by Laura Lebow
I got up and lit a candle, then took my Dante out of the cupboard. I sat on my hard desk chair and continued my reading of Inferno. Occasionally I closed my eyes to rest, but the vivid scenes of the murders soon returned to wake me.
I had read for about two hours when a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Marta standing there. Her red-gold hair flowed over the shoulders of her white nightgown. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.
“Marta? What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, Lorenzo,” she whispered. “I’m all alone, all alone in this dark place. It is so cold. May I come in?”
For a moment, my heart stopped beating in my chest. Then I took her soft, small hand and drew her into the room.
Sixteen
The memorial service for Alois was held the next morning in the Chapel of the Cross in the Stephansdom. A few rows of chairs had been set up to accommodate the small group that had gathered: the priests Krause and Urbanek, a few of the workers from the cathedral staff, the porter from Alois’s building across the plaza, and Franz Krenner, the proprietor of the bookshop where my old friend and I had first met.
I sat in the front row next to Krause, who would lead the service.
“Poor Father Bayer.” He sighed. “I did not realize how much I would miss him. We had such heated debates about theology. He was a worthy sparring partner.”
Felix Urbanek came over. “We might as well start,” he said to Krause. “I think everyone is here. I’m not expecting Father Dauer to attend.” His jaw tightened. “He said he would try to make it, but that he had meetings all day. One of the noble families is considering donating a large collection of sacred art to the cathedral treasury.”
“‘How brief the comedy of vanity that is committed to fortune,’” Krause murmured.
“It is a shame,” Urbanek continued. “But after all, Father Bayer was just a simple priest. I suppose it is too much to expect that someone as busy as Father Dauer could fit this into his schedule.”
Krause rose and went to the altar. As the familiar words of the service flowed up to the old vaulted stone ceiling of the chapel, I fell into deep thought. I wished to concentrate on my treasured memories of Alois, but my mind rebelled and wandered to the circumstances of his death and my failure to make any progress in finding his killer. I sighed inwardly. Perhaps Benda had been right to dismiss my idea that the murders were somehow related to Dante. I was grasping as desperately for answers as he was with his theory that the killings were motivated by the war. After all, Dante was everywhere, if one looked. Why, Krause had just quoted Inferno a moment ago. It was probably just my vivid imagination that saw some crude markings carved by a madman into dead men’s foreheads as Dante’s peccatum.
* * *
Krause intoned the final prayer for the dead and the small group of mourners stood. As I turned to leave the chapel, I saw Benda standing near the door.
“Thank you for coming,” I said. We walked out into the Stephansplatz. Off to the right, near the archbishop’s palace, Michael Richter, surrounded by a few spectators, stood on his crate.
“I’ve heard the terrible stories about the conditions in the camp,” he shouted. “Men are dying there every day.” He caught sight of us, climbed down from the crate, and charged over to us, his face purple with rage.
“You!” He grabbed Benda’s arm. “What were you doing at my home yesterday?”
Benda shrugged off the protester’s hand. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. He turned to me. “Come, Da Ponte, let’s continue our conversation in a quieter location.”
“My mother told me two men came to talk to her—friends of mine, she said.” Richter’s lip curled. “I know it was you,” he said to Benda. I shrank back involuntarily as he turned his anger on me. “Who are you? Were you there also?”
“I—”
“Is that what you two gentlemen consider amusing?” Richter sneered. “Harassing a poor blind woman?”
“Yes, we were there,” Benda said coolly. “We are investigating a series of murders. We needed information from your mother.”
“Murders! Murders of whom?”
“Of General Peter Albrechts, for one,” Benda said. “You were the last person to see him alive, in the Am Hof.”
“I told you the other day, I wasn’t there,” Richter said.
“You are lying,” Benda said. I had to admit, despite his deficiencies as an investigator, the count remained calm and steady under pressure. His color was normal, his voice steady and confident. My own knees trembled underneath me.
“We have a witness,” Benda continued. “Someone heard you arguing with the general, and saw you running out of the square. The general’s body was found hours later.”
Richter gaped at him. “You think I … but you cannot … who is this witness?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“An upstanding citizen saw a man running from the Am Hof a little after one o’clock the morning of April 9. He recognized you.”
Richter opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it and clamped it shut. A wary look came to his eyes.
“Your mother confirmed that you went out at about one in the morning,” Benda said. “You lied to me the other day, and you are lying to me now.”
The protester shook his head. “No! No, you have it all wrong! You are accusing me because I am not afraid to express my opinions about your war. I know all about you noblemen.” He poked Benda in the chest. “You’re probably making a fortune in the black market these days, aren’t you?”
A constable hurried over. “Is this man bothering you, sir?” he asked. He pulled Richter away from Benda and shoved him. “Move on, you, before I arrest you.” Richter glared at us and slowly walked away.
“Thank you, Constable,” Benda said, brushing the front of his coat with his hand. He motioned to me to follow him, and turned toward the Stock-im-Eisen-Platz. I glanced back at Richter. The protester had retrieved his crate and stood at the opposite edge of the plaza, watching us. He saw me look at him.
“You will regret this!” he shouted after us. “You have it all wrong!”
