by Laura Lebow
I spent some time supervising the sale of copies of the evening’s libretto in the lobby. The performance had already begun when I slipped into my seat in the fifth row on the main floor. As theater poet, I tried to attend every performance, whether I had written the libretto or not, whether the performance was a premiere or a repeat. Tonight’s opera was by Casti and Salieri, a revival of a work that had premiered last year. Since I had heard the opera several times already and did not consider it all that good, I allowed my attention to wander from the stage to the main hall of the theater.
To my right, up on the second tier, boxes reserved for the emperor and his closest advisors were festooned with red and gold bunting. The royal box sat empty tonight, as did its immediate neighbor, that belonging to Joseph’s chancellor, Prince Kaunitz, the second most powerful man in Vienna. A third box belonged to Count Rosenberg. His party was small, just a few friends and the omnipresent Casti, beaming and nodding as his poetry was performed.
I turned my gaze to my left, again to the second tier, where a box close to the stage was reserved for the librettist and composer of the work being performed. Because Casti never left Rosenberg’s side, tonight the box was occupied only by Court Composer Salieri and his wife. I studied Salieri’s suit, which looked to be a three-piece set of dark green wool. From my seat on the main floor, I could just pick out the elegant embroidery—gold thread, I guessed—around the cuffs and collar of the coat. The suit must have cost over eighty florins. Salieri could easily afford it. He had held the well-paid position of court composer for the last seven years. He, his wife, and their five children lived in a large house in the best part of the city, and I had heard that he possessed a wonderful art collection, although I personally had never been invited to see it.
As my eyes wandered over that side of the theater, a flitting movement from the box next to Salieri’s caught my attention. The box was occupied by a young woman dressed in a white gown. She sat stiffly at the front center of the box, alone, toying absently with a fan, staring down, not at the stage, but at a spot near my seat. Despite her direct gaze, I sensed that she was looking at no one in particular, but that instead her eyes were unfocused and her mind was miles away.
Her auburn hair was loosely bound up by a small jeweled tiara, not tightly drawn under a large feathered hat, as was the current style among the ladies. A few tendrils had escaped from the headdress and tumbled to join the white pearl earrings hanging from her lobes. The effect was an aureole of warm spun copper about her small head. Her face was a perfect oval, her neck long and graceful. Yet her skin was deathly pale, its ashy color relieved only by two spots of rouge on her cheeks. She wore an expression of utter melancholy. I wondered who or what had caused her such misery.
Loud applause erupted as the first act came to an end. Everyone around me rose and headed toward the lobby to purchase punch or wine. I remained in my seat, turning to look at the woman again. Her expression was unchanged.
“Lorenzo!” I stood as Mozart approached. “Are you enjoying the performance?” he asked, his eyebrow cocked.
I laughed. “As much as I can,” I replied. I put my hand on his arm. “Wolfgang, look at the woman in the box next to Salieri’s. Do you know her?”
“The one in white? No. I’ve never seen her before,” he said. “Whose box is that? Do you want me to run up and ask the countess? She knows everybody.” Countess Thun was the wife of one of the emperor’s closest advisors, and had been one of Mozart’s patronesses since he came to Vienna from Salzburg.
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not important.” I looked past him. “Where is Constanze tonight?”
“Carl had a little cough, so she wanted to stay with him. She’s heard this opera before. She said once was enough for her!” We both laughed again. Mozart’s eyes narrowed as he looked at someone behind me. “Here comes the court composer,” he said in a low voice.
I turned and gave a slight, automatic bow. “Good evening, Signor Salieri,” I said. Mozart merely nodded at his fellow composer and turned his attention to digging his watch from his coat pocket.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Salieri said. The court composer was actually a year younger than me, but looked older. His lips turned downward, giving him an air of sad experience, and his dark eyes always looked tired and bored. I looked at the suit. I had been right, the embroidery was gold thread. I sighed to myself, thinking how much better than Salieri I would look in that suit.
