by Laura Lebow
“But there is still hope,” Vogel said. “This Maulbertsch fellow might find the convent records.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Did your adoptive mother ever mention anything about that convent? About anyone with the initials ‘K.S.’?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t remember anything like that. To tell the truth, she was not very religious. Of course, she made me go to church, but we never talked much about it at home.”
I sighed. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” I said. “I told you at the beginning that this might be an impossible task.”
“I know, signore. But hope is all I have right now.”
“I will keep trying, then.”
A guard poked his head in the door. “Visiting hours are over,” he said.
I rose from the bed. “I’ll wait for you outside,” I told Marianne. Vogel pumped my hand.
“Thank you, Signor Abbé,” he said. “Once you get me out of here, I promise you free shaves for life.”
“I will do my best,” I said. I stepped into the corridor. When I turned around, I saw Vogel and Marianne deep in an embrace. A pang of longing stabbed me. As I watched, Marianne pulled herself away and drew a small purse from her pocket. “Here are my wages,” she said. “Have the guard bring you dinner from outside.”
Vogel’s face reddened. Tears filled his eyes. “No, love, I cannot take your money. I am fine, don’t worry about me.” She pushed the purse at him. He took it, threw it on the bed, and enveloped her in his arms. They clung to each other, whispering.
I looked away. The guard gestured to me. “We must go, Miss Haiml,” I said. She nodded, pulled out her handkerchief, and gently dabbed Vogel’s eyes. He took it from her, then let her go. As she passed before me into the corridor, I saw him sit down on the bed, clutching the handkerchief, his normally cheerful countenance a picture of forlornness.
* * *
Marianne was quiet on the ride back to the city, staring out the window of the carriage, chewing on her lip. As the cab rumbled toward the Palais Gabler, I reached over and squeezed her hand. “He’ll be all right,” I said.
She turned to me, tears in her eyes. “Do you really think so, Signor Abbé?” She balled her fists. “He has so much pride. That’s what I fear. You must have seen how he didn’t want to take my money. But I can’t stand the idea of him eating the slop they serve in that place. I’m afraid that if he has to spend a whole year in there, it will wear him down.”
“He’ll be fine, whatever happens,” I replied. “Why, he’s already started a business in prison! He knows how to land on his feet.” My words brought a small smile to her face. “And I give you my pledge that I will do everything in my power to get him out of there. Johann is right. We will find the convent’s records. If I have to spend days going through them looking for this ‘K.S.,’ I will. In return, I expect to be invited to dance at your wedding!”
Her smile widened. “Oh, Signor Abbé, please forgive me. If I haven’t seemed welcoming to you, or grateful for helping us, it is because I’ve been wrapped up in my own problems.”
“There’s no need for apologies.” I looked at her closely. “But if I may, Miss Haiml—Marianne?”
She nodded.
“Is there something else bothering you, besides Johann’s imprisonment?”
She lowered her eyes and shook her head.
“My dear, is it the murder? You must be frightened. I know I don’t sleep well myself in that house. And Johann is afraid for your safety.”
She turned her attention to the scene outside the window. The cab had passed by the Scottish church just inside the city wall. We would reach the palais in a few moments. “He has no need to worry about me,” she murmured.
Icy fingers gripped my heart. My suspicions were confirmed. The two women trusted one another—the mistress knew that her servant would not reveal her as the murderer of Florian Auerstein, and the lady’s maid knew that her mistress would not harm her because of her knowledge. I hated Caroline for involving this innocent girl in her crime. I grabbed Marianne’s arm and turned her toward me. “Do you know something about the murder?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I know nothing.”
“I know you are torn, Marianne, but your loyalty is misplaced. You must look after your own interests, yours and Johann’s. You cannot go on protecting a killer.”
