Mozart's Sister (32 page)

The evening before Mama and Wolfie were to leave, Papa called
a meeting around the kitchen table, his instructions laid before us.
He smoothed a map of Germany and pointed to Munich. "See
here? First you go to Munich. If you get offered a position there,
your trip is short and you return to us triumphant."

"If not?" Wolfie asked.

"Then you head toward Mannheim." His finger traced a route.
"You go through Augsburg, Dischingen-where Prince Carl
Anselm is staying-stop at the Cistercian Abbey of Kaisheim, then
on to Wallerstein or Hohen-Altheim. You'll have to find out at
which location Prince Kraft Ernst is staying...."

On and on Papa talked, giving distinct directions on where to
go, how to get there, when, and whom to see. That last was the
most important ingredient. This trip was all about making contacts,
providing those contacts with music that suited their needs (making
Wolfie appear indispensable), and then obtaining a paid position-a
highly paid position that would help support us all. A position of
honor too. For Papa had stressed how important it was that the archbishop be made to feel intense regret at Wolfie's absence.

Finally Papa sat back. "Well? Do you understand?"

Mama stared at the maps. "I think so."

Wolfie slapped the table. "It will be glorious! We will take Germany by storm."

"No storms. You will take the journey one step at a time," Papa
said. "One carefully planned step."

Wolfie sprang from his chair. "I want to go now. I don't want to
wait until tomorrow"

Papa shook his head. "There is still much to do." He suffered a
fit of coughing. He had a chest cold and shouldn't have been out of
bed.

Mama carefully folded the maps and instructions, looking at
them as if they were in Greek. She spoke to Wolfie. "Did you get
your music packed? And your violin?"

"I'm not bringing my violin. I hate the violin. I don't want to
be one of many; I want to be one of a kind."

Papa's coughing grew worse, so he left the room. Yet something
about the way his shoulders slumped made me follow him. I caught
up with him in the dark, standing at a front window, his arms
wrapped tightly around himself. He barely glanced at me when I
moved beside him.

"It will be all right, Papa. They will be all right."

He shook his head slowly, his eyes gazing over the square below
"This journey is going to be disastrous. I know it. I feel it."

The serious tone of his voice scared me. "No, Papa. It will
be-" His cough began again, wracking his entire torso. "You must
get to bed. They're leaving at six in the morning. You need to rest
and be well to see them off."

He shucked my hands away. "I have packing to do."

"I'll help."

"No, this I can do. This I must do."

His footsteps fell away, leaving me in silence except for the clop
of a horse's hooves against the cobblestones outside.

I'd expected a teary good-bye, but as Mama and Wolfie's departure played out, there wasn't time. The carriage was late, Wolfie had trot gone through the music as he'd been instructed, Mania couldn't
find her extra embroidery needles, and Wolfie tore the seam in his
sleeve, and I had to mend it while the horses grew restless outside.

Papa yelled instructions at the coachmen, telling them which
trunks needed to go where, coughing and wheezing through his
words. He'd stayed up until two in the morning packing, and I was
fairly sure he hadn't slept well in the few hours since then.

I hadn't. Although I wasn't going away, my nand swam with
lists-so much so that, in the middle of the night, I brought a piece
of paper and quill to my bedside. By morning, the paper was full.
But even my list didn't stave off the chaos. I'm sure we woke everyone on the entire square with our calls to one another for this and
that.

But finally the carriage was packed, and with a quick hug and a
kiss, we sent them on their wayas if they were only going across
town and not across steep mountain passes.

As the carriage turned the corner by the river, Papa suddenly
left my side and ran after it with one arm raised. "Wait!" There was
a plaintiveness in his voice that tore at my heart.

He stopped a few houses away, consumed by a fit of coughing.
His upraised hand, which had been open, closed, then fell to his
side. By the time I reached him, the coughing had subsided, but his
shoulders were slumped. His eyes were locked on the road where
they had gone.

This was not like Papa to show his emotions so blatantly. Of all
people, Papa had the ability to be calm in the midst of whatever
feelings claimed his heart.

Gingerly, I touched his shoulder. "Papa?"

"I should never have let them go."

"You had no choice."

He shook his head. "This will not end well. Will not. Will not."

Before I could ask what he meant, he did an about-face and
strode toward the house, ignoring the neighbors watching in the
square. I hurried after him, nodding a greeting to friends, offering a
smile that hopefully implied everything was all right.

But it was not. Once we were both safely inside, with Papa still
shivering from the late September air, I found it hard to look at him, to acknowledge the vulnerable and pathetic image he'd created with
his run down the road. And so I was relieved when he walked past
me and said, "I need to lie down."

I helped him to his bed and tucked him in, then returned to illy
own. Sleep seemed the only acceptable alternative to a quiet, empty
house.

"This will not end well."