“How does your work proceed?” he asked.
Mozart looked up from his watch. “Very well,” he said. “We have dress rehearsal in two weeks. I am almost done with the composition. Lorenzo has written a wonderful adaptation of the play,” he added.
Salieri glanced at me and turned back to Mozart. “Yes, I’m sure it will be excellent,” he murmured. “I hope you will have no delays. I am looking forward to hearing it, but as you probably have heard, I am leaving in July for a year in Paris.”
Mozart caught my eye. I frowned. Delays? What did he mean? We were due to premiere in three weeks. By July we should be well into our tenth or twelfth performance.
Salieri hesitated. “May I, as a friend, of course, offer you both some advice?”
Mozart began to fiddle with his watch fob. His face grew red.
“If it were I who was working with such a delicate subject as the Beaumarchais play,” Salieri continued, “I would take pains to include Count Rosenberg in all of my artistic decisions. I’ve found him to have excellent judgment as to what will please the emperor, and—”
“We have already spoken to the emperor about the opera,” Mozart said in a cold voice.
“Yes, yes, of course. You had one interview with him, I believe—”
“Lorenzo!” A familiar voice cried behind me. A moment later I found myself enveloped in a hug from my dearest friend, Vicente Martín. He gave a nod to Mozart and Salieri. “When are we going to meet?” he asked me in his rich Valencian accent.
“Soon,” I said. “A week, maybe two. After that I am all yours.”
“Good! I have a lot of ideas and I’m eager to start writing.” His dark eyes twinkled. “We should go out again soon. You’ve been a hermit. Rosita was asking for you just the other night.” Martín was a bachelor like me. The wife of the Spanish ambassador was his patroness, and he and I had spent many evenings enjoying the charms of her lady’s maids. I had found the raven-haired Rosita to be a nice diversion from the pressures of work.
Martín smiled, nodded at the three of us, and was off to the next group of friends. Salieri looked after him. “An exuberant young man,” he said with a sniff. He turned back to us. “As I was saying, the emperor is fixed in his likes and dislikes. The count can give you valuable guidance as you proceed, so that you will have no problems over the next few weeks. I would hate for you to discover, at the very last moment, that His Majesty has found something in your libretto of which he cannot approve.”
I heard Mozart’s jaw snap shut. His fist clenched around his watch fob. His face was redder than I’d ever seen it. I tried to catch his eye, but he was staring at his watch. I took Salieri by the arm and led him away a few steps. “Please do not worry on our account, Signor Court Composer,” I said. “We have everything under control. We appreciate your advice, though.” I turned to Mozart, whose eyes were bulging. “Don’t we, Wolfgang?” He forced himself to nod.
“Well, all right, then,” Salieri said. “Good. Now I must return to my box for the second act. Good evening, gentlemen.” He turned and headed toward the stairs to the second tier.
Mozart exhaled loudly. “May I? As a friend?” he said, mocking Salieri’s Veronese accent.
I placed my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Let’s make this opera the greatest that Vienna has ever heard. That will shut him up.”
He took a deep breath. “It will, it will.” He turned to go back to his seat. “Oh, Lorenzo, I almost forgot. I have a few more changes for you. I’d like to finish this week. I s
till have that quartet to write for Hoffmeister.” The music publisher ran a popular shop that sold chamber music to the public, to be performed in private salons.
“Yes, and I have to start working on the libretto for Martín. I’ve put him off for a few months already.”
“Good, then come to me tomorrow, anytime.” I watched as his small figure headed to a seat in the back of the theater. The orchestra began to play the opening music of the second act. I settled into my seat, but before I turned my attention to the action on the stage, I looked up to the box next to Salieri’s. The woman in white had disappeared.
* * *
The long day had tired me, but although I went to bed right away, I could not sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, my mind full of the day’s events. Even though Michael had told me the items in Vogel’s box were of no value, I wanted to know more about the woman who had given them away with her newborn son. The ring, book, and muff must have been treasures to her, the only gifts she could give the baby. But why had she given him up?
