Mozart's Sister: A Novel (38 page)

That was the movement of hips and thighs she had seen Wolfgang making with Victoria, but to receive it—oh, to receive it was a completely different thing. Baptist raised himself slightly, and then pushed deeper and deeper, and gradually became fuller inside her, and she expanded and welcomed him joyfully, completely. She put her legs around him and began to move with him, and realized that this increased her pleasure, so she moved more forcefully, and realized that it increased his pleasure. Then she wanted him to stop and lie on the straw in her place and she was on him and took him back inside her, then she began to raise and lower herself and go back and forth in a crescendo, and meanwhile she entwined her fingers in his and never let her eyes leave his. Sometimes she slowed the rhythm, to savor this precious time, then again accelerated, and he followed her and guided her, with his hands wrapped tightly around her hips. Until neither could any longer resist the force that sweetly swallowed them, an explosion that, starting at the point of contact, radiated outward, dissolving the bodies of the two lovers, and their very identities, outside of that place, outside of time.

Lying on the straw in their close embrace, Nannerl and Baptist lay still for a long while, with hearts pounding at unequal rhythms, like elements of a single system, different and essential to each other.

XIII.

A slovenly servant wiped her runny nose on her sleeve, arranged the knot of her apron on her lower back, and knocked three times on the bedroom door.

“Excuse me, sir, may I enter?”

As she anticipated, she received no answer. Interrupting the master’s little nap was a suicidal act, but what else could she do?

She knocked louder. “Sir? Herr Mozart?”

She half opened the door, just in time to hear a shout: “What the devil do you want, you idiot?”

Quickly she went to open the shutters. “Sir…I’m sorry but you must get up. There’s a visitor for you.”

“And who might that be?”

“A very distinguished gentleman. He’s waiting for you in the parlor.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you tell him I don’t receive anyone at this hour?”

“Yes, but he said that it’s very important, and that he won’t go until he speaks to you. Look, he gave me his visiting card.”

Leopold took the card from the girl’s dirty hands, held it away from himself just enough so that he could decipher it, and on his face appeared an expression of satisfaction. “A baron? What in the world does he want? All right, bring me my scarlet jacket and go to the kitchen and prepare some refreshment.”

“What shall I prepare it with? The noodles left over from lunch?”

“Coffee and tarts, idiot!”

“What shall I make the tarts with? You won’t let me buy anything.”

“There must be some bread, surely? Slice it and butter it.”

“There’s not even any butter.”

“Invent something, you imbecile. Use your brain. Get going!”

Wandering among the dusty furniture of the room, Baptist searched for traces of Nannerl. Above an old harpsichord hung a painting that depicted the whole family: her father held a violin and was leaning on the case of a piano, while her mother, of whom Baptist had a vivid memory, was shown in a painting within the painting; she must by then have gone to a better life. Brother and sister were seated at the keyboard. Nannerl’s hair was done in an imposing and artificial style, bound at the top with a reddish ribbon from which a large tassel dangled. Her lovely face seemed to disappear completely, and her expression had something timid and sad about it. The celebrated Wolfgang did not seem much happier, but a greater resolve showed in his features; and if Nannerl touched the keys with some hesitation, his fingers reached out to dominate them.

“Good evening, Baron,” Leopold began, and, eying the card, added, “von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.” He came toward the baron leaning on his cane. Under the scarlet jacket he had buttoned the waistcoat wrong, and from under his wig sprang a tuft of white hair. “Your family is known to me, naturally, and yet I don’t recall ever having met you in person.”

“No, in fact, Herr Mozart,” Baptist answered with extreme politeness, shaking Leopold’s hand. “On the other hand, I had the opportunity of meeting, some years ago, the late Frau Anna Maria and also your daughter, Nannerl.”

“Neither of the two is present in this house, for very different reasons. Of the death of my wife you have had news, I see, while at the moment Nannerl is outside the city.”

“In Sankt Gilgen. I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes, Herr Mozart.”

“And how is that, if I may ask?”

“Because I have lived in that village for some time; and in fact I have had occasion to see Nannerl more than once in the course of the summer.”

“Oh, really? Then perhaps you can tell me something about her.” In a tone of resentment he added, “Recently her letters have been rather scarce.”

“That is exactly why I am here, Herr Mozart. Nannerl has charged me to inform you that she does not intend to return to Salzburg.”

“May I?” the servant chirped from the doorway, bearing triumphantly a tray with two cups of coffee and slices of black bread on which she had smeared some dubious substance. “Here’s everything: spoons, sugar. Would you like me to bring some milk, sir? There is half a jug left.”

“Get out!” Leopold shouted, and she disappeared in a flash. “Baron, I fear I have not correctly understood your declaration,” he whispered with increasing nervousness. “Since when does my own daughter engage a perfect stranger to bring me a message from her? And then, what a message! I sent her to the village so that she could recover from a serious affliction, whose causes I am not about to explain to you, but at this point I am forced to consider that the mountain air has made the affliction worse. Nannerl must be out of her mind by now!”

“It may be,” Baptist said calmly, “since she has consented to marry me.”

The stick fell out of Leopold’s hands and rolled to the baron’s feet. He picked it up. “Sit down, Herr Mozart. You seem to need to.”

He accompanied Nannerl’s father to the sofa, while the old man stammered, “But how…what…marry? And I…I didn’t know anything about it?”

“I understand that it might seem to you a rather sudden decision, but I assure you that it has in fact been very much thought about and properly motivated. Need I add anything more?”

Leopold cast a sidelong look at this fine-looking man with the eyes of a serpent. He spoke with an intolerable self-assurance, and even with a sense of pity! With tight lips he said, “It seems the idea that I might deny my consent hasn’t even occurred to you. And if I did so?”

