Symphony of Seduction

by Christopher Lawrence

  ‘That’s impossible for someone of your talent!’ she said with the indignation of a teenager. ‘Lesser people don’t feel anything at all.’

  ‘Lesser’ being anyone older, of course.

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t feel,’ he said. ‘Quite the opposite. It’s just that my life so far and the attentions of my dear papa have ensured I haven’t been presented with some things.’

  She laughed, and then looked at him with curiosity. ‘Such as?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He started to play triplets on a major triad with his left hand, added what sounded like distant birdsong with his right, and then sang halting little phrases to the words:

  Geme la tortorella

  Lungi dalla compagna

  ‘Wow, cousin – you speak Italian?’ Marianne said.

  ‘Sure! And French. More than a smattering of English, too,’ he said, still playing. ‘This is from an opera I wrote a couple of years ago.’

  ‘What is it saying?’

  ‘The turtledove sighs, far from her mate.’

  ‘It sounds a bit lonely.’

  ‘It is. And it answers your question.’

  ‘Umm – I’m sorry?’

  ‘The question of what I haven’t experienced.’

  The tonality switched to the minor, the rhythm still rocking in triplets. Wistful, but not maudlin.

  ‘Vogli destar pietà,’ he sang, turning to face his cousin and switching to speech. ‘Don’t you think the turtledove sounds like it asks for our pity?’

  ‘I’ve never listened to birdsong that way. I’ve never really listened to anything, come to think of it.’

  ‘At least the bird has felt something I haven’t.’ He paused for effect. ‘The love of a mate.’

  ‘If you haven’t felt it, how can you write about it?’

  She saw the eyes flicker down to her breasts, then return her gaze again.

  ‘The music knows what I don’t,’ he said. ‘I just go along for the ride by imagining how it feels. D’you think I’m close to the truth, funny-bunny?’

  She blushed. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’ Was Wolfgang trembling, just a little?

  ‘Others do. The soprano who first sang that aria told me I’d hit the nail on the head. Strange, huh? The notes are way ahead of me. They have a mind of their own.’

  She took his hand with what she hoped was a comradely gesture, parting her bee-stung lips in a smile that pierced him to the heart.

  ‘Well, cousin – we’ll just have to hope that you catch up to them very soon.’

  Mozart lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, his sleep broken by the pressure of his erection. The other part of him with a mind of its own.

  He’d been fine – well, almost fine – until the Bäsle held his hand. Normally he could shed his excess energy through twitching fingers, jiggling legs, contortions of the mouth. Tonight, all of it went into his cock.

  Wolfgang had felt these urges for years. They literally spilled out of him some nights when he dreamed about encounters during his childhood tours: jumping into the lap of the Empress Maria Theresa, feeling the warmth of that maternal, plump body through the silk of her dress; or the startled look of Marie Antoinette when he amused the members of the court in the room by proposing marriage. The precocious antics of a public exhibit, a freak of nature – but one whose memory still recalled the proximity of bodies he couldn’t touch. His father always nearby, watching.

  Until now.

  At home in Salzburg he could deal with it, relieving himself on the edge of the bed, complaining to his mother the next morning about another lost handkerchief. That ruse would be more difficult here. Instead, he tried to redirect his thoughts from the Bäsle to the appointment he had later that morning with one of the local Augsburg patricians, Herr Langenmantel, who had promised Franz Mozart that strings could be pulled for a concert by Wolfgang at the Bauernstube.

  ‘Just make a good impression, nephew,’ Franz said.

  As the night passed, Mozart decided on the pieces he would play for the aristocrat and his friends. He would wear his medal to show his status. That’ll impress them.

  The spike under his nightshirt grew hot as he imagined coming back to the Bäsle after such a successful interview. She would be so delighted for him that she would hug him. He would kiss her back, and she would not resist when she felt the pressure of his hips against hers. That was the dream, anyway.

  A familiar warm stickiness spread over his thighs. Damn.

  ‘That’s a very big medal for such a small man,’ said Langenmantel. He was only a year or two older than Mozart, but his coarse features already gave a sad preview of his appearance later in life.

