Mozart's Sister: A Novel (17 page)

“That is what I hoped to hear,” Baptist declared. Then he became absorbed in thought, and suddenly said, “It’s too bad your brother, Wolfgang, isn’t here in Salzburg.”

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

“Only he would be able to compose timeless music, to accompany the lines of my poem. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, of course. He’s the only one, no one else in the world,” she said coldly and turned again to look out the window.

“May I ask you if you are in touch by letter? I imagine long letters between brother and sister. Is that not so?”

“Of course! Wolfgang writes me reams of letters. And some day or other I’ll answer, don’t worry. Any other questions?”

He was silent, more and more aroused by her rude manner, and meanwhile he imagined working his way under Nannerl’s red skirt and the petticoats that were undoubtedly white and embroidered, and of caressing her legs with his hands and of tasting them with his tongue. Baptist was sure that if the mute anger of this young woman was transformed into sensual energy, they could lose themselves and their very identities; but the rolling of the carriage marked the passage of ill-spent time, and Getreidegasse came closer and closer.

“Do you like the mountains, Fräulein Mozart?” he asked suddenly. “I have a house on a lake, at Sankt Gilgen. Those who have visited me, I must say, have been delighted.”

“I know Sankt Gilgen. It’s where my mother is from.”

“Oh, really? I’m so sorry I didn’t discuss it with Frau Mozart. In any case, there will be opportunities: I could organize an excursion, as soon as the days are longer.”

“Our maid is from Sankt Gilgen as well. The excursion, perhaps, could be made with her.”

Just then, the coachman pulled on the reins: to Nannerl’s great relief, they had reached their destination. “Baron, thank you for the ride. You have been extremely kind,” she said with the barest minimum of politeness, jumping down and slamming the door. Then she leaned through the window to whisper to him: “Don’t forget, write a nice poem. I’ll be happy to hear you recite it.”

He cried after her, “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if you’re not too busy,” but Nannerl had already disappeared through the entranceway. So Baptist smiled and nodded to the coachman, and the rocking of the carriage took on the rhythm of a violent imaginary embrace.

XIV.

The wide wheels of the carriage that bore Leopold and Wolfgang out of Bologna produced a serene rolling motion. The carriage belonged to Don Carlo Broschi, the celebrated Farinelli, who had invited the Mozarts to his villa, a mile from Porta Lame. The man who had performed in Vienna, London, and Madrid, causing hysteria and madness—that castrato of unequaled range, breath, intonation, agility, quality of timbre, and feeling—lived in retirement in a small villa in the hills, in the shade of ash and mulberry trees.

Sitting opposite the Mozarts was a famous singer, Clementina Spagnoli, known as La Spagnoletta. As usual, her neck was concealed beneath a thick padding of shawls and scarves—she was terrified by the idea that a dastardly puff of wind might damage her vocal cords—but the adolescent daughter who accompanied her was charmingly exposed, and while Wolfgang pretended to look out the window, the corner of his eye was fixed on her immature breast, and he was happy enough. No one said a word. La Spagnoletta was to perform the following day, and to converse would tire her voice; her daughter was obliged by etiquette to be silent; Leopold was sunk in his own inscrutable thoughts; and Wolfgang’s could not be made public. The journey, in any case, was brief, and the residence that the idol of Baroque music had had built for himself appeared at the end of an allée framed by beds of cyclamens.