Baptist didn’t lose his composure in the least. “Are you not pleased that your daughter will become a baroness, Herr Mozart? I confess that it surprises me: I would have bet on the contrary.”

“No—that is, yes…Really, the fact is that—you understand, I should have been informed of the matter with some advance notice! It isn’t right for a father to be cut out of a deliberation of such importance. Also, to tell you the truth, there are some things that you probably don’t know, and of which I alone can inform you.”

“Oh, indeed? Do so immediately, please.”

“Yes, but don’t stand there, Baron. Have a cup of coffee and some tarts,” Leopold said unctuously, considering that the shoes worn by this man must have cost as much as the floor they rested on.

“Thank you, but I must refuse: I don’t drink coffee, and in any case I dined just an hour ago. Tell me, then.”

Herr Mozart took a long, deep breath, and with the grim expression of one who announces a catastrophe, he stated, “Nannerl has no dowry. All my earnings, the family savings, the very proceeds of her lessons have been used up in supporting the studies of my son. Apart from some extra linens for the house, and a few pieces of furniture—which in any case it would be in bad taste to reuse—I have nothing, nothing to give her, do you understand?”

“And so?”

“I mean only that…that marrying her includes accepting a responsibility, not only for your wife but in some way for the entire family. I, a poor old man, am in danger of being left here, completely alone—in short, I thought it was my duty to let you know about the situation in its entirety.”

“I am grateful for your conscientiousness, but don’t worry: I will provide thoroughly for Nannerl and the children I hope we will have, since my means allow me to guarantee a comfortable life for those who are dear to me”—his gaze was fixed on the worn upholstery of the sofa—“and only those who are dear to me,” he concluded with a polite smile.

“Oh, well, I understand.”

“I am delighted. The marriage will be celebrated in Sankt Gilgen, in exactly fifteen days, in the church of Saint Giles. The guests will be only those who are indispensable—and yet they are not few, between Tresel’s family and the sons of my previous marriage.”

“What? The servant will be there?”

“Yes, of course. I will arrange to put at your disposal a carriage, Herr Mozart, so that you may be present and then brought back here, to your house, after the ceremony.”

“All right, Baron,” he grumbled.

“You may call me Baptist, if you like. As far as your other child is concerned, however, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t make the same arrangements, for obvious reasons of distance.”

The old man shook his head. “In any case, I don’t think Wolfgang would move from Vienna.” Then, growing animated, he continued: “His latest opera was a triumph, did you know? And you will understand that to abandon the field at the peak of success, even for a few days, might be an irrevocable mistake.”

“The concept is perfectly clear to me. Still, I imagine that Nannerl would like to tell him the news. Would you be kind enough to provide his address?”

“Please, forget it. I will write to him.” He lowered his voice and, with the air of one who is revealing a painful secret, added, “The relationship between my children is almost nonexistent now. At one time they loved each other dearly, and today they hate each other.”

“I wonder why,” Baptist said in a firm voice.

“Who knows?”

“Precisely: Who knows?” he repeated, then calmly retrieved his hat. “At this point I would say that we can end our meeting. I will let you know the details of your transportation to Sankt Gilgen.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. My respects, Herr Mozart.”

“Wait, Baron—that is, Baptist!” He stood up and hobbled to the door. With an attempt at a smile he said, “Would you accept that old harpsichord, at least? It has a certain value, and my daughter was very fond of it.”

“Frankly, Herr Mozart, I don’t think it would interest Nannerl anymore. Let’s leave it here. It goes very well under the painting.”

The Break

I.

Snow in the mountains, on the trees, snow icing the lake, snow even on the entrance drive.

The carriage stopped at the gate and a woman with a haggard face and wearing no makeup descended. She straightened the folds of her fur, which gleamed in the sun. Then from her purse she took a muff, also of fur, and put her hands inside. Breathing in the cold air she approached the iron bars and looked up at the roof of the villa, where a chimney was spewing smoke with a cheerfulness that was utterly out of place.

She went through the gate cautiously, leaving dainty footprints on the white ground, and passed a man who was intently hammering on a wheel. She gave him a vague nod of greeting.

“Would you like me to announce you, ma’am?” he said.

“I would prefer not,” she replied, and instead of going to the door, she slowly approached a window. With the muff, she cleared a square of frost, breathed on it, again wiped it with the fur, and tried to make out what was happening inside.

“Excuse me, but what do you want?” said the man at the wheel, coming up to her. “Tell me your name immediately!”

With sad, dark eyes she looked at his face and modest clothes. “All right, I’ll knock,” she said. She went to the door and rapped twice. A cheerful din escaped and some scattered cries, and yet no precise sound.

“They can’t hear you,” the man said. “You have to knock louder.”

So she raised the knocker and let it fall with a deafening thud and, when nothing happened, did it again and yet again, in a repetition that became more and more exasperated. The man observed her uneasily. Finally the door opened and a young man appeared with a child on his shoulders; the two of them emanated a palpable, irritating joyfulness.

“Oh, how nice! We have guests,” the young man began. “What may I do for you, ma’am?”

“I would like to speak to the baroness. Is she home?”

“Who are you?”

“Victoria d’Ippold, now Paumgartner. Your mother and I know each other well.”

“Really? Well, Nannerl isn’t my mother—she’s the woman I chose for my father,” he explained happily, and managed to kiss her hand without letting the child fall.
“Enchanté.
I am Vincent von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg. And this is Jeanette, my little sister. Jeanette, say hello to the lady. Come in, if you don’t mind, we’ll show you the way. It’s a great pity you’re married, Madame. I certainly would be inspired to court you.”