by Laura Lebow
“Good, signora,” I called from my seat on the main floor of the theater. This was the first time the three of us had worked through the new material. Because it was a burlesque, we were concentrating on gestures, acting, and stage marks, rather than the music. We would rehearse with Mozart, and then again with the orchestra, in a few days.
The heavily pregnant soprano looked frantically around the stage. “‘Where is everyone?’” she called. “‘Who will help me punish this villain?’” She pulled her victim toward an empty chair, which sat a few feet away from a window that had been built into a prop wall on the stage. “‘Sit down!’” she ordered.
Benucci fell into the seat. “‘But I’m not tired.’” He looked at the razor in Laschi’s hands. “‘Do you mean to shave me?’” he asked.
“‘I’m going to shave you,’” she said. “‘But without soap.’” She pulled a handkerchief from her dress. “‘Give me your hands!’” As she tied Benucci’s hands together, the two singers launched into the new duet Mozart and I had prepared.
“‘Let these little hands of yours have pity on me,’” Benucci sang.
“‘I have no pity for you,’” Laschi replied. “‘I am a raging tigress.’” She took out a cord, bound Benucci onto the chair with it, then crossed to the prop window and fastened the other end of the cord to the window.
The two continued through the duet, Benucci pleading for release, Laschi exulting in her power over him, and wishing it could extend to all men. As they sang, repeating several refrains, my mind wandered back to the morning. I pushed thoughts of Marta from my mind. I would just have to wait for her to make a decision. I sighed inwardly as I recalled my search of Strasser’s room. Try as I might, I could not imagine my fellow lodger as the murderer, despite the presence of the bloody handkerchiefs, the paper, and a copy of Dante’s Purgatory. There must be some innocent explanation for his possession of all of these items. Still, I knew I had to confront him about them, and I dreaded doing so.
“Signor?” Luisa Laschi called to me from the stage. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, forgive me, signora,” I said. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“That doesn’t say much for your writing, Da Ponte,” Benucci said, smiling. “If even the poet falls asleep during the scene—”
We all laughed.
“Do I exit at this point?” Laschi asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Then you, Signor Benucci, will go through the recitative. At the end, stand up, with the chair still attached, and jerk the cord. The window will fall out. Then hop off, dragging the window with you.”
Laschi came and sat next to me. We watched as Benucci practiced jerking and hopping, a stagehand replacing the window into the fake wall each time, until the baritone had the moves mastered.
“Bravo, Signor Benucci!” Laschi and I cried.
I turned to her. “After he leaves the stage, you will return with Signor Bussani and Madame Cavalieri. We’ll work on that scene with Mozart next time.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the day in my office then dragged myself home at six. As I walked into the courtyard of my lodgings, I looked over at the small garden. I was relieved to see the bench empty. Marta and I could talk and talk, but would never find a resolution until she rid herself of her feelings for von Gerl. And unluckily for me, those feelings seemed to have strengthened since she had learned of his murder.
I went into the house and slowly climbed the stairs to my room. Once inside, I put my satchel on the floor, hung my cloak and coat in my cupboard, then crossed to the desk and lit a candle. A message sat on the desk—a light-colored, single sheet which had been folded in thirds and left unsealed. There was no address on it. I picked it up with trembling hands and unfolded it, and then stared at the distinctive watermark in the middle of the page—a large serpent rising from clawlike leaves set in the middle of a ring, an elaborate crown hovering over its head. Written across the page, in handwriting that was now all too familiar to me, were a few lines of poetry. I did not need to read them to know that they were from Dante.
PART IV
The Wrath of Heaven
Thirty
I dropped the paper onto the desk and rushed down to the kitchen, where I found my landlady putting away the remnants of supper.
“Signor Da Ponte, what is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
“Madame, I found a message on my desk when I came in a few minutes ago. Did you put it there?”
