with this young fool was nearing its end. “Sit down and speak to me seriously,” I snapped. “What have you heard about Vogel’s birth mother? Did you overhear some gossip in your father’s house? Tell me!”

  He stared at me for a moment. A sly smile formed on his lips. “Say, do you like riddles?” he asked.

  “Riddles! I don’t have time for games. This is a serious matter! A man is in prison!”

  “Try this one. What am I? See if you can guess!”

  I was close to losing my temper completely. Only the fact that I was in a stranger’s home, and that Marianne believed this boy knew something of use to us, prevented me from throttling him then and there. I let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Listen. I have no body. I have no soul.” He peered at me. “Can you guess it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Here’s a bit more. No one can see me, but everyone can hear me.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “You are really stupid. All right, I’ll give you one more clue. I can be brought to life only by man, as often as he wishes.”

  I tried to grab his arm. “I told you, I don’t want to play games.”

  “My, you are a dense, irritable person! Since I feel sorry for you, I’ll give you another hint, but this is the absolute last one. I die a moment after I am born. Go ahead, take a guess!”

  I forced myself to take a deep breath to calm the pounding of my heart. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You can’t figure it out? You must be an imbecile. Well, then, you lose! I’ll tell you. I’m a fart!” He collapsed in the armchair, giggling.

  I looked at him with distaste. “Very funny,” I said. “Now that you have had your amusement, will you tell me what you know about Vogel’s parents?”

  He sighed loudly. “You are so boring! But all right, I’ll tell you.”

  I let out a breath of relief. Finally I was getting somewhere with this annoying boy.

  “You should look for the woman,” he said.

  “What woman? Vogel’s birth mother?”

  “The woman who spilled the wine.” He giggled loudly.

  I slapped my hand against the wall in frustration. “Spilled the wine? Is this another one of your stupid riddles?” I shouted. Once again I attempted to grab him, but he twisted away and darted toward the door. Something fell to the floor.

  “Come back here!” I shouted. I ran after him, but I was too late. I crossed into the hallway and looked both ways, but he had disappeared.

  Heavy footsteps sounded near the stair landing. They were too heavy to belong to the boy. I retreated into the library, my hands shaking with rage. I stood at the window for a few moments, trying to regain my composure. It had been foolish of me to lose my temper. My anger would do nothing to help Marianne and Vo
gel.

  As I walked over to retrieve my things, I tripped over an object on the floor. I leaned over and picked up a small notebook, tied closed with a ribbon. It must have fallen from the boy’s pocket. Probably a collection of his asinine riddles. I heard the same heavy footsteps, this time from the hallway. I quickly shoved the notebook into my satchel. I would give it to Marianne the next time I saw her. I stood at the door until I heard the footsteps retreat down the hall, then quietly let myself out.

  * * *

  I stopped by the theater and worked for a few hours, then returned to my lodgings for dinner. My landlord set an ample and appetizing table, and my fellow boarders included instructors from the university, musicians from the court orchestra, and the occasional writer or philosopher passing through the city. The talk was lively and the food flavorful. Afterward, I went up to my room, determined to put the finishing touches on the Figaro libretto.

  I worked steadily for a half hour, then my concentration began to wander. I thought back to my visit to the Palais Gabler, to Marianne Haiml’s bright eyes and warm smile. My stomach clenched as I recalled my exasperating conversation with that irritating boy. I had let him get the better of me, and in my anger, I had been unable to learn what he claimed to know about the circumstances surrounding Vogel’s birth.

  My eyes fell on Vogel’s box. I pushed my papers aside, pulled it over, and dug out the ring. A little polish would make it gleam. Again I wondered about the woman who had worn it. Had it been given to her by her husband upon the joyous news of her pregnancy? Or had it been a gift from a lover? Perhaps that was why she had given away the baby, to avoid a scandal.

  I returned the ring to the box, replaced the lid, and moved it onto the floor beside my chair. I reached for the aria I had been editing. I scratched a few minor changes onto the paper. A moment later, my mind turned again to the boy, Florian Auerstein. What had he meant when he had told me to find “the woman who spilled the wine”? Spilled what wine? Had he been referring to Vogel’s christening, perhaps? Why would anyone in the Auerstein family know anything about that? Had Vogel’s birth mother been a member of that noble household? I shook my head to clear my fancies away. The boy was a flighty tease. He had been trying to goad me into anger. I shouldn’t dwell on what he had told me. It was probably just nonsense.

  I returned to my work. A few moments later, I threw down my pen in frustration. I was getting nothing done today. I was too distracted by Vogel’s mystery. I went over to my cupboard and pulled out my cloak, took up my stick and the box, and headed out into the Graben.

  I turned right and headed into the maze of streets behind St. Peter’s Church. A few minutes later I entered the Jewish Quarter, a small area of narrow streets crowded with medieval buildings housing small shops and moneylenders. The old empress had hated the Jews, and had done everything in her power to drive them from Vienna. Her son was much more broad-minded, however, and soon after he ascended the throne, he ordered a loosening of the restrictions on Jews. They were now free to worship in their own homes, but they were not allowed to build synagogues or, for that matter, to own land.

  I passed a small group of older men in dark caftans and with long beards, but also saw a few younger men wearing modern clothing. At the end of the street, I entered a small pawnbroker shop. The proprietor, Michael, was deep in discussion with a middle-aged man dressed in a fancy silk suit even more out of style than my own. Several items lay on the counter. Michael looked up and nodded a greeting to me and returned to his customer.

  “I can only give you ten florins for the snuffbox,” he said.

  I put Vogel’s box on the floor and walked around the shop to see Michael’s latest acquisitions. I could not help but overhear the conversation.

