Teresa stared at her. “But some of my…some of the people I’ve…” She couldn’t bring the word to her lips. She said at last, lamely, “It can’t be true. I can’t be the only one.”
The Countess brought her eyes, hooded and blank now, back to Teresa’s face. She didn’t answer. She opened her string bag without looking at it, slid the diary into it, and pulled the strings tight. She said, “I look forward to the memorial concert.” She turned and walked away, out through the doors of the theater, neither speaking a word of farewell nor glancing back.
Teresa stood where she was, alone. She would never, she decided, tell Zdenka Milosch how she had tried to save Mozart. She would never tell her anything again.
She turned and went in search of the direttore, to find out what she was to sing for the concert. Like La Società, what she had left to her was music. And she would not let Zdenka Milosch, or anyone, take it from her.
29
Crudele! Se sapeste quante lagrime e quanti sospir voi mi costaste!
Cruel one! If you only knew the tears and
sighs you have cost me!
—Donna Elvira, Act Two, Scene One, Don Giovanni
The wolf stretched, exulting in the flex of its spine, the fluid sensation in the bend of its ankles and hocks, the broad toughness of its paws. Moonlight flooded its reflective retinas, and it turned its narrow head to escape it. It blinked as it circled.
The air was stale, and far too hot for its double layer of fur. The smells were maddening to its keen olfactory sense, and the mechanical clicking and whirring seeping through the walls irritated its nerves. It paced back and forth, long claws clicking, the fleshy pads of its paws slipping on the hard surface. It snarled and slavered, wheeling around the cramped space as it sought a way out.
It rose on its hind legs to put its front paws on the windowsill, squinting against the brilliant moonlight. Its nostrils quivered, yearning toward the cooling scents of pine and fir that meant there was forest nearby. It whuffed against the glass, pushing with its nose, then dropped back to all fours to circle the room again. It snuffled at the jointure of floor and wall and scrabbled at the door with its claws, where air blew lightly through a narrow gap. Nothing offered as much promise as the thin glass.
The wolf went back to the window and pawed at it. The panel gave a little, like a thin sheet of ice on a mountain pond. The pad of the wolf’s foot squeaked against the surface, first sliding, then finding traction. The wolf stepped its hind feet closer to the wall so it could thrust both front feet against the window. It growled and whined, eager to be free. It fell back to the floor, gathered itself, then made a great leap, its forelegs bending on impact so that its snout banged against the glass.
The glass cracked. The tantalizing smell of the mountains intensified as fresh air seeped through the break.
The wolf fell back. It turned to the pile of clothing left on the floor. Instinct prompted it to seize a random piece in its jaws, to carry that familiar scent. The scent that clung to that clothing meant something. The wolf could not have reasoned what that was, but it felt right to keep it.
With the fabric secure between its teeth, the wolf crouched low. With one great bound, springing on its powerful hindquarters, it threw the entire weight of its long body at the window.
The pane exploded in a splatter of glass. The wolf dropped to the floor once more, whining, licking its chops. Then, in a fluid movement, it jumped a third time. Its lean, muscled body flowed through the broken window like water. Shards of glass still clinging to the frame caught at its fur, digging into the flesh, scratching its feet as it sailed by.
It landed on hard, cold pavement. It paused to sniff the air, searching for the source of those inviting smells. A heartbeat later it was off, dashing down moonlit streets between darkened buildings, where confusing scents of garbage and gasoline and flowers nearly vanquished the fragrance it sought. It found an opening and veered through a space of lawn and shrubs toward the woods beyond. Exhilarated at its freedom, it raced up the steep mountain-side, dodging stands of broom, slipping between slender trunks of pine and fir, flying through clearings.
It ran until it was tired, then trotted, climbing, searching for ways through the underbrush, cleansing its nose with the myriad smells of the forest. When it surprised a vole in a meadow, it dropped the cloth it carried in its jaws and fed. When the meal was finished, it picked up the fabric again and trotted on, ever upward, searching for the place where the trees would diminish and it would be safe to rest.
