by Laura Lebow
“Da Ponte!” a voice called. I tried to keep my shoulders from sagging. I recognized the voice. It was one I could not possibly ignore. I stopped and watched as Ecker hurried out of the plaza and headed down the street past the Spanish Riding School stables.
* * *
I turned and dropped to my knees before a nondescript man in his forties, of average height and weight, his countenance engaging only because of his lively, cornflower-blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple brown coat and breeches, such as a merchant might wear to survey his warehouse. I took his hands in mine and kissed them.
“Get up, Da Ponte, get up,” the emperor said, pulling me to my feet. “Why do you Italians always insist on kissing my hands? You know I hate that.”
I blushed. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” I said. “I was surprised to hear you call me, and my emotions got the better of me.” I looked past the emperor. A single servant stood a few feet behind him, watching us, but beyond that, as was his preference, there were none of the trappings of his great office: no gilded carriage, no retinue of fawning nobles, no satin-clad lackeys.
“Apology accepted,” he said. “I’m glad I ran into you. Tell me, how goes the opera?”
“Very well, sir. Mozart and I are putting the finishing touches on it, and we are in rehearsals, as you probably have heard.” The emperor was a passionate opera fan, and consulted with Rosenberg about many of the details of his theater’s operation. I will never forget that it was he who hired me, a poet who had never written a libretto; he who had overruled the theater director when my first opera with Salieri failed; he who had given me a second chance.
The emperor dug into his coat pocket and brought out two chocolate drops. He popped one into his mouth. “How are you finding working with Mozart?”
I eyed the other chocolate drop. My stomach growled a bit, reminding me that I had only picked at my dinner. “I’m enjoying it very much, sir. Of course, I’ve had to write many more ensemble pieces than in the usual comic opera, but we both are pleased with our work. It will not be the shortest opera ever performed in your theater, but I think you will find it one of the best.”
He laughed. “Good. But I hope you haven’t cut all the bite out of the play. We will still tweak the noses of my princes, eh? Now, what’s next for you? Something for the Spaniard, Martín, correct?” He bit into the second chocolate.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Another comedy.”
“Good, I’m glad you are busy.” He clapped me on the shoulder.
I hesitated and bit my lip, debating whether I should confide my predicament with Pergen to him.
He peered into my face. “What is it, Da Ponte? Some problem with the Spaniard? Is he difficult to work with?”
“Oh no, Your Majesty. Nothing like that. He is my good friend, we work well together. It is just—”
“Just what? Tell me, man!”
“I haven’t had much time to work on the opera for Martín. There have been certain distractions. I—I have found myself in a difficult situation.”
He looked at me, his eyes full of concern. The words tumbled from my mouth. “Oh, Your Majesty. I have been framed for murder.” To my horror, I began to weep. “I innocently went to a noble house and spoke with a boy. He was murdered that same afternoon. Now the police have forced me to investigate for them, to live in the house to find the murderer. They told me I came highly recommended to them, probably by my enemies at the theater, I believe. They have threatened that I will hang for the crime if I cannot solve it. I am filled with fear, sir. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot work.”
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. “Come, Da Ponte, stop blubbering.” I wiped my eyes. “This is the Auerstein boy’s murder, I presume?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “I shall have to speak with Pergen. He’s gone too far.”
My heart leaped with joy. I chided myself—I should have gone to the emperor as soon as Pergen released me. I should have known that he would help me.
“Threatening you with hanging. That is a bit heavy-handed. I told him that I wanted simply to get you into the Gabler house. He needn’t have frightened you so.”
I stared at him. “I don’t understand, Your Majesty,” I said slowly. “You wanted me in the house?”
“Yes. Pergen came to me six months ago, telling me that he suspected Frederick had placed a spy in the Gabler house, asking for an increase in his budget so he could hire someone to go undercover. I was occupied with the Dutch treaty, so I put him off. When the boy was murdered, I realized it was the perfect time to put someone in there. I wanted someone intelligent and observant, someone I could trust, to find out what was going on. I immediately thought of you.”
“But Your Majesty, I have no experience. I am no police professional.”
“That is just what Pergen argued. No, Da Ponte, you are the one I want in that house.”
I swallowed and nodded at him.
He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “I need you to do this for me, Lorenzo,” he said. “The security of my throne depends on you.”
“I am humbled by your confidence in me, Your Majesty,” I said.
“Well then. I look forward to hearing the opera. Try to get some work done for Martín.”
“I will, Your Majesty.”
He turned and walked away, followed by the manservant. I watched as he made his way through the plaza, stopping now and then to give a coin to a child or to converse easily with a passerby. A moment later, he disappeared under the arch that led to the Hofburg courtyard.
* * *
I turned and walked down the street that hugged the side of the Hofburg, my thoughts in such a whirl that I barely noticed the gate through which the police had taken me that fateful night. So Pergen’s threats had been hollow, just meant to frighten me. I trusted the emperor. I knew he would look after me. I clutched my stick tightly and hurried toward the Palais Gabler, my sense of purpose renewed. My Caesar needed me to solve this case. I vowed to do it for him.