The cab turned into the courtyard of the palais and pulled up at the front door. Marianne pulled away from me and descended onto the stones. As she ran toward the door, it opened. “Oh, Marianne, good morning!” Tomaso Piatti said. He looked over to where I stood paying the driver. “An outing on the Prater?” he asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” Marianne snapped. “I have no time for rides around the park. Signor Da Ponte kindly took me out to visit Johann.”
Piatti frowned. “Oh, forgive me, I forgot all about him. How is he doing?” He nodded at me as I joined them at the door.
“As well as can be expected, sir. Please excuse me. The baroness must need me.” She turned to enter the house.
“Wait, Marianne,” I said, grasping her by the elbow. I leaned in and murmured, “Think about what I said. You must go to the police.”
She shook loose from my grasp. “I will think about it, signore. Thank you again for coming with me.” She turned and fled into the house.
“What was that all about?” Piatti asked.
“Just some problems with Vogel.” I shrugged.
“I thought I heard you mention the police.”
My mind moved quickly. “Vogel is running a little barbershop in the prison. He has some clients who refuse to pay him.”
The music teacher laughed. “Well, what can he expect? He is in debtor’s prison, for God’s sake!”
I shook my head and laughed too. “I know, I know.” I moved toward the door.
“Do you have time for dinner, Lorenzo? I’ve read the portions of the libretto you gave me. I’d love to discuss them with you.”
I made a show of pulling out my watch. “Perhaps tomorrow, Tomaso. I have an important appointment at the theater this afternoon.” We said our good-byes. I hurried into the house and up the stairs to my room.
* * *
A message addressed to me sat on the desk. I quickly broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It was from Maulbertsch.
I have found something of interest. Come Thursday morning.
I washed the dust from my face and pulled on my best coat. On the way to the theater, I stopped and had a quick dinner. I worked a bit in my office until three, then went up to see Rosenberg. His secretary was apologetic: the count had gone out on a personal errand; he was due back at any moment; no, the theater poet should not return later; if he would just take a seat—
I sat for fifty minutes before the corridor door opened and the count entered, followed by a boy carrying a large crate. “Oh, Da Ponte, come in,” he said to me. I followed him into his office. Three times the size of my own windowless precinct in the theater basement, the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk set next to a row of tall windows overlooking the Michaelerplatz. On the left wall, a large painting of an elaborate hunt scene hung over an ornate marble mantelpiece. The blazing fire warmed the entire room, a feat that I could not attribute to the wheezy stove that purported to heat my own workspace.
“Put that down there,” Rosenberg told the boy, pointing to a small table to my right. “Can you get it out of the box? Quickly, we don’t have much time!”
The boy opened the crate and slowly lifted out its contents. “Careful, careful!” Rosenberg bustled over to the table to supervise. “Da Ponte, come have a look. I’ve been after Deym to sell me one of these for years.”
Rosenberg’s prize was a large gold clock. He waved the boy away. “You may go. Take the crate, if you would.” The boy waited a moment, then realizing that the highest nobility did not deign to tip, seized the crate and left.
Rosenberg consulted his pocket watch and b
egan to wind the clock. “We just have a minute,” he said.
The clock stood about two feet high, its base just as wide. Along the base were several openings covered in fine grillwork. The clock face was made of mother-of-pearl, and sat atop the base, surrounded by small golden nymphs who pointed delicately toward the timepiece. I opened my mouth to ask what made the clock so special.
Rosenberg held up his hand to hush me. The clock hand hit the hour, and instead of sounding a chime or a gong, began to play a breezy tune.
“Haydn,” Rosenberg said.
We stood while the machine went through its little song. It sounded as if an orchestra of tiny cherubs was playing flutes inside of the clock.
“There’s a small flute organ built inside the barrel,” Rosenberg explained. “That’s why they are so rare and expensive. Deym collects them for his gallery. It took me a long time to convince him to sell one to me.”
“It’s charming, Excellency,” I said.
“Yes, I’ll enjoy having it. Oh, by the way, let me congratulate you on the premiere last night.”