The wolf’s experiences of the world came in fragments, separated sometimes by long insensate periods. Its memories were a flow of images, beginning with its first race through an orange grove, away from tormentors with blades that slashed and screaming voices that grated on its sensitive ears. There had been many such flights, some through urban jungles with acrid smells and ear-shattering noises, others through parks and gardens where cover was meager and prey was scarce.
There had been only one place where the wolf always felt safe, where the fragments of existence melded together into a consistent whole. There had been no need to flee in that place, no need to escape. There had been only periods of freedom within the vine-covered walls that smelled comfortably of old stone, and not of the poisonous fumes that filled the cities. The wolf was called to that place. Without need for explanation, its inner compass turned toward it, unerring and insistent.
The wolf reached the mountaintop and found a protected spot beneath a thick clump of broom where it could wait out the hours of daylight. The memory of that place of safety filled its narrow brain. It closed its eyes in the quiet of the sparse forest, calmed by the cool, clean air. When daylight faded, it would set out again with its ground-eating trot, feeding along the way, resting during the treacherous hours of light. The wolf had no concept of distance. It wasn’t concerned with how far away the goal was, or how long it would take to reach it. It would simply keep moving, as long as it could, and as long as it needed to.
Ughetto learned the power of moonlight from Zdenka Milosch.
Three days after his arrival at her mansion, Zdenka rose from the dinner table and said, “Ughetto. Come with me.”
He came to his feet slowly, apprehensively. His days here had been long and empty, but the feeling of dread that had settled over him when he first entered the doors of the Countess’s house had not dissipated. He was grateful not to have to see the three ancients, Anastasia, Eusebio, and Henri, except at dinner. They hardly spoke, either to him or to each other. The rest of the staff, as dour as Kirska, as dull as the putative gardener, were no company at all. He had begun to wonder why he had been brought there.
He followed the Countess out of the dining room, through the vast shadowy parlor, and on to the front door. She opened it, and a flood of perfect moonlight filled the foyer, brighter by far than the dim oil lamps favored in this house. In the glow, Ughetto saw the Countess’s lips curl. He had the distinct impression that she expected to enjoy herself.
“What is it?” he asked. His voice cracked a little, boyishly.
“It is,” she said coolly, “a full moon.”
“Certo. Why are you showing it to me?”
“Go out, Ughetto. Go out into the moonlight.” She made a negligent motion with her long, thin hand, as if shooing a cat out of the house.
He was not at all reluctant to go out of the dank, dark house into the brightness. He stepped through the door and stood on the top step, gazing out into the overgrown shrubbery. Patches of moonlight shone on the cobbled walk and silvered the leaves of the big oaks, which lifted their branches into the moonlight as if asking a blessing.
Ughetto glanced back at the Countess in the shadow of the doorway. “Look up,” she told him. “Look at the moon.”
He lifted his head. The moon was nearly at its zenith. It was whiter than he expected it to be. Its silver disk was marked with faint shadows. It outshone the stars and illuminated the few clouds that puffed across the night s
ky.
Ughetto lowered his head again, looking into the Countess’s eyes. “Why am I doing this?” he asked.
“Look up,” she said again. “Open your eyes as wide as you can. Let the moonlight in.”
He shrugged. It all seemed foolish to him. The Countess had no sense of humor that he could ascertain, but surely this was some sort of joke.
“Do as I say,” she commanded.
He laughed a little, but he tipped up his chin. He opened his eyes wide and let the metallic light of the moon flood his pupils.
A memory suddenly flooded him. He seemed to smell the salt air of Trapani, to hear the voices of his sisters, to hear the slap of the water against the docks. They were waiting for the squid fishermen to come in, he and his nonna and his mamma, but something went wrong. He wasn’t allowed to stay there in the friendly darkness, watching the lights on the bay where the jigs were set for the squid. His nonna hauled him away, back to the tavern, for some infraction he didn’t understand.