* * *
Back in my lodgings that evening, I tried to expunge the emotions of the morning from my mind as I dressed in my best suit. I was going to a repeat performance of Axur, my latest opera with Salieri, accompanied by a beautiful young lady.
I took my cloak and went down the hall to Marta’s room. Her door stood ajar, and I paused to admire her before I knocked. She sat on her bed reading a message. The light of the candle on the small side table danced off the glass at her ears and illuminated the golden flecks in her hair, which was bound with a sapphire-blue velvet ribbon. Two spots of pink colored her cheeks. She wore the same blue dress she had worn to the ball, and she toyed idly with its collar as she studied the missive.
I knocked.
She looked up and, seeing me, hurriedly folded the message. “Hello, Lorenzo. You look very handsome this evening.” She stood, crossed the room, and put the message in the cupboard.
I took her in my arms. “Let’s stay in tonight,” I murmured.
She gave my chest a playful push. “Don’t be silly. How often does a woman get the opportunity to attend the opera and sit next to the librettist?”
She took her cloak. I doused the candle and followed her out the door, beaming with pleasure at her excitement. We left the house and walked to the end of the street, where I hailed a cab. I paid no attention to the route the driver took, for I was preoccupied with my lady’s kisses all the way into town.
When we arrived at the theater, I lifted Marta down from the cab and whisked her in the front door. Mozart was standing in the lobby chatting with another composer, my Spanish friend Martín. I introduced them both to Marta. Martín winked at me and excused himself. I took our cloaks to the checkroom. When I returned, the bell summoning the audience into the main hall sounded. Marta and Mozart were chatting companionably.
“You must come meet Constanze,” he said to her. “You two would get on well.” He bowed over her hand, raised an approving brow at me, and turned toward the main hall.
As I steered Marta to the stairway that led to the boxes, Casanova approached.
“Ah, I was hoping I would see you both tonight,” he said, kissing Marta’s hand. “My dear, you look absolutely ravishing this evening. If I were twenty years younger—no, maybe just ten—I would lure you away from this pedestrian poet and make you the Countess of Seingalt.” He fingered the glass hanging from Marta’s right ear. “But alas—”
I snorted. My friend styled himself as the Chevalier de Seingalt, but I knew he had been born to theater people in the warren of narrow streets between the Campo San Stefano and the Grand Canal.
Marta giggled. Her face was flushed with pleasure and excitement. For the first time since I met her, she looked happy. Perhaps I was succeeding in my goal to make her forget about von Gerl. I fervently hoped he would not make an appearance tonight. I took her arm.
Casanova leaned over to me. “We must continue our discussion of the other day,” he said softly. I nodded.
Marta and I climbed the stairs to the boxes. Most of them were rented by the oldest aristocratic families in Vienna, but the emperor had directed that one always be held for the librettist and composer of the opera being performed. I opened the door to the box and ushered Marta inside. Salieri and his wife were already there. I introduced Marta to them and settled her into one of the comfortable armchairs.
The orchestra played the opening notes of the opera, and I settled back to enjoy my work and Marta’s company. The opera was an adaptation of a libretto written by Beaumarchais, the French playwright, which Salieri had set to music last year in Paris. I had tightened Beaumarchais’s flowery language and tendency to use too many words when I had translated the libretto into Italian for this performance. The opera had everything the Viennese audiences adored—an Oriental despot, a loyal soldier in love with a beauty from the despot’s harem, the despot’s schemes to kill his rival, and his final capitulation to the purity of young love. It had been very popular since it had premiered in January.
I stole a glance at Salieri, who leaned forward in his chair, his arms propped on the railing of the box, his eyes intently following the action on the stage. Next to him, his wife yawned. A wicked thought came unbidden to my mind. What was Caterina Cavalieri doing this evening, while her lover and his wife were at the theater? Did the music director leave his wife at home on those nights that his paramour was singing? I hoped so, for his sake. I wouldn’t have wanted to be him should Cavalieri have glanced toward the box and seen him sitting there with Madame Salieri. I smiled to myself. I was sure he would have heard plenty from that flexible throat when he went to the dressing room after the performance to congratulate his lover.
At intermission, I hurried downstairs to order champagne for the four of us. When I returned, followed by a waiter with a tray of glasses, Marta was conversing with Madame Salieri.
“Miss Cavalli was just telling us that she recently arrived from Venice,” Theresa Salieri said to me. “Weren’t you frightened, my dear, with the war going on?”
“I saw no indication there was a war,” Marta said.
“You cannot miss it here,” Salieri said. “The soldiers on the street, the protesters, the shortages—why, I went into Adam’s the other day to order a suit and he told me he was having difficulty procuring satin.”
“At least it will end soon,” I said.
Salieri raised an eyebrow. “I would not be so sure. The troops have been sitting outside Belgrade for weeks now, with no progress to report.” He sighed. “No, I believe this will be a long, expensive war, Da Ponte. You and I may not have many more chances to sit up here and enjoy our operas.”
The crowd on the parterre below us buzzed as Count Rosenberg, the director of the theater and one of the emperor’s closest confidants, took the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Forgive me for delaying the start of the next act, but I have just received excellent news. A few days ago, the emperor took the fortress of Sabac from the Turks. It will not be long now before Belgrade is ours!”
