by Shoshi
said Constanze. “It is that awful messenger. He has come for the Requiem.”
‘Well, let him have it,” said Mozart. “Maybe it is just as well we did not give it to Carol.”
“But how can we give it to him and take it to Carol, too?”
“The children will have to wait,” said the composer, “but only as long as it takes me to write it out again.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot,” said Herr Schack. “Everything is written down inside your head.”
“That is what it means to be a genius,” said his wife.
“Tut, tut,” said Mozart though he always rather liked being called a genius. “Please give it to him, Constanze, and I will start making a new copy of it right now.”
She went to the door, and sure enough it was the same nasty man who had come to the door last time. “Where is it?” he demanded insolently. She held it out to him.
“I see you got your horse back,” she said with a smile. “We heard it was found swimming across the North Sea.”
“That is quite incorrect,” he said haughtily, snatching the manuscript from her hand. “I’ve still a mind to spank that child’s bottom.”
“You will do no such thing,” said Constanze. “If anyone should be thrashed, it is you. And, remember, you owe us a bonus.” With that she slammed the door in his face. Behind her Herr Schack laughed and clapped loudly.
• NINETEEN •
“Don’t get so upset about it,” said Dr. Pindler to Carol and Mathew as they stood together in his waiting room. “It’s pretty terrific getting an original copy of Clemenza di Tito,” he said. “Maybe it’s not his greatest opera, but experts are beginning to think better and better of it. It’s classic Mozart. I’m looking forward to going through it. And I want to hear all about how you found it. Listen, I’ve got to get back in there. See you two later.” He paused. “And thanks, Carol. It’s a lovely present.”
After he’d gone, she said: “I better check in with Mom. Find out when dinner is. I hope we’re not having fish again.”
She scrounged around in her pockets for her cell phone, then, froze, stared at Mathew and whispered: “It’s not here. Oh, Mathew, guess what? I think I left it back there—in Vienna---along with the manuscript! I can’t believe it. How could I be so stupid twice in a row?” She stood there covering her face with her hands.
Mathew couldn’t help but smile. “Some day somebody’s going to find it in with his stuff. The Mozart cell phone? It’s absolutely not possible—that’s what the experts’ll say. We will know better.” He started to laugh.
“It’s not funny! Mom’ll be furious at me. Somebody’ll steal it and run up a bill, she’ll say. And, then, I’ll say: but Mom it’s in Mozart’s house, and none of those old-time guys will know what to do with it. But she’ll still be furious.”
A very odd look was coming over Mathew’s face. “Carol, think about that.”
She knew that look, and, then, it dawned on her what he was thinking. “Oh, come on, Mathew. That’s ridiculous.”
“I know,” he said. “Utterly ridiculous—like everything else we’ve been doing---but what if---?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try,” she said. “There’s another cell phone on the desk upstairs.” Her heart was beating faster and faster as she ran all the way up the stairs, grabbed the other cell phone, threw herself into a chair and began to dial.
Herr Schack stuck his head into Mozart’s study as he worked at making a second copy of the Requiem from memory. “How is it coming, Master?”
“Very well, very well. Actually I must confess something. This has given me a chance to correct a few errors and make some improvements in the score.”
“Fancy that,” said his friend. “But you are always fiddling with your scores. You have told me that more than once. You must learn to leave well enough alone.”
“I suppose, but I do want it to be perfect.”
They both looked up suddenly. “What on earth is that?” asked Mozart. They were hearing a curious ringing.
“It sounds like a child’s toy,” said Herr Schack, “but there are no children here.”
Now the ringing had stopped, and a woman’s voice could be heard saying: “Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
“How totally odd, Bene,” said Mozart. “And where is she? This woman?”
She appears to be sitting in the fauteil,” said his friend.
“I see no one in that chair,” said Mozart. “Do you?”
“No.”
The phone began to ring a second time, followed by the mysterious voice. They were both becoming rather frightened.
“Is it a ghost?” whispered Herr Schack.
“A ghost that walks by day,” said Mozart.
