The Figaro Murders (13 page)

“Don't wake him up,” Mozart warned. “He likes to show off his voice and he always sings off-key.”

I placed my satchel on the floor and settled onto the long sofa in front of the windows. I ran my fingers over the rich damask cushion. Mozart was a renowned keyboard artist, in demand all over the city for private concerts. He and Constanze could easily afford this expensive apartment, with its high-quality furniture and lush fabrics.

“It's quiet here today,” I said. Usually when I was here, the house was full of people and noise: Mozart's students practicing on the pianoforte; singers rehearsing arias composed by him; friends made on his many journeys visiting as houseguests.

“Yes,” Mozart said. “I had a student this morning, and the guest room is empty right now.”

I stood as Constanze entered, carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle of white wine. Mozart opened the bottle and poured two glasses. Constanze carried a glass to me and settled next to me on the sofa. I sipped. The wine's slight sweetness played over my tongue. “Rhine wine?” I asked.

Mozart nodded. “We had friends from Mannheim staying last week.”

I took another sip, savoring it. I love wine, but it was hard to get anything but Hungarian Tokay in Vienna these days. To boost business in the wine-producing regions of his domain, the emperor had recently ordered that only wine produced in the empire be sold in the city. Most of the affordable wine came from large producers in Hungary. Only wealthy noblemen had the contacts and money to import wine from the farther reaches of the empire, or to flout the directive and obtain French or Italian wines.

“What's in the box?” Mozart asked.

“Some things that belong to a friend of mine,” I said. “Do you know Vogel, the barber?”

Mozart nodded.

“I went to have a shave Tuesday and found the shop closed. It seems Vogel has a large debt he cannot pay. While I was there, the constables took him off to prison.”

“The poor man,” Constanze murmured.

“He was distraught, but not only because of the prison sentence. His mother died last week. On her deathbed, she revealed that he was not her natural son.”

“He never knew, all these years?” Mozart asked. “Why, he must be my age, or older.”

“After his adoptive mother died, he found this box hidden in her cupboard. He believed the contents were valuable and that they might have belonged to his birth mother. He decided to try to find her.”

Constanze raised her brow. “He thinks she was an aristocrat, with money that would help him pay off the debt?” she asked.

I nodded. “Since he is to spend the next year in prison, I took pity on him and offered to help him find his real parents.”

Mozart rubbed his hands together. “A mystery! Can we see?” I nodded, and he pulled the lid off the box. Constanze joined him at the desk, and together they removed the muff, the ring, and the grammar book. Mozart studied the ring a moment and handed it to his wife. “What do you think?”

She rubbed the stone and turned the ring around in her fingers, eyeing it carefully. “Glass,” she pronounced. Mozart picked up the book and riffled through the pages. “I had a copy of this grammar when I was a boy,” he said. “You could buy one anywhere in Salzburg.”

“I know,” I said. “I just had an appraiser look at everything. He told me none of these things have any value.” I looked at Constanze, who was holding the muff, slowly rubbing her fingers against its fur. “My expert did not know what kind of fur that is,” I said, “but he was certain it was not white fox or ermine.”

She laughed. “It's cat hair! A worthless piece.”

Mozart took it from her and winked at me. “That's my girl, Lorenzo,” he teased. “She can pick out a cheap imitation a mile away!” He ducked as Constanze slapped him playfully. Her face grew serious.

“The poor barber,” she said. “He pinned all of his hopes on this box. What will you do next, Lorenzo? Do you have any other clues?”

“Yes, we need a packet of mysterious letters, preferably written in code,” Mozart said, his eyes gleaming. “Perhaps we can trace Vogel's lineage back to the Habsburgs!”

Constanze swatted at him again. She turned back to me. “These things look like trinkets that a young, naïve girl might think were valuable. Perhaps they were given to her by some rich older man who was trying to seduce her.”

“I had the same thought,” I said.

“But how to find that man?” she continued. “Truly, Lorenzo, the task seems impossible. There is nothing to be learned from these things.”