The applause was deafening. Some of the men in the audience, including Mozart, stood and cheered. I looked over at Salieri.
He sniffed. “Sabac is a small fortress, valuable for cutting the Turkish supply lines to Belgrade. But when will the emperor move on Belgrade itself?”
The music began and we settled back into our seats. Salieri’s pessimism had left me unsettled. What if he were correct, and the war dragged on? Would the theater close? What would I do then? I had no large pool of savings to support me should I lose my position. I would have to leave Vienna and seek my fortunes elsewhere.
I willed myself to dismiss these black thoughts from my mind, and leaned back to enjoy the rest of the opera. I stole a glance at Marta. She sat entranced, her green eyes fixed on the stage. A tendril of silky hair had loosened from the sapphire velvet ribbon. As she reached to tuck it back up, her attention still on the performance below us, my pulse quickened. She must have felt me watching her, for she turned and smiled at me. My spirit lightened, I smiled back, and then spent the rest of the evening watching her, smelling her delicate floral scent, listening to her voice, and falling in love.
Seventeen
Marta and I breakfasted together the next morning in the Lamm kitchen. Although we tried to behave as though we were merely fellow lodgers sharing a meal, I believe Madame Lamm sensed there was something between us, for as we conversed idly about the opera, she glanced at us with approval in her twinkling eyes.
Finally I pulled myself away and rose from the table. “I’m afraid I must go to work, ladies,” I said.
“On such a beautiful day? What a shame!” Madame Lamm said. “I was out at the market before you came down. It is almost like summer.” She looked at me slyly. “Perfect for a long stroll in the Prater.”
I sighed. “I agree, Madame Lamm. But unfortunately, I must attend a rehearsal of my next opera. We premiere in less than two weeks, and there is much work still to be done.” I turned to Marta. “Do you have plans for today?” I asked her.
“Yes. Mademoiselle Albrechts has invited me to dinner this afternoon,” she said.
“Christiane Albrechts?” Madame Lamm said. “You are acquainted with Christiane Albrechts?”
Marta nodded.
“Oh, my! She is such an elegant young lady. The poor girl—her father died suddenly, just a few weeks ago. He was a famous general, highly decorated by the late empress. Where did you meet her?”
“Signor Da Ponte introduced us,” Marta said.
My landlady looked at me with new respect. “Have you been in her palace?” she asked Marta. “You must tell me all about it. Was it very lavish?”
“Oh, yes,” Marta replied. “The rooms I saw were immense. The decorations are beautiful—and the furniture and fabrics, I’ve never seen any so fine.”
“It sounds lovely,” my landlady said. She joined Marta at the table. “But you know, that is just the family’s city palace. Her father owned a large property right outside the city, outside the Karntner gate. It is called the Belvedere. It used to belong to Prince Eugene of Savoy, years ago. He built two palaces on the land, one at the top of the hill, another at the bottom. He lived in the lower one and used the one at the top of the hill just for parties! Can you imagine that? Of course, I’ve never seen it myself. I have no reason to travel out there, and even if I did, there are high walls all around it. But I’ve heard that the gardens are beautiful.” She took a breath and sighed. “I suppose Miss Albrechts inherits it all now that her father is gone.”
“I believe the household is readying for a move out there any day now,” I offered. I bade them both good morning and went up to my room for my satchel.
My landlady had been right—the day was summerlike, the skies clear. I hummed a tune from my last opera with
Mozart as I crossed the bridge and went through the Stuben gate.
I had walked but three blocks down the Wollzeile when my happy mood vanished. I had reached the square that marked the entrance to the university. The onion domes of the Baroque church that had been taken from the Jesuits when that order had been abolished by the state fifteen years ago towered over the small plaza. Ahead of me, a stocky dark-haired young man in a forest-green cloak loitered near one of the two small fountains that flanked the entrance to the university administration building. My jaw clenched.
“You there,” I called. “What are you doing there?” I marched over to him.
“I beg your pardon, sir. Are you speaking to me?” he asked. He stood at attention and stared back at me arrogantly.
“What are you doing here? Were you waiting for me?”
His brow furrowed. “Waiting? I don’t understand, sir. I was just—”
“You were just standing by until I came, weren’t you?” I snapped. “So that you could follow me again!”
“Do I know you, sir?”
“Don’t behave like an innocent with me. You’ve been trailing me for days now.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir. I am just waiting for a friend.” He bowed, turned his back on me, and sauntered toward the church.
I stared after him for a moment, and then continued down the Wollzeile, my face flushed. I had thought he was the young man who had been trailing me. But was I sure? There were many such young men in the city, and many forest-green cloaks. Might it have been mere coincidence that I had seen him so often the past few days? I shook my head. I didn’t know what to think. I was losing my good judgment and reason.
* * *
When I reached the theater Mozart was standing outside chatting with the tenor Morella. After I greeted them, Morella excused himself to go in and warm up his voice.
Mozart stretched his arms over his head. “It is too beautiful a day to spend indoors rehearsing,” he said.