“Thank you, Excellency.” I rarely heard praise from the count.
He looked at me slyly. “Yes, it was quite the hit. Kelly was brilliant. His imitation of you was perfect.”
I clenched my teeth. Silly of me to think that this man would offer me genuine praise.
“Now, about your opera with Mozart—I’ve had some disturbing news about it.”
“Really, Excellency? What kind of news?” My heart began to beat faster.
“I’ve been told your libretto contains a ballet. Is this true?”
“Yes, Excellency. It does. At the end of the third act, during the wedding scene, Mozart and I decided to insert a pantomime. All of the characters dance while the maid hands the note to her lascivious master. Mozart has written a wonderful fandango to accompany the scene.”
He frowned. “But Da Ponte, how could you write such a scene?”
“I don’t understand—”
“You of all people, the theater poet—you should have known better!”
My pulse raced. “I’m sorry, Excellency. I don’t understand. What is it that I should have known?”
“The emperor does not wish to have ballets performed in his operas. He hates that French style. I believe I made that clear to you last year, when His Majesty informed me of his desires.”
I shook my head. “I do not remember—”
“That is why there are no dancers in the opera company!”
My cheeks were hot. “But, Excellency, our ballet is not in the French style. It is not dancing for dancing’s sake, there is a dramatic purpose to it. It is a wedding celebration. People always dance at weddings. And the scene is very short, just a few minutes long.”
He sighed. “I see. Yes. I see your point.”
I let out a deep breath.
“Did you bring the libretto? Let me see the scene.”
I flipped through the pages of my libretto, pulled out the relevant sheet, and handed it to him. “Here, Excellency, this is the scene. You can see how short it is, just a few spoken lines. Mozart’s music is brief, also. It is a charming scene. I believe you’ll agree when you see the dress rehearsal on Saturday.”
He studied the page, then walked over to the fireplace. “Yes, I see,” he said. He threw the paper onto the blazing fire.
“Excellency, what are you doing?” I cried.
My heart was pounding, and I knew my face was turning purple. He gave me a small, satisfied smile. “That will be all, Signor Poet,” he said, waving me toward the door. “Tell Mozart to cut the music from his score.”
Nineteen
My stomach was still churning an hour later as I sat in the library at the Palais Gabler, idly flipping through the baron’s copy of Dante’s Inferno. That philistine Rosenberg! Although I had initially been skeptical when Mozart had proposed the pantomime, I had come to see that he was right, the scene did enhance the dramatic pace of the opera. I had lied to the count when I said I did not remember that the emperor did not want ballets in his operas. He himself had told me how tiresome he found the long dances that broke up the action in the French operas, many of which had nothing to do with the plot of the opera. But I also knew that my Caesar was open to new ideas, and I suspected that he would appreciate what Mozart and I had done once he had seen it.
I looked over to the windows. Dusk was falling. Casti’s fingers were all over this, I was certain. We had dress rehearsal in less than seventy-two hours. It would be difficult to rewrite the scene, set it to music, and coach the singers and orchestra in the new material before then. Rosenberg would run to the emperor, complaining that due to my negligence, the opera could not possibly be ready for the scheduled opening.
I crossed over to the fireplace and stoked the fire. Who had told Rosenberg that Mozart and I had put a ballet in the scene? Had it been Thorwart, the jittery assistant theater manager? He had never seemed close to Rosenberg. I thought back to the last rehearsal, to the singers’ complaints about the new scene. I remembered the Mandinis and Bussanis laughing at me behind my back, and Francesco Bussani’s dark scowls. The bass and his wife were part of Casti’s clique.
I felt a headache coming on. Why did they all hate me so? Why could I not work in peace, write my operas, enjoy some success? I was tired of all the intrigues. I wanted to go home to Venice. The little Harlequin figurine gazed at me sympathetically. I shook my head. Enough self-pity, I told myself. I could hold my own with the backstabbers if I had to. But I did not relish telling Mozart about Rosenberg’s decree.