“We must deal with it,” said his musician friend. “It is interrupting your work.”
He boldly marched up to the chair and quickly surmised that the ringing and the voice were coming from a tiny black object that seemed stuck behind a cushion. He reached out a hand after the voice stopped and picked it up. “It has numbers all over it,” he said. “And a tiny picture.”
The phone began to ring yet again, and he almost dropped it while bobbling it about like a hot potato. “It vibrates as if it were alive,” he cried. It seemed to hop out of his hand and sail right into Mozart’s hand. “Hang on tight to it,” cried Herr Schack, “or it will jump out again.”
Now they were hearing yet another female voice. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were never going to answer,” cried Carol. “Thank God, it’s on speaker.”
Mozart was flummoxed. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Don’t you recognize me, Herr Mozart? It’s Carol!” she said.
“But what are you doing inside this little black box?”
“It’s a very long story. It has to do with my being 200 years ahead of you. I don’t quite believe all this myself.”
“Hurry it up, Carol,” said another voice.
“Is that Mathew?” asked Mozart.
“Yes, he’s right next to me. He says we must hurry because your battery is running out.”
“Battery?” asked the composer.
“It’s what runs this device. Like hay for a horse,” said Mathew speaking up again. “Listen, Herr Mozart, do you have a pen? You must write down our address in New York City.”
“In case you ever decide to visit us,” said Carol. “---in which case you can bring along the Requiem.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mozart. “I am planning to do exactly that as soon as possible.”
“Really? That’s wonderful!” shouted Carol. “Mathew said he showed you how to use the talisman.”
“Yes, I know all that.”
“Now here’s our address,” said Mathew. “33 West 95 Street in Manhattan. Be sure to take a taxi to get there. Otherwise you will get hopelessly lost. No point in giving you the phone number. The battery will be dead by then. In fact, it’s about to go dead now. Just be sure to bring the cell back to---” The phone had gone dead.
“I hope he heard that,” said Carol. “What’s he going to do for money?”
“I’m sure he’s got plenty of ducats,” said Mathew, grinning.
“Oh, Mathew. What good are they going to do him? I can just see him trying to use a ducat to buy a hotdog.”
“There. I am done, Bene. The Requiem is all copied. What a nuisance this has been, but now I can make good on my promise.” Mozart riffled the manuscript pages and shook them to make a neat, trim bundle. He placed it inside a large envelope and wrote Requiem on the outside of it.
He also signed his name with his usual flamboyant flourish. “I do love my signature,” he said to Constanze. “It catches the essence of---me. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, dear,” she said.
“Well, I must start on this journey,” he said.
“Yes, you must, Wolfie,” said his wife. “The sooner gone, the sooner back.”
“That puts it very well,” said Herr Schack.
“I won’t start the wiener schnitzel till he returns. You are invited for dinner, Bene.”
“Oh thank you, Constanze. I adore your schnitzels.”
Mozart began to feel a little nervous, but he was determined to appear as brave as possible—perhaps, even a touch devil-may-care. “Is my blue shirt a good color?” he asked. “I think the yellow shirt might also look nice.”
“Blue has always looked excellent on you, Master,” said Herr Schack
“You truly think so?” said Mozart. “You have the talisman ready?”
“I have no idea where you put it, Master, but you have just signed a fine signature on the manuscript. Use that.”
“Shall I sit or shall I stand?” he asked.
“Stand, I’d say,” said his old friend. “It looks more dignified.”
“Shall I hold your hand?” asked his wife.
“Yes, I would like that,” said Mozart. “My right hand. Remember, I need the left hand for the talisman.”
“Of course,” she said.
Schack suddenly thought of something they had forgotten.
“Americans all speak English,” he said. “How will Wolfgang make himself understood?”
Constanze had a swift answer. “His music is a language understood by all men,” she said.
“Ah, yes,” said Herr Schack. “So, of course, they will understand him when he speaks,”
The man who was Austria’s musical wonder kissed his wife goodbye and grandly swept his left forefinger along his signature. “By the way, where will I land? Did anyone tell me?”