“I know,” I said. “I am going to have to visit Vogel in prison and break the bad news. I hope that if I talk to him awhile, he might remember something he heard or saw when he was younger, something that could help me figure out my next step.”

“Don't spend too much time on this, Lorenzo,” Mozart warned. “Remember, we premiere in three weeks.” He sat down at the worktable.

I winced. “I remember,” I said. I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him about my predicament with Pergen. I had been warned to keep my investigation a secret, but didn't Mozart have a right to know about any possible impacts it might have on our project?

“What is it, Lorenzo?” Constanze asked.

I looked at the two of them. Constanze stood behind Mozart, her hand on his shoulder. He reached up and placed his hand over hers. I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said. “I'm tired, that's all.”

“I'll leave you to your work,” Constanze said. I rose and kissed her hand again. As she closed the double doors behind her, I retrieved my satchel, carried it over to the table, and sat down opposite Mozart. I pulled out some papers.

“What did you come up with for the end of the third act?” he asked. He picked up Vogel's ring and began to fiddle with it.

The opera takes place on the wedding day of two servants of the lecherous Count Almaviva of Seville: his valet, Figaro; and his wife's maid, Susanna. The two servants join forces with their mistress to prevent the count from exercising his feudal privilege of droit du seigneur, the right of a lord to be the first to bed a female servant on her wedding night. At the end of the third act, the two servants are finally married. During the festivities, the bride passes a note to the count, proposing a tryst in the garden. Unbeknownst to both the count and Figaro, the rendezvous is actually a plan concocted by Susanna and the countess to catch the count being unfaithful to his wife and to end his womanizing once and for all.

“I wrote some verses for a duet between Susanna and the count,” I said. “Susanna will sing about her true intentions as she passes him the note—”

“I've been thinking about a pantomime,” Mozart said as he lightly tossed Vogel's ring from hand to hand. “How about this: the orchestra will play as the characters mime the wedding ceremony. Wait—let's begin with a song praising the count, maybe from two of the peasant girls. You can write something short and quick. Then the ceremony. Susanna will find a way to give the note to the count. No words, just music. After that, general dancing. Maybe a fandango.”

“No poetry?” I snatched the ring mid-toss and placed it and the muff into the box.

“No poetry, no arias. I think this idea will make for better theater. I'll write some dance music, the peasants will dance to it while the wedding is going on. The singers will mime the ceremony. After the dance, we can have the count and Figaro comment on it all. But nothing fancy.”

My face must have shown my reaction to this plan, for he laughed. “Don't look so disappointed, my friend,” he said. “Let the music and action shine here. No need to clutter things up with words.”

I opened my mouth to speak.

“I know, I know,” Mozart said. “You're going to tell me that the poetry is as important as the music.”

It was a long-standing friendly argument between the two of us.

“Well, it is true,” I said. “The poetry is the door to the music, it's an integral part of the opera. If it is not necessary, why not set your music to a pharmacist's recipe collection, or a bookseller's catalog, or even this?” I held up Vogel's grammar.

“My music would be sublime even set to those,” Mozart said. We both laughed. “No, I like the pantomime idea, with the dances. Let's try it. Your poetry will enhance every other part of the opera.” He began to scribble on a piece of paper. I pulled the rejected duet toward me and, taking up a pen, began to edit it. We worked for a while, our pens scratching over the papers, the silence interrupted only by Mozart's occasional humming of a few bars of music.

I heard the bells at the Stephansdom chime the hour. I put down my pen and looked over at my friend, who was engrossed in his work. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Fatigue seeped through my bones. My mind retraced the events of the last two days, starting with my run-in with Casti and Rosenberg, then Salieri's mysterious remarks, and finally the hours I had spent with Pergen and Troger. I hadn't been able to tell Mozart and Constanze about the Auerstein murder. I was certain that Rosenberg was behind my predicament, that he had recommended me to Pergen in order to distract me from work on the opera. I did not want Rosenberg and Casti's conspiracy against me to harm my young friends. I sighed. I had to concentrate on my work. I had to find Florian Auerstein's killer. For if I was able to solve the murder for Pergen, and
Figaro
was a success, my enemies would be quieted once and for all.