I turned my attention to the book. I had read the first two cantos when the door opened. “Oh, Da Ponte, I didn’t know anyone was here,” Baron Gabler said. He wore a satin dressing gown, his long hair loose. One hand held a half-full bottle of brandy, the other a glass.
I jumped to my feet and bowed. “I was just enjoying your collection, Excellency,” I said. I closed the Dante and returned it to its place on the shelf. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He waved the bottle at me. “No, stay. Have a drink with me.” He motioned toward the cabinet on the far side of the room. “There are glasses in there.”
I nodded my thanks and got a glass. His hands shook as he poured the brandy. He sprawled on the sofa.
“It’s French, not that Hungarian swill,” he said. “One of the advantages of knowing Prince Kaunitz.”
I took a sip. The amber liquid trickled down my throat, its warmth bringing its usual false sense of well-being.
“How is your investigation?” he asked. His voice was slurred. “Have you learned anything?”
“Not much, I’m afraid, sir. I’ve observed every member of the household, and have a lot of questions, but it’s difficult to get them to confide in me.”
He laughed. “I expected as much! I knew this was a bad idea. If there is a spy in this house—and mind you, I don’t really believe it—it would take a professional to root him out. The emperor just wants to save money, that’s all. He thinks that using men such as you will get the job done at a lower cost than creating a special police force.” He shook his head.
“But the murder—”
“I told you before, that must have been an accident. The boy was dancing around, he tripped and fell.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “This whole mess is a plot to discredit me,” he muttered.
We sat silently for a moment—I sipped the brandy, he stared into his glass. He reached over and grabbed the bottle, sloshed more liquid into the glass, and slammed the bottle down on the table. “Damn, you don’t know how lucky you are, Da Ponte!”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You don’t have to bow and scrape to these arrogant old families every day in order to keep everything you’ve earned,” he said.
I opened my mouth to correct his misconceptions about the job of theater poet, then shut it.
“Esterházy! That old ass! He’s so high-and-mighty. I can advise the emperor, I am talented
enough to be named the next ambassador to the Court of St. Petersburg, but I am not good enough to step inside his damned palace! My father made the arms that let us win the war, that protected that asshole’s lands, but I am not considered noble enough to warrant a dinner invitation!”
I nodded sympathetically.
The baron stared into his brandy snifter. “It’s all her fault,” he muttered. I sat up straight.
“Have you ever been married, Da Ponte?”
“No, Excellency. I have not had the good fortune,” I said. “I am a priest—”
He laughed. “That’s a nice excuse to keep them from expecting marriage,” he said. He raised his eyebrows. “There have been plenty of women willing to distract you from the church, I’ll bet.”
I said nothing.
“You are smart. Just love them and leave them.” He shook his head. “I should never have married Caroline. She’s common. She does nothing to help my career. I’d be welcomed everywhere if it weren’t for her.”
Bile rose in my throat as I recalled Caroline’s tale of having to withstand the Auerstein boy’s advances. “A beautiful woman like the baroness could only be an asset to you, sir,” I said tightly.
“So she’s seduced you too,” he said, his voice mocking.
My pulse began to race. Could he read my feelings on my face?
“When I think of her when we first met—she was like a bitch in heat. We spent hours in bed.”
My cheeks grew hot. I wished I could get up and walk out the door.
“But then I made the mistake of marrying her. Now it is all about love, love, love. True, she goes along with anything I want, but damn, can’t a man want a little variety in his life? I want the excitement of the chase. You disapprove?”
“I’m in no position to judge you, Excellency,” I said coldly.
“So I find my excitement elsewhere. Now she is locking her door against me!”
I stood. “Please, sir, I don’t want to hear this.”
“Why not? We are just two men talking.” He peered at me. “What is it? You know something. Has she confided in you? Has she taken a lover? Or have you had her yourself?”