She heard the sound of the tail swishing against the flanks, but otherwise the beast didn’t move a muscle. Timidly she stretched out an open hand and placed it on the horse’s muzzle, and with a firm caress reached her cheek, which she scratched vigorously.
Ebony liked this. She stood without moving, enjoying Nannerl’s attentions. From the cheek she moved to the neck, and began scratching Ebony with two hands; she felt the horse grow less tense as her muscles released, and it seemed to her that she even felt the animal’s frightened and hostile thoughts vanish. Fräulein Mozart felt like laughing with joy, so she did, only holding back a little in order not to disturb the horse. Surprised by this unmotivated happiness, she asked herself how many other times in her life she had felt this way: surely her own character had been naturally joyful, and something, some internal weight, had always suffocated it.
“Let’s go outside, Ebony,” she exclaimed, and took her by the halter and ran outside with her. She tied her to the wall with a long cord and told her to stay still and be good, while she brushed her back, picked up her hooves and cleaned out the dirt, oiled them to soften them, and then amused herself by combing Ebony’s tail and her curly mane. Meanwhile she never stopped talking to her, in a way that she never would have to a person, any person.
That night Tresel’s Frittatensuppe seemed to her worthy of the palace of Versailles, and she filled her bowl twice, and would have done so a third time if she had not feared being impolite. She took only a single helping of the boiled meat, but after they were all served she asked politely if she could scrape the bottom of the pot; and when Martin’s lame wife arrived with the apple strudel, she couldn’t even manage a taste because, with her head on the table, a child among the children, she had gently fallen asleep.
IV.
“Do you know how to ride?”
“Not very well,” Nannerl said, squinting into the light at the boy in the saddle of a beautiful horse, its coat truly a glossy black, with reddish highlights. He didn’t belong to Tresel’s family. His attire and his accent said that he was of the well-to-do class.
“I can teach you, if you like,” he proposed.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m good! My father brings me here every summer to practice, and now I can ride any horse, on any sort of terrain.”
“Oh, really? Then you must know that someone who knows how to do something well doesn’t necessarily know how to teach, and vice versa.”
He wasn’t offended, or perhaps he didn’t understand. “Is that your horse?” he asked, observing Ebony, whom Nannerl was leading around by the bridle to stretch her own legs and to make the horse stretch hers.
“Not exactly. Let’s say I take care of her. Come, Ebony, move along. What are you doing just standing there?”
“Her name is Ebony? Ah, then I understand. I know the owner. He got rid of her like a piece of garbage. In my opinion, of the two, he is the real beast,” he declared, jumping down easily from his horse and tying him to a fence post with a lead. Then he joined Nannerl and, observing how meekly the filly followed her, said, “She likes you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know horses. She likes you, and even more, she’d like to take you out. If you want I can teach you to ride her.”
“Ride her? Really? They say that she always shies.”
The boy shrugged. “What does that have to do with it? With someone like her owner, I would shy, too. Come on, let’s saddle her.”
“What? Now?”
“Or when, may I ask? Where can I find a woman’s sidesaddle?”
“I don’t even know if there is one.”
“Of course there is. Martin!” he shouted toward the stable. “Nannerl wants to learn to ride. I need a saddle.”
“You know Martin?” she asked, bewildered and, even more surprised, exclaimed, “And how do you know my name?”
Suddenly the boy was silent. He turned red and assumed the unmistakable look of someone who has been caught out. “After all,” he stammered, “who doesn’t know your name? You’re Mozart’s sister.”
“Oh…I see. And what’s your name?”
“Vincent.”
“And what is your family name?”
“Ma-a-a-rtin!” he shouted even louder. “Please, the saddle!”
Martin was just arriving with a pile of leather and cloths and straps in his powerful arms, and even a stool. “Excellent!” he said. “I need someone to make this filly run for me, otherwise she’ll get fat, and then all she’s good for is the table.” He put everything down beside the fence and went off.