She frowned. “No, signore. I’ve been working down here all afternoon. As far as I know, nothing was delivered for you.”
“Perhaps Sophie took it in,” I said.
“That’s possible, signore. She was out at the dress shop earlier, but came home an hour or so ago. She must have taken the message up to your room.”
“Is she at home? I must speak with her,” I said.
My landlady’s eyes were full of concern and questions. “I’m sorry, signore, but she is not here. Stefan came by about twenty minutes ago. They’ve gone off for a ride in his cart.”
I let out an exasperated sigh.
“Signor, what is it? Is there something I can help you with?”
I shook my head. “Please forgive my impatience, Madame Lamm. I’ve been discomposed ever since the death of my friend.”
“I understand, signore. Have you eaten? I can put together supper for you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, madame, but no. I haven’t much appetite tonight. Please do not worry. I am fine.”
“Then I’ll say good night, signore.”
I climbed the stairs back to my room. I picked up the message from the killer and read the passage. “Remember that those for whom the sea opened died before Jordan saw their heirs.” The quotation was from the part of Purgatory where Dante and Virgil encounter the slothful. It referred to the Book of Numbers, where God ordains that of all the men who came out of Egypt, only Joshua and Caleb should see the Promised Land. The others were doomed to die in the wilderness, because they muttered against Moses, and did not follow God assiduously.
The innocent words of one of my most treasured poets sent a chill down my spine. The killer knew me, and had judged me guilty of the deadly sin of sloth, of neglecting what is most important in life, of carrying out my responsibilities in an indolent manner. I lay on my bed and racked my brain, trying to identify someone in my professional life who also knew the other five victims. I could think of no one. Soon anger overcame my reasoning, and I thought of everyone I had encountered in my time here in Vienna, remembering every criticism and slight, every arched brow, every instance of quickness to anger, searching for signs that someone I knew was a madman hiding behind a cultured façade.
I washed and changed into my nightshirt, and then went to bed. I tossed and turned for an hour longer, fear a cold pit in my stomach, but no answers came to me. I had no idea who the killer was. But I was about to find out.
* * *
After a sleepless night of worry, I rose early and attempted to work a bit in my room. But the words that usually flowed so easily when I was working on an opera with Mozart failed to appear, and after a while I laid down my pen.
I took the blank piece of paper I had found in Strasser’s room from my drawer and laid it side by side with my message from the killer. The two sheets were exactly the same color, and both had the strange watermark of the crowned serpent.
A knock sounded at the door. It was probably Sophie looking to clean the room. Perhaps she could tell me how the sinister message had arrived at my desk. I shoved the blank sheet back into my drawer and pushed the libretto pages I had been working on over the killer’s missive.
“Come in,” I called.
“Good morning, Lorenzo.” Erich Strasser entered.
I nodded and motioned him toward my bed. My neighbor’s skin was pale, and large dark circles hung under his eyes. His hands quivered as he came over to my desk.
“I wanted to speak to you before
I approached Madame Lamm,” he said. “I was sorting my laundry for the washerwoman. I seem to have lost some items. Have you noticed anything missing from your room?”
My nose began to itch. I rubbed it. “I haven’t,” I said. “What sort of things are you missing?”
“A few handkerchiefs,” he said. “I was certain that I had put them in my bag for the wash, but they are nowhere to be found. I’ve looked everywhere in my room. I believe that Sophie has taken them while she was cleaning.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t noticed anything missing.”
He looked over at the libretto pages on my desk. “Is this for your current work?” he asked. He picked up the sheets. “May I have a look?”
“Please,” I said. I tried to push the letter from the killer under another pile of papers on my desk, but I did not act quickly enough.
“Is this yours?” he asked, reaching for the light-colored page. “I thought I was the only person in the city who used this paper.”
“This?” I picked up the message and took a deep breath. “It isn’t mine. It was sent to me by the person who has been killing men in the city the last few weeks.”