Farinelli was at the entrance, with his hands on his hips and an oddly timid smile on his face. Wolfgang finally detached his gaze and his thoughts from his carriage companion and turned them to the singer. He must have been sixty-five years old, but he didn’t show it; he was tall, thin, and erect, and his hair was darker than Leopold’s. He was a strange creature, like all castrati; he had soft fingers, narrow, slightly slumping shoulders, and a long neck, with no Adam’s apple, like a woman’s—or so, at least, one would imagine, for the neck was entirely swathed by his shirt collar. His legs were in a dancer’s pose, the right in front of the left, with the feet slightly turned out, and he wore a silver redingote with the elegance of one who is used to wearing costumes onstage. As soon as the carriage stopped, he came out to open the door, and La Spagnoletta fell on him, letting her voice, incredibly, emerge, but in a cautious whisper: “Adored maestro…”

The house was a jewel, beautifully frescoed and adorned with works of art that Farinelli had acquired or received as gifts. A broad carpeted staircase led to the first floor; in the center of a vast salon stood a billiard table, and on the walls hung portraits of the kings of Spain, Sardinia, and Asturias, and even a pope, all of whom had been Farinelli’s patrons. And yet there was nothing ostentatious in the exhibition of those trophies, and Don Broschi, showing them to his guests, seemed almost apologetic. His collection of musical instruments, too, was precious: different viols and numerous harpsichords built in various countries of Europe. While Leopold observed them with a critical eye, Wolfgang, for once, seemed barely interested in musical matters; the girl in the low-cut dress was, for him, much more fascinating. Standing beside her mother, who allowed a haughty boredom to be manifest, for she had already made this visit several times, the girl was reserved, fanning herself a little. Her golden-brown hair was gathered on top of her head, leaving bare the white nape, with its furrow; two locks of hair, artfully curled, fell from her temples to her shoulders, undulating in the wind made by the fan, and Wolfgang imagined touching them with a caress or even a kiss.

To his great surprise, the girl suddenly made a half turn, closed her fan, and stared at him, as if waiting for him to speak. Wolfgang was embarrassed. He had almost resolved to follow the adults into the next room, but she spoke to him: “Is it true that you’re only thirteen?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you speak Italian?” the girl asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“So is it true that you’re only thirteen?”

Before replying he looked at the door. “Actually, I’m two years older, but don’t tell my father I told you.”

“Why should I?” she said, as if insulted.

Wolfgang felt her physicality emerging from her clothes like a magnetic wave. She, on the other hand, seemed to be studying him with scientific attention.

“Is it true that you are writing an opera for the Royal Ducal Theater of Milan?”

He limited himself to a nod.

“How did you get a commission like that? I mean, you’re only fifteen! And besides, what makes you think you can do it?”

He smiled to himself, not at all annoyed.

“You’ll be working with people who are at least twice your age,” she went on, shrugging. “In my opinion they’ll take advantage of you and you won’t get a word in.”

“Do you also study singing?”

“Are you serious? I hate music.”

Not even that heretical statement made her less attractive. “Why?” he asked.

“For my mother the theater has always counted more than me. The only thing that’s important to her in life is to put on a nice costume and hit her high C. How could I like the opera?”

At that moment, as if she had been summoned, La Spagnoletta appeared in the doorway to command her daughter to join the rest of the group; she did so not in words, of course, but with a gracious wave of her hand. The girl repressed a sigh of boredom, took Wolfgang by the arm, and led him through a small room with tapestry-covered walls, a corridor crowded with grandfather clocks, and a room that held a collection of ceramics, until, finally, they reached a salon from which there was a splendid view over the roofs of Bologna. Farinelli’s most beautiful harpsichord was set up there, and yielding to Leopold’s entreaties, he was preparing to display for his guests his mythic voice. On a stool near the window sat an aged man who wore the habit of a Franciscan. He greeted Wolfgang affectionately. He was a true crowned head of music, and not just Italian music: Father Giovanni Battista Martini.

“Do you know him?” the girl whispered to Wolfgang, surprised and a little irritated by the position that this boy from Austria was gaining in her territory.

“He’s the best maestro I ever had.”

“Big surprise,” she commented. “He’s the best there is.”