Ughetto shook off the memory and brought himself back to the present. The moon above his head seemed to grow brighter, its glow increasing in intensity so that he had to half-shutter his eyes. Just as he did this, he felt that prickling sensation in his fingertips and his toes, the familiar pain raging along his backbone.
He spun to face the Countess. “No!” he rasped. His tongue and his teeth had already begun to change, to make words impossible. He tried anyway, snarling, “I don’t want—I hate to—”
Her chilly smile was all he could see, all he could register, before his skull began to cramp and contract, and the transformation began in earnest.
When Ughetto came to himself, he was curled under a yew tree, its low-hanging branches grazing his head and his naked back. At his feet were the remains of what he thought must have been a rabbit, though there was little left of the creature except the rags of its hide and a single bloody paw. He wriggled out from beneath the yew and stood, brushing leaves and dirt and busy insects from his skin. He put his hand to his face and felt the stickiness of gore on his lips and chin. He looked back at the carcass and suddenly, violently, vomited into the thick mat of old leaves and moss.
When the agony of his stomach ceased, he scrubbed at his face with his fingers, then looked about to ascertain where he was.
He dreaded these awakenings. He never knew where he might be. He had come to himself in strange places, not always safe places. The worst had been waking, naked and exposed, in the unfinished church of San Ignazio in Rome. It had been very early in the morning. The workers had not yet arrived, but two Jesuit priests were strolling through the interior, pointing at half-built walls, talking animatedly about mosaics and tiles, about sculptures and trompe l’oeil ceilings.
On that morning in Rome, Ughetto blinked slowly into awareness, not yet aware of his lack of clothing or his location. The priests spotted him and pursued him into the tiny, treeless piazza, shouting. Only Ughetto’s knowledge of the city’s back alleys saved him from whatever punishment they had in mind.
But for Ughetto, the loss of control was worse even than waking up lost. Had he had a choice in the matter—had he not been the seventh son after six daughters, his fate sealed by a power beyond his comprehension—he would have banished the wolf forever. He would never have willingly suffered the brutish twisting and changing of his body. He loathed relinquishing his consciousness, forfeiting his identity to a creature he neither knew nor understood.
After Zdenka tricked him into transforming, he blundered about in the overgrown garden of the compound until he came upon the house by accident. When he realized where he was, still within the vine-covered walls of the Countess’s property, he trembled with impotent fury.
She was watching for him. She sent Kirska out with a banyan of silk to wrap himself in and a pair of black leather slippers to protect his feet. Kirska showed no surprise at his nudity. She handed him the clothes, then turned, wordlessly, to lead the way back indoors. Ughetto would have preferred to run as far from the compound as he could, but he had no clothes, no money, and he spoke only a few words in the language of the country. He followed Kirska with resigned steps, tying the dressing gown about his middle as he walked up the moss-slick stairs and into the gloomy great parlor.
“Ah,” the Countess said in her disinterested way. “You have returned to us.”
“Did I have a choice?” Ughetto threw himself on the sofa opposite her, folding his arms and glaring at her.
Zdenka raised one black eyebrow. “You’re angry.”
“You forced me to…you forced the wolf to appear.”
Her thin white hands lifted briefly, then subsided into the black bombazine of her lap. “It was something you needed to know, Ughetto, if we are to have an association.”
“I still don’t understand it.”
She put her head against the scrolled back of the sofa, and her eyelids slowly closed as she spoke. “The moon, my young friend. You must understand the moon’s power. It calls the tides. It rules the issue of blood and dabbles its hand in the processes of birth. It impels madness and fires lovers…” The corners of her narrow lips curled. “Which may be the same thing, after all.”
“What does any of that have to do with me?”