 

Eight

The library in the Palais Gabler seemed less gloomy the next morning, its windows wide open to admit the breezes of the warm day, the heavy drapes pulled back to let in the sunlight. I sat at a small table, my notes spread before me.

“I apologize, Signor Da Ponte,” the baroness said. “I had hoped that by today this room would seem less haunted.” She shivered and pulled her lacy white shawl around her shoulders. “Although now that I am here, I can see that it will be some time before we can use it again without thinking of poor Florian.”

Marianne rose from her place on the sofa beside her mistress and gathered her sewing. “Shall we move, madame? Perhaps the salon would be better?” I stood.

“No, it's all right, Marianne, we are settled here. We don't want to waste Signor Da Ponte's time.” She turned to me. “Please, signore, why don't you begin? I am sure that once I hear the poems you have chosen, I will forget my cares.”

“Very well, madame.” I sat and took up a sheet. “If you will allow me, I shall read the first verse of this poem in its original Italian, and then translate it for you. That way you will be able to hear the rhythm of the work the way the poet intended.” I looked up to see her velvet eyes regarding me. My heart started to beat faster and my hands suddenly felt clammy, like those of a schoolboy facing his first recitation. “This is a sonnet by Francesco Petrarch, written in the fourteenth century.” Her eyes met mine again as she gently nodded for me to proceed. I took a breath and cleared my throat.

Amor m'à posto come segno a strale,

come al sol neve, come cera al foco,

et come nebbia al vento; et son già roco,

donna, mercé chiamando, et voi non cale.

I looked up to see the baroness leaning back into the cushions of the sofa, her eyes closed, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Such a beautiful language,” she murmured.

“So many vowels!” Marianne said as she took a small pair of scissors from her mending basket and snipped a long thread. “What does it mean?”

“It translates to this,” I said.

Love has placed me as a target for his arrow,

like snow in sun, like wax in fire,

like mist in wind; and I am already hoarse,

calling for mercy, lady, and you do not care.

Marianne frowned. She opened her mouth to speak. The baroness touched her shoulder, hushing her. “Please read us another verse, signore.”

I cleared my throat again and continued.

From your eyes came the mortal blow,

against which neither time nor place can help me;

from you alone—and you take this lightly—

come forth the sun and fire and wind that makes me so.

“The poet is in love,” the baroness said. Her eyes met mine and held them. The pit of my stomach felt strangely hollow.

“Yes, madame, he is. This sonnet is one of a large collection Petrarch wrote about his love for a lady named Laura. He first saw her in a church in Provence when he was twenty-three. He spent the rest of his life writing about his love for her, continuing even after her death, twenty-five years later.”

“Were they married?” Marianne asked.

“No, Miss Haiml. We don't know for certain, but most scholars believe that Petrarch never even spoke once to the lady in all those years.”

“He spent his whole life writing about a woman he never spoke to?” Marianne laughed. “That's ridiculous!” She looked at her mistress. “Can you imagine that, madame? The poor man spent his life besotted with a woman he didn't even know!”

The baroness smiled.

“I imagine there were plenty of women around him who longed for his attention,” Marianne continued. “Men! Such fools!” She rolled her eyes.

My heart sank as the baroness tittered along with her.

I cleared my throat. The baroness stopped laughing, gave Marianne a little slap on the arm, and sat up straight. “I am sorry, signore,” she said. “Please continue.”

I turned to Marianne. “You see, Miss Haiml, no one knows whether Laura was a real woman in Petrarch's life, or an ideal woman he created for the purpose of his poetry.” She frowned. “The poems are not really about Laura, they are about Petrarch himself. He describes the changing feelings of a lover, an arc of development from physical to divine passion.” Marianne's face was blank, but I forged ahead with my explanation. “Many students of Petrarch believe that Laura is a symbol; that the poems, instead of being about a man's love for a woman, are really about the poet's love of fame, and his struggle to live a virtuous life without striving for human glory.”