Vincent grabbed the blanket. “First this. The rest I’ll explain as we go along. I would do it for you, but I can’t reach.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“You seem older.”
“That’s what everyone says. Now the lamb’s wool, and then the saddle. Put it like this, with the straps on top, then let them hang down the other side, grab them from beneath, and fasten them tightly around the stomach. Don’t be afraid to pull hard; you won’t hurt her. I don’t know if Ebony is used to being ridden sidesaddle, but we’ll just go at a walk. Now the bridle.”
“So you are not from Sankt Gilgen. Where are you from?”
“Why do you ask?” Vincent demanded with some alarm.
“You said you come here in the summer,” Nannerl said, fastening the chin strap. “During the rest of the year where do you live?”
“Ebony is ready! Perfect! Let’s put the stool here. Now climb up and sit in the saddle,” he ordered, and pushed her next to the horse.
Hesitant, Nannerl put one foot on the stool, and it wobbled. Vincent settled it more firmly. She again put her foot on it, stood motionless for a long moment, observing the horse’s muzzle, then she stepped back and leaned against the fence.
“Are you afraid?” the boy asked, without a hint of mockery.
“It’s not a matter of fear,” she answered bluntly. “But I think that at my age it’s too late to learn new things.”
“Do you want me to mount her and show you how it’s done?” She said nothing, and Vincent approached the horse, who immediately whinnied and moved to one side (since he had skillfully led her to do so). “You see?” he said indifferently. “Ebony wants you, not someone else. You try, and if you don’t like it you can get off, all right?”
Nannerl looked toward the far end of the stable yard. Martin was standing in the doorway of the stable with his hands at his side and an expression of challenge on his sunburned face. Vincent was chewing a blade of grass with affected nonchalance, and even his horse seemed to be betting on the rider’s ineptitude. So, in a flash, she found herself mounted on the filly.
“Brava!” the boy burst out. “Now keep your right leg on top of the horn, and put the left solidly in the stirrup. Take the reins and give a little tap with your heel.”
Ebony didn’t move.
“Another tap, a little harder. She has to understand that you want her to go.”
Nothing: she stood like a rock. Then Vincent hopped over and gave her a good whack on the rear, and she took off at a gallop.
“Pull on the reins! Pull on the reins, Nannerl!” he cried, frightened, while even Martin came running, but she was too occupied with trying to keep her balance to follow their advice. Luckily the gallop wasn’t out of control, so she quickly managed to find her seat. She pulled on the reins, and Ebony slowed down.
The horse settled into a slightly hesitant walk, as if displeased with her indecisive rider and waiting for a new, clearer order. Nannerl tried to perceive her movements and adapt to them, and slowly she moved one hand from the reins and placed it on the horse’s neck, caressing her and whispering gentle words. Martin and Vincent were standing outside the enclosure, holding their breath, giving her orders that she didn’t hear. As Ebony walked in a large circle, Nannerl felt the horse bearing her weight and was sure that she wasn’t offended by it, that, rather, she felt
the presence of the rider as a complement of her own forces, not always necessary but compatible if present. Nannerl swayed at every stride, watchful but not rigid, soft but not completely yielding; and she understood that this graceless horse could help her perceive reality from a different perspective. In fact she was already doing it, for Nannerl had never been so high up and in motion; riding was not like being in a carriage, which she would have had no idea how to guide. Her adherence to the body of the animal became a silent mutual accord, and Ebony was transformed into an extension of her, and she into an extension of the horse.
When she dismounted she was sweaty and her eyes shone; she wanted to take off the saddle and bridle herself, and afterward she brushed the horse and rubbed her down with tripled affection. She led her back to the stall, took leave of her with a long caress, and that night couldn’t close her eyes, excited at the thought of how much she still had to discover, together with Ebony.
V.
