by Shoshi
corner of the stove was a tray of small dark goodies. Were they, could they be chocolates? They certainly smelled like chocolates. Did they even have such things in Mozart’s time? He didn’t know.
Constanze smiled when she saw him. “I made these for Wolfgang,” she said. “He loves them. Help yourself.”
Mathew plucked one from the tray and almost gasped as he tasted it. It was easily the most fabulous-tasting chocolate he had ever put in his mouth. “Vienna is known for its chocolates,” she said. “Everyone makes them.” He could see how happy she was to have pleased him. “You English do not make chocolates. You do not know how so you must buy them from us.”
He nodded. A faint smile lit her face. “You are quiet,” she said, “but I see you do not miss anything. You are listening.” She laughed lightly. “Your sister now. She speaks perfect German in spite of being English. It is amazing.” He smiled. She looked at him closely. “It is nice to have you two visiting us. Wolfgang likes it, too. We do not have many visitors. They stay away so as not to disturb him—but the doctor is coming soon. He will make him well. I hope so.” She dabbed at her eyes with her apron.
Mathew felt bad for her, for having a sick husband she could not cure. It made him wish all the more that the pills would work fast. I would like to see her smile, really smile, he thought. He didn’t mind her calling Carol his sister. It didn’t matter really.
“I think he works too hard,” she said. “All night sometimes, writing his scores. And no one pays enough. Everyone knows he is a genius, yet no one will give him a court position or pay what is right for the serenades and the divertimentos and the concertos. Only a hundred ducats for this Requiem, which he does not have the strength to finish. He keeps saying it will be his own requiem.”
They were interrupted by the clatter of horses’ hooves on the street outside their house. Clearly a carriage had pulled up to the Mozarts’ door. A stern voice called out to a coachman to wait. It was followed by several sharp raps with a stick on the front door.
“It is the doctor,” said Constanze, her face bright with hope. “He has come to bleed Wolfgang. It will take away the fever.”
Mathew felt an abrupt jolt of alarm. He remembered what Carol’s father had said about the risk of bleeding anyone as sick as Mozart was. “Constanze, no!” he cried out. “Don’t let them bleed him! It’ll kill him!” He realized suddenly he was now speaking German.
“What is this?” she said frowning, obviously surprised that this quiet boy had spoken up so suddenly. “He is the doctor, not you. He is here to make Wolfgang well.”
Mathew didn’t wait to argue about it. He rushed back into Mozart’s bedroom to wake up Carol. “The doctor’s here!” he shouted. “He wants to bleed him. We’ve got to stop him!”
• NINE •
Mathew found himself in the middle of an astounding scene. Mozart was awake and talking animatedly to Carol who was sitting on the edge of the bed. The second he saw Mathew he called out excitedly, “It’s gone. The fever’s gone! I am well, I am well again!” And with that he popped a whole chocolate into his mouth.
At that moment, the bedroom door opened, and in marched a tall, heavyset man dressed in the same dark clothes the musicians had worn, but instead of sheet music he carried a small black bag. Under one arm he had a short swagger stick which he would grasp now and then, give one of his boots a sharp double rap and, then, stab it under his arm again. Mathew found he could hardly take his eyes off it. It was such an odd little ritual. The doctor was followed closely by Constanze, who was telling him: “He has no appetite, no energy, Herr Closset. He is completely listless. I am so frightened for us. What will I do if he does not get well?”
“His malady is serious, Frau Mozart.” Rap, rap. “But I will do what needs to be done. First, the fever must come down.”
The doctor strode to Mozart’s bedside, imperiously waved aside Carol who was standing next to it and picked up the composer’s wrist to feel his pulse. Meantime, Mozart was assuring him that he felt fine.
“I will be the judge of that,” said the doctor. Rap, rap. “Stick out your tongue, Herr Mozart.”
Carol slipped over to Mathew. “He woke up like this,” she said to him, “like he woke up talking. He felt great, he said.”
“Carol, we’ve got to get this freako out of here. He’s going to bleed him. Like your dad said, it’ll kill him.”
They could hear the doctor and Mozart talking. It was obvious that Mozart didn’t want to be bled either. “Is this truly necessary, doctor?” he asked.