  “Only ten? But it is solid gold! It is worth at least a hundred florins!” the customer said.

  “It isn’t solid gold—it is plated,” Michael replied. He pointed to a glass cabinet in the corner of the shop. “Look how many snuffboxes I already have,” he said. “But you are a good customer, so I’ll give you fifteen florins for this one.”

  The customer’s voice grew pleading. “Are you sure you can’t go up a bit more? This is the most valuable thing I have left.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I wish I could. But I cannot.”

  My survey of the items on offer in the shop told me that many of the aristocrats of Vienna were financially overextended. I studied a display of gold saltcellars and inkwells, then moved over to the jewelry section of the shop, where Michael kept a large collection of gemstones in a locked glass cabinet. A few watches sat on top of the glass. I picked up one with a gold case engraved with delicate arabesques. I sighed. I would love to have it to wear with my court suit, but I too was overextended, and if I did not want to dip into my meager savings, I would have to wait until I received payment for the Figaro libretto before I bought myself anything new.

  After a few moments, the customer, realizing that he was not going to cajole Michael into giving him a better deal, gathered up his florins and left the shop.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Signor Abbé,” the pawnbroker called as he carried his purchases into the back room. I placed Vogel’s box on the counter and removed the lid.

  Michael returned, a frown on his face. He waved toward the door. “That one, always arguing with me,” he said. “Every week.”

  “Gambling debts?” I asked.

  “No. He is one of those who lost his pension when the old empress died. He lives off the money I pay him for his family’s collection of baubles.” He peered into the box. “What have we here, signore?” he asked.

  “A small favor, please, Michael. I am in need of your expertise.” His eyebrows rose with curiosity. I removed the muff from the box and laid it on the counter, then brought out the ring and the book. “A friend of mine recently lost his mother. He found these things in her cupboard after she passed away. He would like to know if they are of any value. I thought you could tell him. You are the man to come to for authentication of valuables.” I had known Michael since I had arrived in Vienna, and I knew that an appeal to his pride and professional inquisitiveness would entice him to help me.

  He puffed out his chest. “Yes, well, as you know, Signor Abbé, I have studied on my own for years. Let me see what you have.” He picked up the muff. “How old does your friend believe these are?”

  “About thirty years.”

  He ran his fingers through the fur of the muff, turning it over and over, looking at it carefully. “You must understand, Signor Abbé. I am not an expert on furs and fabrics.”

  I nodded.

  “But I think I can safely say that this muff is of no real value. Most of the ladies’ trappings in that time were made of ermine or white fox. This hair does not feel like either of those to me.” He laid the muff to one side and picked up the ring.

  “My friend believes this might have been a betrothal or wedding ring,” I offered, as I watched him turn the ring in his fingers. “I noticed myself that the jewel is shaped like a heart.”

  He looked up at me and laughed. “Ah, Signor Abbé, you are the sentimental type. This is not a heart. It is just a badly cut piece of glass.”

  “Glass? My friend was certain it was a valuable gem.”

  “No, sir. I don’t even need to use my glass to see the poor quality. Here, have a look. Do you see how cloudy the jewel is? It is not a real gem, it is an imitation. The ring itself—it is brass, not gold. This is nothing but a cheap piece, something you could buy for a few coins from a vendor in the street.”

  I tried to keep my disappointment from my face. “What about the book?” I asked, pushing it toward him. He ran his fingers over the leather cover, then opened it, turned a few pages, closed it, and handed it back to me. “Again, signore, it is of little value. Such books were common at the time—all the ladies had one. This one is an inexpensive version. The leather is too thin, and the stamping on the side is not real gold.” He smiled at me apologetica
lly. “I’m afraid your friend will be disappointed. These things will bring him no money.”

  I sighed as I placed the items back into the box. “He will be sorry to hear that,” I said. “He was hoping to use them to trace the woman who owned them.”

  “That would be a difficult task, Signor Abbé. Those things could have belonged to any number of women. I can tell you this, though. No lady of noble birth would own items of such inferior quality. Most likely they belonged to a shopkeeper’s wife or even a servant girl.”

  I nodded and pressed a coin into his hand. “Yes. Well, thank you anyway, Michael,” I said, taking up the box. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Come back soon, Signor Abbé,” he said, his eyes full of mischief. “I noticed you admiring that watch—shall I set it aside for you?”

  I hesitated, thinking again about how good it would look with my suit. Perhaps I could afford it. After all, I had the Figaro fee coming soon, and I had already agreed to write another libretto for Martín. But I had promised to send my father more money. Two of my young stepbrothers were entering the seminary in the fall, and my father could not afford the tuition without my help. I shook my head. “No, Michael, thank you, but not now. If it is still here in six months, though—” We laughed.

  Disappointment washed over me as I carried the box down the street. I did not look forward to telling Marianne and Vogel that I had already failed in my investigation. If the items in the box had indeed belonged to Vogel’s birth mother, she had not been the aristocrat he had imagined. The best he could hope for was that she had been a servant who had been seduced by a nobleman. But how to trace such a man? As Michael had said, cheap trinkets like those in the box were sold in markets all over Vienna. The box grew heavy in my arms. I shifted it and trudged down the street toward the Graben.

  Three

  That evening, I joined the crowds of well-dressed Viennese milling around outside the Court Theater. The emperor had been twice widowed, and when he ascended the throne, the social life of the court ceased to revolve around the dances and parties his mother had loved, and now centered around the opera. The theater was the place to see and be seen, and most of its patrons were so busy conducting business affairs, flirting, or arguing with one another that they paid little attention to the performance, ceasing their chattering only when the prima donna sang her arias.