  Mozart bristled and rubbed his fingers along his thighs.

  ‘It is the Order of the Golden Spur, conferred upon me by the Pope, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Pray listen, friends,’ Langenmantel said to the others at the table. ‘Herr Mozart is a knight, apparently. All by courtesy of the Pope!’

  There were some sniggers. ‘And how did you come by such an honour?’ he continued.

  ‘I was privileged to hear the Sistine Chapel singers in a work confined to that sacred precinct by papal decree – the Miserere by Allegri,’ Mozart said. ‘It’s an elaborate setting for two choirs with nine vocal lines in all. Its beauty captivated me so much that when I returned home I reproduced the whole thing on paper, entirely from memory. The next time I heard it with my score in hand, I saw I’d made only a couple of mistakes. The Pope found out, and instead of excommunicating me for such a transgression, he rewarded me. You see it now.’

  The miracle of the achievement went straight over Langenmantel’s head.

  ‘It looks like it might be worth about … what, two ducats, Feuerbach?’ he said, turning to the man next to him.

  ‘Maybe a Bavarian thaler,’ said the other.

  ‘That’s not gold, is it?’ said a third. ‘Looks more like copper. Adolphus, why don’t you borrow Herr Mozart’s poorly made version and have a better copy made?’

  ‘May I, Herr Mozart? It’s a pretty thing, and I’m sure a good Augsburg goldsmith could improve on that typically vulgar Roman design. He could remove that hideous spur in the centre, for example. Lend it to me for just the afternoon? I may be able to arrange that concert for you as a reward. That, surely, is important to you. As for your little trinket,’ he said, sliding a small box across the table towards Mozart, ‘I’m sure you don’t give a pinch of snuff for it.’

  Mozart reddened, his hands fluttering at his sides, mouth twitching. His speech remained totally composed.

  ‘Your spur already looks to be growing out of the top of your head, Herr Langenmantel,’ he said. ‘I have one growing elsewhere that is far more spectacular, and I should be sorry to exchange mine for yours.’ Mozart slid the box back. ‘Perhaps you should take a pinch of snuff on that.’

  Feuerbach half-stood from his chair, placing his hands on the table.

  ‘Now, see here – musician,’ he said. ‘We like to think we are hospitable to visitors —’

  Mozart cut him off. ‘And so you have been, gentlemen.’ He stood up, straightened his waistcoat and reached for his hat and sword. ‘I must leave now. Might we meet tomorrow?’

  Langenmantel sniffed loudly and looked away. ‘I don’t think I’ll be here.’

  ‘The loss is not mine. You are a set of complete bores. I wish you a good morning.’

  Mozart spun on his petite feet and left.

  ‘Wolfy-boof, you didn’t!’ Marianne said when he told her about the meeting. Her mouth fell open with shock at his audacity, even as tears of laughter streamed down her face.

  ‘I did, and I did, and I did.’ He intoned the repetition like plainchant, dashing to the keyboard for accompaniment. ‘I did and I did. Funny-bunny, these people aren’t worthy enough to eat my shit. It’s a strange world where people of talent have to kowtow to dullards with money and power. One day it’s going to change.’

  ‘You
may starve in the meantime, cousin.’ She walked over and stood behind him at the piano stool, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘Isn’t that what this whole trip is about? Another big city, another wealthy Elector, another abject request for employment?’

  He flared with anger from the neck up at her words. Her touch, however, provoked a different reaction from the waist down. Reaching behind him, Wolfgang clasped his hands around the back of her legs, drawing her closer until he could feel her thighs against his back.

  Marianne pressed her fingers further into the material of his dress coat as she felt the warmth of her own desire. The attentions of men – some of them her father’s friends – had not been unnoticed of late, but she had never experienced such an instant complicity with anyone. It wasn’t that blood was thicker than water, she decided; there was something about the miraculous head now cradling itself on her chest, something about the heroically independent spirit it contained, that suggested this friendship – she dared not begin to call it a relationship – would be a unique occurrence in her life.

  Staring straight ahead, he said, ‘I’ve written to my father about you.’