Everything possible had been said of Farinelli. That his voice made the orchestra players lose their concentration and caused his fellow performers to go out of character, that he loved women and also men, that he could make the most mediocre melody beautiful. This superhuman could range over three octaves as if they were one, could produce two hundred and fifty notes in a single breath, was able to hold a high note—vibrating, precise—for an entire minute. But all this when he was young; and both Wolfgang and Leopold strongly doubted that the old castrato was still able to astonish.

They were both mistaken, and grossly. Sitting at the harpsichord, which he had named Raffaello Sanzio, and accompanying himself with his slender hands, he held his chest erect to fill his expansive lungs, and his control of that breath was magisterial. From Carlo Broschi’s throat came a ribbon of pure silver, now dark, now bright, exploding in fireworks of harmonics in the center of the salon; his face was one with silver itself, and his entire body became an instrument. It was like seeing a cello, an oboe, and a clarinet combine and become human and gain even a soul, and sing it. Farinelli did not indulge in virtuosities like a nostalgic lion, but every embellishment was sober, necessary, and perfect, and every passage was incomparably natural, incomparably moving.

The Mozarts sat openmouthed, Father Martini listened with a faraway smile, La Spagnoletta affected a complicit appreciation, and her daughter had started fanning herself again, serious as the Sphinx.

“Nannerl should be here,” Wolfgang said softly to himself, sadly.

The girl heard him. “Who’s this Nannerl?” she whispered in his ear, distracting him from listening by the warmth of her lips.

“My sister.”

“And why isn’t she here?”

“She stayed home so that I could go,” he murmured.

“Good for you, then. Where’s the problem?”

Maybe she wasn’t completely wrong. The boy was silent and closed his eyes, letting the art of that marvelous interpreter permeate his entire being. Then he reopened them and gazed at Farinelli and at Father Martini, one a performer and the other a spectator. There they were, two men of a similar age, two equally superior minds, two equally simple persons. Perhaps it was age that made those two great men so without egotism, so modest and reserved. In the end, Wolfgang reflected, an old man has experienced and overcome problems that young men struggle with, and no longer has anything to prove. Far from the distracting tensions of daily life, he’s not blinded by the need to prove something, and is able to grasp only what’s essential in everything. To an old man, basically, nothing at all matters, not even dying, if he has lived well, and this is what makes him great.

“When I’m old I want to be like them,” he said in a low voice.

The girl replied after a moment. “I want never to be old. I want to be at most my mother’s age, and that’s it.”

“I, on the other hand, yes, I want to become old, very old. And you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go and live in a house in the country, like this, maybe even in Italy, maybe even around here. And it will always be open to my friends, who’ll be able to come whenever they want. And we’ll talk about art, if we feel like it, and then we’ll make music together.”

“What a bore! Luckily I met you as a young man,” she said, and staring straight at him she placed a hand on his thigh and intimately caressed him. He let her do it, happy and unmoving, with his gaze fixed on the wall and his lips parted, until Farinelli’s aria reached its climax in a piercing sharp, and then he abandoned himself. Fortunately his agitation could be read as musical rapture.

XV.

This letter did not contain secret messages in Latin, or at least so it seemed to Nannerl; her mother had opened it and Nannerl had offhandedly asked if that was all. Receiving a somewhat bewildered affirmative answer, she had dropped the subject and had gone to the woods to read the letter in peace.

Cara sorella mia,

I beg you to forgive me if I write only a few lines, but I am composing furiously and I always have my music in my head, nothing else. Besides, you are incredibly lazy in answering me, and as you can easily imagine, writing to an absent correspondent is even more laborious. Anyway, I hope that God is keeping you in good health and letting you enjoy the good weather, which in this part of the world already has a luxuriant splendor, but that in dear old Salzburg, too, will soon shed a warm light on those woods that you love more than any other thing or person.

Wolfgang A. Mozart

She had to read it a second time and then a third. She couldn’t believe that it was so cold and subtly accusing. Suddenly she heard a movement in the leaves, as if an animal were hiding in the bushes; she turned her head but saw nothing in particular, so she went back to the letter.