With infallible aim, the pebbles hit the hole at the center of the gnarled knot on the trunk. One after another they entered the cavity and disappeared, until the protuberance was filled; then Nannerl cut a small branch from the tall trunk she was perched on and, with it, emptied the hole, and a hail of stones fell on the mantle of leaves covering the ground. Not far off, in the shade of a leafy branch, Ebony seemed to become alert, but Nannerl didn’t pay too much attention. She picked up the slingshot, loaded it, pulled the string, and let it go, and again the pebble sped docilely into the hole. Intently she stuck her hand in the bag to get another, but the horse began to whinny and pull at the lead, so she parted the leaves to see what was agitating her and made out the profile of Vincent approaching on horseback. She secured the slingshot to her belt and slid quickly down the tree. She did not want the boy to view her from below and see her undergarments.
“I came to check your style,” Vincent said with a cheerful expression that made his childish features even more attractive. “Martin is a great trainer of horses but not of riders. In my opinion you need some correction.”
Nannerl didn’t smile, however. She turned her back with a long sigh of annoyance. She untied Ebony and went off with her along the path, on foot.
“Did I disturb you?” Vincent called after her, and when she didn’t answer he followed and joined her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. If you don’t want to ride we can do something else.”
“You are very kind, but it doesn’t seem to me that I asked for your company. I would prefer to be alone.”
“But don’t you get sad always being by yourself?”
She kept going.
“My father and brothers are having a picnic at the lake. Would you like to come and have lunch with us?”
“I can’t,” she said. “If I’m not back, Tresel will worry.”
“I know! So I told her that you would be with us.”
Nannerl pulled the lead and stopped. “What in the world do you want from me?” she burst out. “You should be playing with children your own age, instead of always following me. I’m grateful, believe me, that you taught me to ride, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a friend. And it may be true that you gave me the idea, but otherwise I learned by myself. I don’t owe anyone anything, not even Martin. All he did was give me some advice when I asked him. I don’t need an intrusive little boy around who thinks he can organize my days. Now go away and don’t come back. Do you understand?”
Vincent seemed to crumple in his saddle, while the corners of his mouth curved down, his forehead wrinkled, and his green eyes were hidden under long, thick lashes. He turned and galloped off.
“Wait!” Nannerl shouted, immediately sorry, but he speeded up, and she was left with an intense desire to slap herself. To make a child cry! Perfect! It was the only thing missing from her list. Why did she always realize her mistakes too late? And what was the source of this rage, which always exploded unexpectedly and always against the most unsuitable object?
“Ebony, we have to follow him,” she murmured nervously, but she didn’t know how to get into the saddle; obviously she didn’t have the stool with her, nor was there a fence in sight, nothing that could help her up. She walked as fast as she could, but her pace could not match the horse’s, and their progress was awkward. Suddenly she came upon a crumbling wall on one side of the path; maybe it wasn’t high enough, but it was better than nothing. “Now you have to help me, Ebony,” she said decisively and settled the horse beside the wall. She climbed up, hoisted her skirt, stuck her left foot in the stirrup, and with a great effort managed to lift herself, turning in the air so that she fell heavily onto the saddle. Ebony snorted and staggered, but otherwise didn’t seem to disapprove of the strategy. Vincent was no longer to be seen, nor could the sound of his horse’s hooves be heard; he must have taken the path to the lake.
“Now go!” Nannerl cried, and gave Ebony a heel and the whip, and away they went along the path. She ducked to avoid the branches, in the uncomfortable position required by the sidesaddle, with both legs on the left, and at that moment she wished she were a man so that she could control the horse’s movements properly and ride with greater freedom. At the summit of the little slope that led down to the lakeshore, she stopped abruptly and in the distance saw Vincent amid a small group of people, all men, and as many horses. She straightened her skirt and proceeded cautiously and slowly, and realized that the boy was recounting something to his audience. No doubt he was talking about her and her rude behavior, and yet he wasn’t crying, nor did his attitude seem offended. Three of his listeners were boys, while the fourth, presumably the father, had long blond hair gathered at the nape. Vincent pointed to her and the man turned and rested two magnetic eyes on her, one gray, one blue: it was Baron Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.