He started and peered over my shoulder at the letter. “What a strange message. Isn’t that an excerpt from Dante’s Purgatory? I’ve just been reading it, so I recognize it. It’s about sloth, correct?”
I nodded.
“Who sent this, Lorenzo?” Strasser asked.
I took a deep breath. “Are you certain you don’t know, Erich?”
His brow furrowed. “I should know? What are you talking about, Lorenzo?” Comprehension appeared on his face. “You believe that I—you think—oh my God.” He stumbled over to my bed and collapsed on it. “You think I am this murderer?”
I crossed over to my cupboard and pulled out the bundle of blood-soaked handkerchiefs I had taken from his room yesterday.
He frowned. “You have them? How did you get them? I don’t understand.”
“Why did you hide these bloody linens in your room, Erich?” I asked.
He stared at me openmouthed.
“I’m afraid I need an explanation,” I said.
“You searched my room? What right did you have to go through my personal belongings?”
“I am working with the police to solve these murders. I was told that your wash bag was often filled with bloodstained items.”
“Sophie told you this?”
I nodded.
“You searched my room, you suspect me of murdering five people, all on the fancies of a silly young girl?” He shook his head. “I believed I knew you, Lorenzo. I had the impression that we shared the same sentiments and ideas. You! Working for the Ministry of Police! What ridiculous ideas do you have about me? That I am part Turk, so I must therefore be a bloodthirsty monster?”
“No, no, you misunderstand me, Erich. I cannot believe that you would murder these people. I am not accusing you. But you possess a stack of the same type of paper the murderer used to send messages to his victims—a paper that is not common in the city. And Sophie was right to tell me about the blood. What is your explanation for it?”
Strasser took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I have the blood disease,” he said softly. “If I am cut, the bleeding does not stop. Those soiled handkerchiefs are from violent nosebleeds. I try to hide my condition. You’ve seen yourself how I am harassed in the street, because I am part Turk. There are many people in Vienna who would love to see me dismissed from my position at the Oriental Academy because they hate my political views. If word got out that I was some sort of freak, who hemorrhaged blood—”
I waved him silent. “I understand,” I said.
“And as for the paper—the proprietor of a shop near the Stephansdom orders it for me. I like the watermark—it is exotic. It is a small conceit of mine to use the paper. I have no idea how your killer got hold of some of it. Perhaps he is someone who works in the academy with me, who stole the paper from my office.”
“Where is the shop?” I asked.
“In the Grünangergasse, at the end near the Franciscan Church.”
I did not know what to say. He stood. I handed him the bundle of soiled linens.
“I’m sorry, Erich,” I said. “I—”
He lifted his hand to silence me. “Never mind, Lorenzo. I suppose you were doing what you thought you had to. This is my fault. I am too naïve. I was a fool to think that I could continue to live in this city during this war, with my background and political views. It’s obvious I do not belong here, if even men like yourself are so eager to blame me for whatever dreadful events occur.”
I watched, my tongue tied with embarrassment, as he walked out the door, closing it behind him.
* * *
I slipped my work and the paper I had taken from Strasser into my satchel, took my cloak, and went out into the bright morning. I trudged toward the city, chastising myself for my clumsiness in confronting Strasser. What was happening to me? I hated having to treat my friends this way, and I cringed at the thought that people equated me with Pergen and Troger. And I was disturbed at my reaction to the latest murder. I had approached and examined Dauer’s body as if I were an anatomist, not a human witnessing the destruction of another person. I was becoming inured to the sight of violent death. Perhaps that’s what the crime of murder does—it not only kills its victim, but extinguishes a part of those left behind.
After I had crossed through the Stuben gate, I turned left and walked along the narrow street that hugged the wall of the city, then turned down the winding street that led to the Franciscan Church. At the end of the next block, I turned into the Grünangergasse. I found Strasser’s bookshop several doors down on the left.