I turned onto my side and punched my hard pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. My thoughts wandered to the Palais Gabler. What a strange group of people I had met there! Marianne Haiml was beautiful and charming, to be sure, and the music teacher—Piatti, I believe he had said his name was—seemed to be a man of learning and good taste. But that annoying boy, the waspish housekeeper, and that fey chambermaid!
I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to lull myself to sleep. An image of the woman from the theater came to my mind. During the last act of the opera, I had looked up several times to see whether she had returned, but no one had appeared in her box the rest of the evening. I wondered again what or who had caused the sadness I had read on her face.
I turned the pillow over again and pulled the bedsheet over my shoulders. Stop thinking about her. Go to sleep. But I could not help myself. I set free my imagination and envisioned my fingers running through her loose, lustrous curls; my hands caressing her soft, pale face; and my words persuading her lips into a sweet smile. A familiar, joyful yearning spread in my heart, and after a while, I slept.
* * *
My dreams took me back to my childhood, to my neighborhood in Ceneda. I was ten years old, already a leader among the boys of my age, admired for my knowledge and wit. I stood in the middle of a circle of friends and recited a poem I had heard in church and had quickly memorized. As I finished, the boys my own age applauded, and I flushed with pleasure. The local butcher’s son, an older boy with a domineering swagger, approached me and, with a sly grin, held out a book to me, demanding that I read a passage. I demurred, saying that it was someone else’s turn to be the center of attention. He pushed the book into my trembling hands. “Go ahead, read to us,” he said loudly. The younger boys all looked at me expectantly. My mouth grew dry as I looked down at the words, which were unintelligible to me. My heart thumped in my chest. The older boy and his friends began to laugh. They began the familiar chant. Brilliant dunce. Brilliant dunce. The butcher’s son grabbed a heavy stick and began to beat it against the trunk of a nearby tree. Brilliant dunce. Brilliant dunce. I stood red-faced with humiliation as he pounded out the rhythm with the stick, louder and louder.
“Open up,” a voice yelled. I sat up straight in my bed, wide awake but dazed, my heart racing. The room was pitch-black.
“Signor Da Ponte?” I heard the tremulous voice of my landlord. “Are you there? Signor Abbé, please open the door, quickly.” The pounding resumed. I rose from the bed and stumbled through the darkness to the door. As I opened it, a draft of cold air blew into my room. I shivered. My landlord, his nightdress clutched around him for warmth, stood there holding a lantern. Beside him were two men dressed in black uniforms. I peered at them through the dim lamplight. One was short and heavy. He held another lantern. The other man was of medium height, loose-limbed, with a week’s worth of beard on his face. He stepped forward, pushing my landlord aside.
“You are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.
“Please, gentlemen, may we step inside?” my landlord asked. The lantern shook in his hands. “The other tenants—”
The heavy man turned to him. “You may go. Don’t worry, we won’t be here much longer.” The landlord flashed me a look of pity and scurried away.
The tall man pushed me back into my room and stepped in. He grabbed the front of my nightshirt and pulled me so that my face was inches away from his. I gagged at the smell of his breath, a mixture of fermented cabbage and stale beer. “Police,” he said. “Get dressed.”
By now I had recovered my senses. “What is this? What do you want with me?” I asked. He pushed me aside. I stumbled and fell to the floor. My pale, bare legs splayed out from beneath my nightshirt.
My cheeks grew hot with shame as the two officers laughed. “Get dressed,” the heavy one said. “You are coming with us.”
“Where? Why? Where are you taking me?” I sputtered.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
I pulled myself up and hobbled over to my cupboard. My hands quivered as I put on a pair of breeches and a shirt. I pulled on my stockings and shoes. “What do you want with me?” I asked again. “There must be some mistake. You have the wrong person.”