The last thing he heard or almost heard was Herr Schack mouthing the words: “No, they did not.”
There was a sudden roar of wind and flash of light and a trip through a dark, spiraling tunnel as there had been for Carol and Mathew when they time-travelled. Mozart found himself easing gently down into the middle of a large room in which two gilded chandeliers hung from overhead fixtures and austere portraits stared down from fabric-hung walls. Huge, curtained windows looked out on a brightly-hued formal garden.
The setting did not especially impress Mozart. It looked almost like one of the Austrian Emperor’s drawing rooms, which he had visited many times. So was he actually in America? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps, he was in one of the other European courts. The King of Prussia’s, perhaps?
On the other hand, the people in the room were unlike any he had ever seen. They were dressed so simply—as though someone had allowed very ordinary people into this Emperor’s palace. No one wore wigs or pantaloons or satin, and the ladies---he was frankly shocked---all wore dresses cut off above the knee. Half-naked legs would scandalize the Austrian court though he suspected the Emperor Franz Josef might quite like it. But the most shocking thing of all was how tall they all were. He felt like a dwarf.
He decided he must indeed have landed in America. He had traveled 200 years into the future so he must accept that times and people had changed. His own clothes, he realized, must make him seem very out of place. He was reminded of that by a man dressed in a uniform—some kind of guard he assumed—who came up to him and asked with a frown if he could help him.
“Unaccompanied children are not permitted in here,” he said. He took a second look at Mozart and realized he had made a mistake. “Are you lost, sir?”
“Well, yes. Where am I exactly?” asked Mozart. “Whose palace is this?”
The guard smiled and said he didn’t get asked that very often.
“No, this is not a palace. This is City Hall in New York City, and you are standing inside one of our newly restored historical rooms. What is your home town, sir?”
“Vienna,” said Mozart.
“What state is that in?” asked the guard.
“Vienna? I overheard that,” said a smiley man who had come up to them. “A lovely city. I have been there many times.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor,” said the guard backing away.
“Are you the Emperor here?” asked Mozart.
“Dear me, no. I am a mere mayor, and mayors are far from being emperors. I am chosen by the people. I serve a short time, and, then, it is someone else’s turn.”
They shared a smile. What a very eccentric arrangement, thought Mozart, but he decided he better not comment. A young woman came up to them. “Mr. Mayor, the TV cameras are ready for you.”
“Thank you, Marylou,” he said. “I have to stop first in the office and dictate a twitter. Excuse me, sir.” He walked rapidly into a nearby office.
“You seem to know each other,” said Marylou.
“Well, we do now---a little,” said Mozart smiling.
“May I have your name?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”
“That’s a long one,” she said smiling. “I don’t think I know any---Mosarts. My father knew a playwright named Moss Hart. A relative, maybe. He’s calling for me. Pardon me, sir,” she said and followed the Mayor into his office.
Mozart was more than a little surprised that a young girl had such a responsible job. That could never happen in Austria, he thought. But he found himself disappointed that she not only did not know who he was, she could not pronounce his name properly. Hadn’t Carol told him that everyone in the 21 century would know him and be in awe of him? She was clearly mistaken.
He started to walk through the entrance hall to a set of doors that led outside. He opened them and stepped out into sunshine so bright it blinded him for a moment. He realized he would have thought twice about stepping outside if he could have seen properly what was awaiting him.
• TWENTY •
He was greeted by a chorus of laughter and applause. Also, a few hoots. A phalanx of men and women was standing next to a row of strange black boxes each perched on three legs. In front of them was a speaker’s rostrum with a gaggle of nasty-looking snake heads pointed at it.
“Who is this wingding?” a cameraman whispered to a colleague.
“Where’s the Mayor? Am I supposed to film this guy, too?”
“Why take a chance, Al. He might be somebody important. Your news director won’t thank you if you miss it.”
As for Mozart, he was beginning to love it. At last, he said to himself, they know who I am. He waved and bowed. That triggered off more laughter and applause.