I reached the Minoritenplatz and walked past the long cloister that clung to the left side of the old church. The afternoon had grown late, and the interior of the covered archway was dark with shadows as I passed by.
“Signor Da Ponte? Is that you?”
I stopped and looked around the plaza. It had emptied since I had been here earlier.
“Signor Poet?” The voice came from inside the cloister.
“Yes, who is there?” I asked. I walked through one of the tall arches into the shadows. A hand grabbed my arm. My stick clattered to the ground.
“Who is there?” I cried. My arms were pulled behind me. Pain shot through my injured shoulder. “What do you want?” My knees shook as I waited to feel grubby hands groping my clothing, searching for the small purse in which I carried my coins.
A sharp object pressed into my back. A guttural voice sounded in my ear. “You are sticking your nose where it does not belong, signore.” I retched at the smell of rotten meat on his breath. “Stop it, or you will be sorry.”
“Who are you?” I shouted.
My assailant twisted my arms tightly against my back. I winced with pain.
“Be quiet!” he hissed. “You know what I am talking about. Mind your own business.” He grunted. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve always wanted to kill a Jew.”
I twisted and struggled to release myself from his grasp. “You have the wrong person! I am a priest.” He laughed and threw me to the ground. I lay hugging the cool stones, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, listening to his footsteps recede.
* * *
I lay still for a few minutes, until my heartbeat had slowed, then pulled myself up gingerly. My shoulder throbbed and I had a large scrape on my hand, but otherwise I was unhurt. I picked up my stick and hobbled down the street toward the Palais Gabler, my mind filled with worry. My attacker’s accent had been northern. Had the spy discovered my true purpose at the palais and sent him to frighten m
e off the case? Why had my assailant called me a Jew?
The palais was dim and quiet. The baron and baroness must be out at some soirée, the others out or in their rooms. I sighed as I trudged up the stairs. The day seemed interminable. I was exhausted. As I reached the first-floor landing, the library beckoned. One of the baron’s fine volumes of poetry, the comfort of the stuffed chair in my room—an evening of reading was what I needed. Work could wait until tomorrow.
As I stopped before the library door and began to turn the knob, I heard a noise: high, sharp, a grunt, perhaps of frustration. I looked down the hall. The baron’s office door stood ajar. A dim light emanated from the room.
I quietly placed my stick on the floor and crept down the hallway, hugging the wall. The noise sounded again. I stopped about a foot from the doorway, and listened. I heard a shuffling sound, as if someone were searching through papers. I inched closer to the door. Did I dare stick my head into the opening? I slowly moved forward.
Another sound, this time a drawer opening and closing. I pulled my head back. My pulse began to race. I moved forward again, craning my head around the door frame. A tickle caught in my throat. I fought back the urge to cough.
The sharp grunt sounded again. I glanced into the room. It was dark, except for a single candle sitting on the baron’s desk. Even in the dim light, I recognized the figure that leaned over the desk, systematically searching through the piles of paper that covered its surface. I drew my head back and quietly crept back to the landing.
I hurried up to my room, my reading project forgotten. I removed my coat, lit a candle, and sat in the reading chair, puzzled. Rosa Hahn, the spy? True, I had briefly considered her, wondering where she had gotten the money to lend to Vogel, remembering her disdain for the emperor’s religious reforms. But had she murdered Florian Auerstein? Who was the man who had just threatened me? Had she sent him? Or did she merely work for a larger organization? My mind was in a muddle. I took the candle over to the writing table and sat down, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward me. I needed to write down some thoughts, clear my head. As I pushed Vogel’s box to the side, I noticed its lid was ajar. Seeing it reminded me that I should put the medallion in my satchel. I rooted through the box. Hadn’t I put the medallion back? When had I last had it? Yes, after Troger had accosted me in the Am Hof, I had come up here, in a hurry to get to Caroline. I had taken the medallion out of my pocket and placed it on the desk. Perhaps the girl had put it somewhere for safekeeping.
It was not on the table by the chair, or on the bed. I went over to the cupboard and searched through the pockets of my clothes. I pulled out my valise and opened it. Empty. Damn, where was it? I returned to the desk, took the muff, ring, and book out of the box, and turned it upside down. No medallion. I grabbed the large pile of work on the desk and looked through it. My Petrarch. Notes from the last lesson with Caroline. A few sheets of paper with my scribbled outline of the libretto for Martín. No medallion. Some drafts of the pantomime scene for Figaro. A small notebook, tied with a ribbon. I paused. Where had I gotten that? I threw it aside. An old receipt for silk stockings. No medallion. I slammed my palm on the desk. Why hadn’t I taken the time to put it away before I went to Caroline?
My eyes fell on the notebook. I never use such little ones. As I picked it up, a memory came to me. I carried the notebook over to the chair, untied the ribbon, and began to read.
PART III
The Ungrateful Heart
Fifteen
Monday morning was bright and chilly. I wrapped my cloak tightly about me as I walked over to the Hofburg. The large courtyard of the old castle, which housed the imperial departments, was filled with bureaucrats hurrying toward their offices. The sun gleamed off the rows of windows lining the long quadrangle.