What had we done?

I found my way toward accepting our situation before Papa did.
For though I missed Mama and Wolfie, I began to bask in the
knowledge that finally, after a lifetime of sharing my father's attentions-or being ignored-I now had him all to myself. Wolfie had
had his turn. Years of his turn. Now it was mine.

And yet it proved awkward to be just the two of us. Mania and
Wolfie had always been a shield between Papa and me, like two
fences keeping father and daughter apart while still allowing us to
see and speak to each other when needed. Now, with the fence
dismantled, knowing there was no one else in the house to hear us
when we spoke-except Therese, our cook, and she wasn't much
for talking or listening-the pressure to not disappoint each other
was palpable.

At least on my end. I'm not sure Papa felt any pressure in that
regard. He was never one to pay much notice to his effect on others.
To a lesser extent, Wolfie was the same. Once either man positioned
a goal in their minds, the blinders rose and they saw only what they
wanted to see, and did only what they determined needed to be
done. Hang the world.

I asked forgiveness for the sentiment. Not that I hadn't heard
such emotions repeated with even stronger language throughout my
life. Our family was not one to mince words. And in truth, I wished
I could have been more like Papa and Wolfie. I spent far too many
moments analyzing my words and actions. What will happen if I... ?
sped through ny thoughts many times daily. To my credit, I usually
guessed correctly. But to my dismay, the question meant too much to me. Why could some people care little about their effect while I
cared too much?

Because God said so. It was the only answer that offered comfort. I'd heard it said God delighted in variety, so how could I argue
with the Almighty if I didn't find such variety easy to tolerate? Or
understand?

What I did find in the weeks that followed Mama and Wolfie's
departure was a father who sank into a deep melancholy. Although
he was not confined to bed and got up every morning to make his
way to work, as soon as he came home in the evening, it was all he
could do to make polite conversation. On my side, it was exhausting
trying to be merry in a desperate attempt to pull him out of it.
Occasionally I even resented him for forcing me to be the strong
one. I didn't want to be strong. I wanted to wallow too-at least a
little.

But every time I worked myself up to tell him so, I'd catch sight
of him staring out the window with a piece of Wolfie's music on his
lap like a second-best companion, and I remained silent, unable to
add to his distress in order to share a bit of my own.

On one evening, two weeks after Mama and Wolfie left, I
couldn't find him. I'd just finished mending the velvet in his favorite
slippers and wanted to bring them to him as a surprise. But Papa
was not in his bedchamber, nor in the music room. I carried a
candle through the rest of the house, calling for him. Nothing.
Therese had not seen him leave. Nor had I. I even checked the
garden, though the evening air was full of bite and, considering his
recent chest cold, I hoped beyond hope he was not there.

He wasn't. But where was he?

Then, in passing the door to Wolfie's room a second time, I
heard a soft cough. The door was ajar, but the room was dark. I
pushed the door open slowly and let the candle lead my way inside.
Papa sat at Wolfie's desk, his head in his arms, asleep. He stirred,
perhaps awakened by the light. He looked over his shoulder at me.
"Nannerl?"

I held up his slippers. "I brought these for you. Your favorite, all
mended." My words seemed pathetic, needy, wrong. But they were
all I had.

He scooted the chair back and turned it to face me. He held
out his hand to receive the slippers, but I said, "Let me do it."

I knelt before him, removed his shoes, and put them on. Right
foot first....

When I'd finished, he touched my cheek. I looked up at him
and he smiled, and by the way the smile touched his eyes, I felt as if
he was really seeing me for the first time since they'd left. "Don't
worry, dear girl. I'll be the complacent, calm, and peaceable man
that's required. As the archbishop has instructed, I will endeavor to
render good service to both the church, His Grace, and ..." He
sighed deeply. "And my family. And you, dear Nannerl. Mark my
words, I will render good service to you too. I will do what I have
to do."

His words were pitiful and full of sorrow. Not knowing what to
say, I held my hand in place against his cheek. He leaned his forehead against mine.

We held this position, skin to skin, mind to mind, until the
candle snuffed itself out and left us in darkness.

I loved petticoats, as did Mama. Just two months previous, we'd
each had a new one made. But mine had not held up well, the lace
tearing away easily, the seams ripping. I brought it back to Marta,
the seamstress who'd made it, in order to complain of its lack of
longevity and ask for repairs-free repairs, as per Papa's direction.

Marta pulled at the lace that had ripped from its ruffle. "You
must have caught it on something."

"I assure you, I did not. I fear the stitches were not close enough
together to hold it." I showed her stitches that were too few per
inch.

She raised an eyebrow and moved her fingers along the ruffle to
another torn area. "I hear your brother has left to seek his fortune."
She glanced at me, her smile sarcastic. "With your dear mama this
time? How old is he now, fifteen?"