VI.
“Welcome, Fräulein Mozart,” Baptist began tranquilly, showing the same irresistible smile of nine years earlier. “Hermann, help her down,” he said to his oldest son, a youth who was an exact copy of him. “We have bread and butter and some Würstchen—just a small snack, I’m afraid, but the wine is good and they tell me that you eat rather sparingly.”
“Who tells you?” Nannerl said, heedless of Hermann’s arms reaching up toward her.
“Tresel, naturally.”
“And how do you know her, may I ask?” she demanded through clenched teeth.
“Sankt Gilgen is only a small village: the sound of a fart echoes from one end to the other even before one has finished producing it.”
The boys giggled, while Nannerl said, sharply, “I didn’t recall, Baron, that your poetic eloquence could reach such heights.”
“You, however, are exactly as I remembered you, Fräulein Mozart: full of enchanting sarcasm.”
“I haven’t missed our skirmishes at all. I have no more desire to compete. And I’ve realized, besides, that showing one’s anger is completely pointless, not to say damaging.”
“You think so? I wouldn’t be so sure of it. In any case your anger never bothered me: it was only a habit, identical in that sense to my couplets. Now will you get down, please, from that nag?”
Nannerl wished with all her heart that Ebony would rear up and shatter that perfect nose; but the damn horse seemed to enjoy the attentions of the baron, who was idly patting her flanks. Should she turn and flee? But where? It seemed to her that she was in the middle of a conspiracy in which all of them, from Tresel to the fair-haired child now observing her with an irritating little smile, were trying to push her into some unclear territory. Alone against this mass of manipulative humanity, she decided to join the game and carefully jumped to the ground.
“Compliments on your dismount. Now, boys, get things ready,” the baron ordered, and pouring her a glass of red wine, he led her to the shade of a beech. “Sip it slowly, not all in one swallow, the way you like to drink: it’s quite strong.”
“What do you know about what I like?”
“Not much, in truth. Lately I’
ve led a somewhat retired life, more often here than in Salzburg, and very seldom in Vienna. The aristocratic world began to bore me. Ah, just for your information: I’m not married.”
“Well, neither am I,” she murmured.
“I did know that. Katharina von Esser told me. Rather, to be precise, she wrote me.”
Nannerl began to regret not having fled.
“Her letter,” the baron continued, “had a triumphant tone. Even the handwriting—full of capital letters, as if it were an ode carved in marble, with a few spelling mistakes here and there, but one can’t ask too much. In essence the countess announced that you, Fräulein Mozart, were again a free woman, and she let it slip that she deserved much of the credit, and proposed that I should court you again. Something that I never did seriously, as you know, and I have no intention of starting now—don’t worry.”
“Then why did you come? Because you feel sorry for me?”
“Should I feel sorry for you? Why?” he asked, widening those unique eyes. “Because of that dark, melancholy expression? On the contrary, you have my most complete approval: you don’t hide behind a frivolous manner but show your feelings in a genuine way. And as far as I can deduce from your complexion, you don’t hide under a parasol, either. And in that, too, you have my total approval.”
“Baron, I would like to know why you looked for me.”
“It wasn’t me. My son Vincent is the sole maker of this delayed meeting. I hope that confession doesn’t offend your self-esteem.”
“I don’t have much left.”
She didn’t utter too many other words. The butter seemed to her rancid, the bread dry, and the Würstchen stringy. She drank three glasses of wine, but that didn’t help her forget herself. She returned home at a walk, slow and sad, with an irritating sense of alienation from Ebony, who was stubborn and wouldn’t go into the stable. Nannerl tied her up outside the stable, then went to her room, fell onto the bed, and stayed there, practically inert, for a week.
Mozart's Sister: A Novel Page 25