“The bleeding will be quick. You will feel better almost immediately.”
Carol gave Mathew a panic-stricken look.
“Make a loud noise,” he whispered to her.
“What kind of noise?” she asked.
“Scream!” he shouted.
She did so—a long, wild, powerful scream that made both the doctor and Constanze spin around, thunderstruck, to see what was the matter. In that moment Mathew dashed to the other side of the bed, grabbed the doctor’s black bag, which was sitting next to one of Mozart’s legs, and raced out of the room. Just before the door slammed shut behind him, he heard a great roar of laughter. It was unmistakably Mozart.
He didn’t stop running till he was out the front door. What was he going to do with this bag? He couldn’t just throw it away--it belonged to the doctor. He just hoped it contained the knife he used for blood letting, that it wasn’t in some coat pocket which would then make him still able to slice up Mozart. He took a hurried look inside it and, thank goodness, found a set of surgical knives.
Now he saw the waiting coach with its horses stamping impatiently. “Hey,” he yelled up to the coachman and threw him the bag. “Herr Doctor”, he shouted, pointing toward the house, and took off down the street. Where to? Not too far from the house, he thought to himself, or he would never find his way back.
In Mozart’s bedroom, the doctor was coming to the end of a loud tirade in which he said he had never been treated with such outright rudeness and disrespect in all the many years he had been practicing in Vienna. And who was this young hooligan who had robbed him right in front of Mozart?
Carol stood silently behind him with her head down trying to pretend that she wasn’t there. Constanze was as mystified as anyone. She did not argue or apologize or make excuses to the doctor. It was beyond all understanding. The English were known for their strangeness, but this was, well, above beyond. The doctor could do no more. He had no surgeon’s knife to wield or any of his other tools in his black bag. He could only bow stiffly and leave. Constanze saw him out.
Mozart had loved every minute of it or so he told Carol while Constanze was out of the bedroom. “That man deserved it. He is so pompous. To hear him talk he knows as much as God. I feel cured--in one night. What else can it be but the Lord’s hand? It is not because of Herr Closset and his potions and his”---Mozart winced and made a face—”pig butcher’s knife.”
He laughed loudly as his wife returned to his bedside.
“I am getting up, Constanze. No more bed for me. I am Lazarus coming back to life. Get me some sheet music and a pen. I feel like composing! A quintet is awakening in my head!”
Constanze could hardly believe what was happening to her husband, but she was too happy to question it, too glad to have him feeling himself again. Except the quintet was not what he should be composing.
“No, Wolfgang,” she implored. “Forget the quintet. Finish the Requiem. Then, the patron will pay us the bonus he promised.”
Mozart was now up and walking about the room. “I think I do not want to let him put his name on it,” he said. “The work is mine. It is certainly not his.”
Constanze was following him around. “Yes, it is beneath you to serve this man’s selfish ends. You have not done this before, and you must not do it again. But, Wolfgang, we have terrible debts.
We must pay for this doctor, for this apartment, for clothes and food for the children---”
There was a silence. Then, Mozart spoke again. He sounded resigned but not too happy about it. “Very well, Constanze, I will do as you wish.”
Carol breathed a great sigh of relief. Maybe they would be able to bring back a finished copy to give to her father after all. Meantime, Mozart needed to take more of Mathew’s antibiotic pills—but how on earth could they get him to do it? She had no idea.
Mathew had been watching the Mozart house. He had seen the doctor leave, slamming the front door behind him. He was angrily talking to himself and shaking his swagger stick as he got into his coach and drove off. Presumably he found his black bag parked on a seat inside the coach.
Now Mathew sneaked back into the house, crossed the kitchen and noticed that Constanze had not yet put away the fresh batch of chocolates she had made. An idea came to him. He took out four more pills from his pocket, carefully speared each one into its own chocolate bonbon jacket, dropped them into one of his pockets, popped a fifth one into his mouth—and, then, re-entered the bedroom.
Mozart was sitting up in the bed with pillows propped up behind him. Scattered about the bedclothes were sheets of music, some written on, some not. He was writing out musical notes as fast as he could jot them down.
Constanze was