  Why? she thought. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said you were beautiful, sensible, kind, accomplished and gay. I didn’t say that I would like to wash you front and back, and then go looking for your bird’s nest.’

  She jumped back and brought her hands to her mouth, trying to suppress an embarrassed laugh. ‘Cousin!’ she gasped.

  He placed his hands on the keyboard again and improvised the accompaniment to a spontaneous patter song.

  ‘Why not? Why not? My dearest clown, why not? Why shouldn’t we, why shouldn’t we, I wouldn’t know why not!’ He jumped up, lifted a leg and blew a raspberry.

  ‘Wolfgang, people will hear you!’ she said, more pleased than she supposed she should be.

  ‘No, they won’t. Mamma has gone for “coffee” with Fraulein von Freysinger. That means not a drop of coffee passes her lips; two bottles of Tyrolese wine will. Unlike Papa, she knows how to have a good time.’ He ran over to Marianne and quickly squeezed her breasts. ‘I aspire to follow in Mamma’s footsteps.’

  She paused for a moment’s thought before leaning forward to kiss Wolfgang on the lips, a turtledove’s peck.

  ‘You know this is all new to me,’ she croaked, excitement drying her throat.

  ‘Let’s try something else to secure approval for my giving a concert,’ he said, holding her waist, his erection coming on despite the jiggling of his leg. ‘I’m going with Mamma to St Ulrich’s tomorrow to meet the kapellmeister and the prelate, maybe play their church organ there as a demonstration. They have good connections with the city authorities.’ His eyes suddenly bulged from his head, massive blue orbs. ‘That’s it! You must come with me! This sweet little arse of yours will make a better impression on those august men of the cloth than I ever could. Come, won’t you, little cuzz-wuzz?’

  She felt his hands move around to her buttocks. ‘Whatever you command, you big bed-shitter.’

  ‘He’s good, isn’t he? Oh, he’s very, very good.’ Pater Emilian leaned against the Bäsle in the pew, his wine-tainted breath blowing warm in her ear. In the organ loft above, Mozart improvised on several tunes that had come to him that morning when he’d tried in vain to obliterate another fantasy about his cousin.

  Marianne leaned away so that she could look the priest full in the face.

  ‘I don’t know enough about music to say, Father. It seems to me that he is very clever. All of Europe is in awe of Wolfgang’s talent. The Mozart family is a credit to our city.’

  Pater Emilian leaned in the other direction and placed his hand on Anna Maria’s leg.

  ‘You Mozarts are a credit to our city,’ he said.

  ‘We are having a difficult time trying to persuade Augsburg to celebrate the fact,’ she said stiffly. ‘Wolfgang has been snubbed by the patricians.’

  The priest belched softly and leaned back towards the Bäsle.

  ‘Don’t you think we should try to persuade the city to celebrate this divine son of music?’ he said.

  Marianne allowed him to touch his knee against hers.

  ‘We have tried, Father. The only response we’ve had so far is a fascination with Wolfgang’s jewellery.’

  ‘I say we go for coffee and work on a plan.’

  ‘I love a coffee in the morning,’ said Anna Maria.

  In the coffee house Mozart sat to Marianne’s right with his hand on her leg under the table, Pater Emilian sat to her left with a hand on her other leg, and Anna Maria sat opposite with both hands on a goblet of Tyrolese wine.

  ‘Herr Mozart, I will go to Count Wolfeck and Herr Stein, the local piano maker. Together, I feel sure we can persuade the authorities to present you in concert before you leave Augsburg. Unless,’ he winked slowly at Marianne, ‘you can find a good reason to stay?’ He fondled her knee while she bit her lower lip.

  ‘I do not presume anything, Father,’ Mozart said, ‘but I should like to thank those worthy people of the town who have shown us hospitality.’ He fondled Marianne’s other knee while she casually brushed the front of his breeches.

  ‘Elbows on the table, Wolfgang,’ said his mother.

  ‘In that case, we should seal the deal with some music making,’ said the priest, putting down his goblet.

  Mozart looked at his cousin with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

  ‘What – here, Father?’ he said. ‘I see no instruments to help us.’