I entered the door at the center of the southwest wing and stopped to ask directions of the passersby in the long corridors—most of them clerks scurrying from door to door, carrying piles of documents to and fro between offices. After a few wrong turns, I finally stumbled upon my destination.
The room, well lit by the sun streaming through leaded windows along its rear wall, was as large as the parterre of the theater, its expanse partitioned only by a waist-high wooden wall that ran the entire width of the room about eight feet from the doorway. Behind the wall were arrayed ten rows of six desks apiece. Each desk was occupied by a young man in a dark suit. Some were bent over their labor, while others conversed with their neighbors.
I approached a large desk on my right, where a middle-aged clerk was sorting a large stack of papers. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He did not look up from his task. I crossed my arms. He continued to riffle through the pile. I coughed. No response. He came to the end of the stack, pushed some wayward sheets into place, and rapped the bundle against the desk.
“Excuse me, I am looking for—”
“Just one moment,” he said, his eyes fixed on the papers. He licked his index finger and began to flip through the pages once more. I exhaled loudly. His fingers moved through the sheaf of documents. When he was halfway through the pile, he paused and peered at a page. “Humph.”
My pulse quickened. “I just need a moment of your time—”
His eyes did not leave the document. After another moment, he sighed, put down the papers, reached over, and took up another packet.
“I am looking for—”
“Just another moment,” he said. He began to read the top page of the new bundle. My cheeks grew hot. I wanted to reach over, grab him by the neck, and choke the pittance of information I required out of his officious little mouth. I took a deep breath to calm my temper and looked around the room. Many of the young men had left their desks. Some flitted through large doors at either side of the office, others had congregated around a few of the farthermost desks and, as evidenced by the laughter coming from the area, seemed to be sharing the latest gossip and jokes.
After what seemed to be another five minutes of study of the same document, the clerk finally looked up at me. “Who is it you wish to see?” he asked.
“Rupert Maulbertsch.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. You can tell him Alois Bayer referred me to him.”
The clerk sniffed. “I’m afraid without an appointment—”
I leaned across the desk, hovering over him. To my satisfaction, he shrank back a little. “Would you please tell Mr. Maulbertsch that Lorenzo Da Ponte, the theater poet, would like to see him on an important matter?”
He stood. “I’ll check for you, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll have time for you.”
“Thank you,” I muttered through clenched teeth. I watched as he ambled down a long corridor. The twit! Next time I’ll use the emperor’s name. I rubbed my left temple.
A few moments later, a tall, lanky man came down the passage toward me. “Signor Da Ponte?” he asked. “I am Rupert Maulbertsch.” I shook his hand. His bright blue eyes protruded from a perfectly egg-shaped head, on which a wig was perched askew. “You are a friend of Alois’s? How can I help you?” He gestured down the corridor. “Come, let us talk in my office.”
He ushered me into a small, low-ceilinged room lined with tall cabinets on all four walls. The sole window was blocked by the height of the furniture. A large desk, on which sat a solitary lamp and a large volume bound in dark sheepskin, took up most of the remaining space in the dim office.
Maulbertsch indicated a chair and took a seat behind the desk. “How is Alois?” he asked. “I owe him a visit.”
“He is well, busy with his books, as usual,” I said. “He recommended that I speak to you about an investigation I am conducting.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I am trying to help a friend find his birth mother,” I said. I explained about the muff and the medallion. “Alois identified it as one given to the novices of the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin. He said you might know how to trace the medallion’s owner.”
&nb
sp; “Oh yes, the sisters. I remember that convent well. Small, only about ten sisters left at the time of the dissolution, I think. Most of them were elderly.” He sighed. “It was a difficult process, dissolving that convent. I remember the old abbess, she was very upset that we decided to shut them down. But it was necessary. The emperor was determined to close all the monastic houses that served no purpose to society. Those nuns spent most of their time in contemplation. That did nothing to help the people of the empire.”
“I understand that they ran a hospital for young women who had gone astray,” I said.
“A minor activity, I assure you. Many years ago, they were known for their nursing, but that declined as the nuns grew older. And the emperor had just built the new hospital, which would have taken over the maternity ward anyway. The sisters were given a choice, but they did not want to teach in the schools or work in the new hospital as nurses. We needed to sell their building and treasury to fund the emperor’s new public health programs. Those nuns wanted the emperor to forgo that money so they could live out their lives in that old convent.” He shook his head. “I’m sure they are all better off wherever they landed, these years later.”
“The Abbess Elisabeth is dead,” I murmured.
“Is she? Oh, that is too bad. Well, she was quite old, as I recall. Now, tell me about this medallion. May I see it?”
I shook my head, but did not offer the information that I had lost it. I described it.
“The initials ‘K.S.,’ you say?” He thought for a moment. “If the medallion belonged to one of the nuns or novices, we should be able to match those initials with the records we took from the convent.” He looked around the room at the cabinets. “That might narrow your search a bit.”
Excitement rushed through me. “That would be of great help. Do you have those records here?”
“Most of them were kept by the junior minister who ran the dissolution project, but I have a few of them here. I’ll look around for you. It may take a few days, though.” He paused. “Do you believe that the owner of this medallion is your friend’s birth mother?” he asked.