“Nothing,” she said. He was about to protest, but her eyelids lifted again, and her eyes, expressionless as black granite, fixed on him. “It has to do with the wolf, Ughetto.”
“The moon brings out the wolf?”
“It can. That can be useful.”
“Useful,” Ughetto said bitterly. He unfolded his arms and rubbed his burning eyes. “If I avoid the moonlight, and avoid pain, can I suppress the wolf?”
“There’s something else you can do.” The Countess picked up a tiny bell from the table beside her and shook it. It clinked more than it rang, but it was enough for the wizened manservant to hear. He came with his tray. A twist of brown paper lay in the center of it. The servant presented his tray to the Countess, and she picked up the twist of paper.
When the servant had gone, she held out the paper to Ughetto.
“What is this?”
“Take it.” When he had taken it from her cold fingers, she said, “Open it.”
Carefully, he untwisted the stiff paper. Inside were several stems of palmate leaves and dry purple flowers.
“Aconitum lycoctonum,” she said. “A poisonous herb.”
“You expect me to poison the wolf?”
Her eyelids drifted closed again, and her voice faded to a whisper. “If you poison the wolf, you poison yourself, Ughetto. You should know that.”
He held the paper in his palm, gazing down at it. “The wolf is not me.”
“It’s part of you. It’s the way you’re made.”
“I know you don’t care about this, Countess Milosch, but if I could banish the wolf, I would. If I could, I would kill it.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Not to me.”
The Countess opened her eyes, and this time a faint, impatient light shone from them. Her hands twitched in her lap. “Don’t be stupid, Ughetto. If you killed the wolf, you would die, too. There’s a reason for its existence.”
He shot to his feet, crumpling the herb in his hand. “A reason?” he cried. “A reason it should ruin my life, keep me running and hiding, make it impossible to have friends, to have work…to have my music?”
The Countess’s hands relaxed. “I’m sorry about your music,” she said. “You’re right, of course. The wolf prevented your castration.” She sighed. “But it will also protect you from other harm. And”—a careless flick of the fingers of one hand—“it will prevent you dying at some ridiculously young age.”
“What are you telling me?” Ughetto’s voice rose, shrill with fury. When she didn’t answer immediately, he leaned forward, his slender body shaking, and shouted at her. “Tell me, you—you anziana! You bring me here, promising me some sort of bargain, and then you call out the wolf! What do you want from me
? Are you telling me I have to suffer like this for eternity?”
Zdenka Milosch looked up at him with narrowed eyes. Her upper lip lifted, exposing the dull gleam of her long teeth, and she hissed, a sound so light he was not sure he heard it. The look on her face was that of something vicious, something utterly without empathy.
Ughetto froze, his complaint dying on his lips.
“Eternity?” she said, drawling the word, mocking him. “Hardly eternity, young fool.”
Ughetto swallowed. More quietly, he said, “How long, then? How long will the wolf prevent me from dying?”
The Countess lowered her upper lip, and looked into the candle flames. “So long, Ughetto,” she said, “that you will no longer object to death.”
Ughetto sank back into his chair, his knees suddenly gone to water. “O Dio,” he breathed. He looked away from the Countess, staring blindly into the dimness of the cavernous room. “Madre di Dio. What am I to do?”
“Use the herb to hold back the wolf. Do a few tasks for me and my brethren, some small, some great. I will supply you with aconitum lycoctonum, or see that you know where to obtain it.”
“Do you expect me to live here?” Ughetto made no effort to keep the distaste from his voice.
“No,” she said. “I expect you to go out into the world and manage our interests. We have…needs.”
Ughetto stared at her. With a dry mouth, he croaked, “You want me to bring your victims to you?”
Again her lip curled. “No, no, Ughetto. We have people to do that, Kirska and Tomas and others. What we want you to do is to offer hope to the foolish ones. You will look over those who want to become one of us. You will judge their worthiness. You will discipline some who violate their promises…or who talk too much.”
Mozart’s Blood Page 28