  ‘I am something of a composer myself, Herr Mozart. I wish we had the time to sit down together and discuss composition.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ Mozart said. ‘If we were to do so, it wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Let’s sing a canon I have jotted down,’ said Emilian.

  ‘Really, Father, for all my musical skills, singing isn’t one of them.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it, Herr Mozart. It’s a setting of the words “I never in my life heard anything finer”.’

  ‘Go on, cousin,’ whispered Marianne. ‘There could be a concert and a few florins in it.’

  ‘I’ll start, you follow,’ said the priest. The tune was short and awkward. Mozart jumped in after two bars, leaning into the Bäsle and singing:

  Pater Emilian! Oh, you prick. Lick me in the arse!

  Emilian couldn’t hear the revised text over the laughter from the patrons at other tables, for whom such an impromptu concert was a regular event at lunch. When the performance finished, the priest hoisted himself onto unsteady feet for a bow.

  The Bäsle giggled and covered her mouth with one hand. The other hand she placed squarely on Mozart’s erection.

  22 OCTOBER

  The candlelight from Mozart’s bedside table cast a chiaroscuro on Marianne’s face.

  ‘After such a triumph, you can’t leave yet,’ she said.

  ‘It did go well, didn’t it?’ he said, his mouth grimacing and twitching, eyes flickering in the gloom. ‘Best of all to have ma trés chère niece, cousine, fille, mére, soeur et épouse there as well.’

  ‘Such French, Wolfy! Which one of those am I?’

  ‘You’re all of them.’

  She stroked his hair, suddenly too timid to touch any other part of him.

  ‘I can’t decide which was best – the concerto for three pianos, or the bit at the end when you extemporised a fugue based on all the tunes we’d heard through the concert.’

  ‘Funny-bunny, you came all the way to my room late at night to tell me this? Making no sound with your beautiful little feet on these creaky old floors …’

  ‘The crowd loved you.’

  He propped himself on his elbows. ‘Well – now it’s your turn. Say after me: I declare myself.’

  ‘I – I – declare …’

  ‘You indicate, you hint to me, you notify me, you let me know, you demand, you crave, you wish, you would like, you want, you command …’

  ‘Slower, Wolfy-boofy!’ she whispere
d, laughing. ‘I don’t have your memory.’

  ‘Cousin, I kiss your hands, your face, your knees, and all you permit me to kiss. Say after me again: I expose myself.’

  He took her hands. This time she felt the gathering of energy in his fingers. It must be coursing through his whole pale body.

  The moment had arrived. Marianne took a deep breath, released his hands, and brought hers to the top button of her nightdress.

  ‘Expose myself?’ she said. ‘Wolfgang, this is all baby talk and no action.’

  He watched, fascinated, as she revealed her nakedness, then lifted the front of his nightshirt.

  ‘I shit on your nose,’ he said.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Mozart and his mother left Augsburg on 26 October and continued to Mannheim. They stayed four months while Wolfgang importuned the Elector for a position, without success. During this time, he fell in love with a sixteen-year-old aspiring singer called Aloysia Weber, who rejected him. Her sister Constanze would eventually become Mozart’s wife.

  From Mannheim, mother and son were ordered to Paris by Leopold to further Wolfgang’s search for employment. While there, Anna Maria Mozart fell ill and died unexpectedly on 3 July 1778.

  Maria Anna Thekla Mozart, known as Marianne, met Mozart again on only a handful of occasions, the last being in March 1781. In 1784 she gave birth to an illegitimate daughter.

  The Bäsle died in 1841, outliving Mozart by fifty years. She never married.

  PLEASURE IS THE LAW

  Claude Debussy ushered classical music into the twentieth century with his sensual Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun in 1894. An iconoclast with a rapier tongue on those occasions when he could be bothered to speak, he was a lover of good food, tasteful décor and beautiful women. By 1904 he was the most celebrated musical revolutionary in Europe, but his reputation would be almost destroyed by scandal. The damage to others was even more extreme.

  ‘Life has its dangerous turning points … Try to understand me and not be resentful.’