The shop was dark and cramped, not at all like Krenner’s airy shop in the Kienmarkt. I glanced through the collection of books on offer as I waited for the proprietor. Many of the volumes were in Hungarian; the rest were tomes about religious history and philosophy, a subject that interested me little.
“May I help you, sir?” A small man with a heavy Hungarian accent came from the back room.
I pulled the paper from my satchel and put it on the counter. “I’m trying to find anyone who uses this paper, with this watermark,” I said. “I was told you sell it.”
He looked at the sheet. “Oh, yes. I order this for Professor Strasser over at the Oriental Academy. He likes the watermark. He has a standing order for fifty sheets a month.”
“Would you know if any other shop in the city sells this same paper?”
“Oh, no, sir. I am the only one who can obtain it. It is made in Buda, my hometown. The papermaker’s and my families go a long way back. I can assure you that you can buy this paper exclusively from me.”
I had hoped that the paper would easily lead me to the killer. Perhaps Strasser had been right. The killer worked at the academy and had stolen the sheets from Strasser’s office there. I would have to ask Troger to investigate the backgrounds of everyone who worked at the school.
I handed the bookseller a coin. “Thank you for your time,” I said. I put the paper back into my satchel and turned to leave.
“But wait, sir. Don’t you want to know about the other man?”
“What other man?”
“The other man who buys this paper through me. I place orders for two customers.”
“Who is the other?”
“That priest over at the cathedral.”
“Which priest? Father Dauer, the new one?”
“No, no sir. Not him. I heard he was murdered by that Turk who is loose on the streets.” He shook his head. “What is happening to this city? When I came here, it was very safe. You could walk around at night. But now—”
“Which priest?” I asked, my voice loud with excitement.
“The scholar. I order thirty sheets a month for him. I have no idea where he gets the money to pay for it. It is expensive paper. Perhaps he has money from his family. I’m sure the archbishop d
oesn’t buy it for him. If you ask me, sir, now there’s a man who loves money more than God.”
I frowned. “The scholar? Do you mean Alois Bayer, the old priest? He is dead.”
“No. The younger intellectual. Krause, his name is. Father Maximilian Krause.”
Thirty-one
“‘In what excesses, oh gods! In what horrible, dreadful misdeeds is the wretch ensnarled!’”
Caterina Cavalieri stood on the stage of the theater, her back toward the seats. Mozart sat at the fortepiano at one side of the stage. Two violinists from the court orchestra sat at the other side. I had raised my brow at the presence of the other musicians, which was unusual for the first working through of a new scene. Mozart had merely gestured toward the man now seated beside me, and I had immediately understood. Salieri sat quietly, his attention focused on his former student and longtime mistress.
Cavalieri turned slowly toward the empty seats of the theater. “‘Ah, no, it is not possible to delay the wrath of heaven, or its justice!’” She was the classic woman scorned come to life, angry at both the man who had rejected her and at herself for continuing to love him. She clenched her fist and thrust her hand toward the heavens. “‘Already I feel the fatal lightning bolt that is aimed at his head!’” she cried. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes as her voice lowered. “‘I foresee the opening of the deadly abyss—’”
“Brava!” Salieri shouted.
“‘Miserable Elvira!’” Cavalieri continued. She looked down at her dress, her expression conveying her character’s disgust at her emotional weakness. “‘What contrasting emotions are borne in your breast!’” The violinists interspersed sighing strings as the soprano clasped her hands as if in prayer. “‘Why these sighs, why this anguish?’” she asked herself. The violins sighed again. Cavalieri sank to her knees and began the aria.
“‘That ingrate betrayed me and left me unhappy, oh God,’” she sang. She clutched a velvet cloak around her. “‘But betrayed and abandoned, still I have pity for him.’” Her trademark vocal fireworks began, as she trilled the words “still I have pity” again and again. “‘When I feel my torment my heart favors vengeance, but when I see the danger he faces, my heart hesitates.