A reporter near the back leaned over to a fellow newsman and said: “You know, this guy looks familiar. The big nose. The big eyes. Come on, man, help me remember.”
“Well, it doesn’t make much sense,” said his friend. “But he sure looks a lot like that Austrian composer—what’s his name---Mozart. You ever see that flick, ‘Amadeus?’”
“Nah, you’re crazy. That guy lived a couple of hundred years ago.”
Suddenly, there was real applause. The Mayor had appeared. He strode up to the waiting line-up of snake-head microphones.
“Gentlemen, good to see you,” he said. “I have one statement to make, and, then, I’ll take questions.”
Mozart was now a nobody again, and he knew it. Even the Mayor ignored him. He drifted off the press conference platform and ambled aimlessly through City Hall’s formal gardens, ablaze with daffodils and tulips. I must get this manuscript to Carol and Mathew, he thought, and this thing she called a cell phone. He had written down the address on the cover page of the manuscript: 33 West 95 Street. Where the devil was that?
He gazed up into the skyscraper-choked sky above City Hall. What has happened to the world? Everyone lives in the sky now, he thought. Where are the trees and shrubbery, the meadows and fens? Is this little park all that’s left of nature here in America? Have the world’s new inhabitants banished it everywhere else?
He rem
embered that Carol had told him to take a taxi to get to her house. He looked along the curb outside City Hall but saw none. No horses, no big-wheeled, open cabs waiting, no watering troughs, no nothing. Just these strange-looking bright yellow vehicles with black letters all over their sides and tiny black wheels.
As he passed by one, the driver stuck his head out of the front window and said: “Need a ride, guy?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Mozart.
“Where ya goin’?” Mozart showed him the address. “Uh, huh. Upper West Side. No problem. Get in.”
Then, the composer suddenly remembered: all he had were ducats. Would the man take them? He showed him a handful. “What the heck are those?” asked the driver.
“They’re ducats,” said Mozart.
“What country is that?”
“Austria,” said Mozart.
“I’ve heard of it, but I can’t take ‘em,” he said. “I gotta have bucks. Real money. Aint you got any?” Mozart could only shrug. “Tell you what. See that bank over there? Maybe they’ll take ‘em, give you some American money. Come back to me. If I’m still here, I’ll take youse wherever.”
Mozart was soon inside the bank lining up at a teller’s window. After waiting his turn, he shoved several of his ducats under the grille. The teller spent more time staring at him than the ducats. “You will need to wait here,” she said and marched off to show the ducats to a bank officer. He came into the lobby area outside the teller’s window to talk privately with this customer.
“Are you aware that this is very old coinage?” he said giving the ducats back to Mozart and guiding him over to his desk. “I mean I have never seen so many ducats at one time.”
“Well, that’s what I always carry in my pocket,” said Mozart.
The bank officer seemed very concerned. “Numismatics is a hobby of mine,” he said, “so I happen to know something about this. I would say your four-ducat pieces are worth about $1000 dollars apiece.” He kept looking around him as though he didn’t want anyone to overhear him.
“Would that be enough for me to hire a taxi to go to the Upper West Side?”
“Oh, yes, sir. You could drive to Canada and back for that money--and have plenty left over.”
“Canada? Where is that?”
The bank officer looked hard at Mozart. “You’ve led kind of a sheltered life, haven’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Mozart. “Concert pianists don’t get out much. We’re always practicing. I’m also a composer.”
“What did you say your name was?”
Mozart had decided he better keep quiet about who he was. What if someone did recognize him? he wondered. How could he possibly explain what he was doing here so far from home---as well as 200 years into the future? He remembered the taxi driver’s name which he saw displayed on a card inside the cab. “Joe Pelligrino,” he said quickly.
“I hear an accent, but you don’t seem very Italian,” said the bank officer. “Did you get these ducats in Italy?”
This man was asking way too many questions, thought Mozart.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Give me a thousand dollars for one of these coins, and I will give you one to keep---as a gift from me for your collection.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” said the