“You are Lorenzo Da Ponte, the theater poet?” the heavy officer asked. I nodded. He put the lantern on my basin cabinet and quickly moved toward me. He grabbed my shoulders, spinning me around. Pain shot through my right elbow as he pulled both of my arms back. His partner pulled a length of cord from his uniform pocket, and together they bound my hands behind my back.
“You are under arrest,” the heavy officer said. He clutched my arm and dragged me to the door. My legs shook violently and my bladder began to fail me. I feared my heart would explode from its pounding.
“Under arrest? That’s not possible! For what?” My voice squeaked. The heavy officer pushed me forward as the other closed the door. They flanked my sides and each took one of my arms. I winced in pain as they pulled me down the hall toward the stairs.
“I demand to know what this is all about!” I cried. “You can’t do this! Under arrest? For what crime?”
We stopped at the top of the stairwell. The tall officer leaned into my face and smiled. My stomach heaved as his foul breath washed over me. I bit my lip to avoid crying out as he squeezed my arm tightly. He laughed and spat the words into my face.
“For murder.”
Four
I stumbled several times as I was pushed down the stairs and into the street. The Graben was dark and deserted. The street lamps had been extinguished hours before; no lights shone from the windows of the apartment buildings. The only sound was the whimpering of a prostitute in an alcove nearby. The wind bit through my thin shirt. I shivered as the officers dragged me to a waiting carriage.
“My cloak—” I said hoarsely.
“Shut up and get in,” the heavy officer said. He opened the door of the carriage and shoved me inside. Pain shot through my shoulder as I fell onto the floor. The carriage sagged as he climbed in after me. He pulled me up and pushed me onto the hard seat. His companion followed and slammed the door. The carriage rolled down the dark street.
“I demand to know what this is about!” I said. My voice shook. “Who is it you think I murdered?” Neither officer answered. I turned my head and looked out the window. The streets were dark, but I knew this route well. We were headed toward the Hofburg Palace.
I hunched my shoulders in an effort to stay warm. A few minutes later we reached the Michaelerplatz. The carriage veered to the right, drove past the theater, and headed around the corner toward the labyrinth of buildings occupied by the empire’s ministerial offices. The carriage entered a courtyard and stopped. The taller officer opened the door and climbed out. His partner pushed me after him. I fell out of the carriage, crying out as my right knee hit a jagged stone on the ground.
“Come on,” the taller officer snarled. My eyes filled with tears as he g
rabbed me by my injured shoulder and pulled me up. I took a deep breath, willing myself to keep control in front of these brutes. Rows of darkened windows stared blankly from the tall buildings that framed the small courtyard. It was empty of carriages and horses, and lit by a single lamp that flickered next to an austere doorway. I did not recognize the place. I had never had any reason to come to this side of the Hofburg.
The two men dragged me through the door and up a set of stairs. My shoulder throbbed with pain every time they lifted me onto another step. The knee of my breeches felt wet where I had hit the stone.
We climbed another set of stairs. The officers stopped at the head of a long hallway lined with silent, closed doors. Candles in sconces on the barren walls created sporadic pools of light on the corridor floor; the rest of the lengthy passage lay in darkness. I shivered, this time from fear instead of cold. My imagination ran wild. I could easily disappear into one of these dark rooms, never to see daylight again.
“Which one?” the taller officer asked his companion.
“Two twenty, he said,” the heavy officer answered. He grunted as he grabbed me again and dragged me down the hall. My right arm throbbed. We turned a corner and continued down another long, dark passage. Just when I believed that I could no longer keep from screaming from the pain, my captors stopped before a door. One of them fumbled with the cord that bound my arms, and a moment later I was free. I groaned as I pulled my arms forward. They were both numb. The taller man rapped on the door, opened it, and pushed me in.
“The poet, sir,” he said. I grabbed at the knob of the door to avoid falling. I regained my balance and looked up. The room was dark except for a single candle set on a desk directly in front of me. A man sat behind the desk, a sheaf of documents piled in front of him. He looked me up and down and nodded to the officers. “You may go,” he said. The heavy one gave me a final shove and closed the door.