The Figaro Murders (29 page)

As the opening to the third act sounded, I looked over to the side door of the theater. I hoped that the recipient of my invitation to the rehearsal had agreed to come, and that he would arrive in time. We were only at the beginning of the act; there were plenty of scenes before his presence was required.

The singers moved easily through the act. Mozart had made Kelly see reason, and the impudent tenor sang his role as the judge without a stutter. A few scenes later, the cast exited the stage, leaving it to the two female leads, Nancy Storace and Luisa Laschi. As Beaumarchais's Countess Almaviva and her maid, Susanna, the two sopranos looked beautiful in their costumes, Laschi clad in a lavish, jeweled white gown and Storace, although the bigger star of the two, wearing the simple costume of the lady's maid. Their voices soared in a duet, in which they plotted a tryst for the maid in the count's garden.

“What a gentle breeze there'll be this evening,” Laschi sang.

“A breeze … this evening,” Storace echoed.

“Beneath the whispering pines,” they both sang.

“He'll understand the rest,” they agreed.

The women were composing a note to trap the count in an act of infidelity with the maid. I smiled at the irony—my beautiful poetry and Mozart's lush music portraying two scheming women. I had to admit to myself that it was a stroke of genius on both our parts.

As the scene concluded and the ladies received their bravas from the guests in the audience, I glanced over at the theater door. Still no one. My stomach began to churn. The end of the act was now only a few moments away. I turned my attention back to the stage. A group of peasant girls, one obviously a gauche boy dressed to appear as a girl, presented flowers to the countess. The count and his nosy gardener arrived onstage, and the gauche peasant girl was revealed to be the amorous page the count had banished from court in the first act.

I looked over at the door again, straining to hear any indication of an arrival outside, but the noise from the stage drowned out all other sounds. I glanced to my right, at my trio of enemies. Rosenberg frowned at something on the stage. Salieri sat quietly, his usual bored expression on his face. Casti, however, was laughing along with the action. I smiled to myself. If he knew I was watching him, he would be sneering instead, just to spite me.

By now the budding soprano Anna Gottlieb, playing the young daughter of the gardener, had convinced the count to allow the page to marry her. Francesco Benucci, singing the title role of the valet, Figaro, entered, and launched into a musical battle of wits with the count. I looked over at the door. Still no one. My hands grew cold.

Suddenly the music and singing stopped. The time for the act's finale had come. My heart sank. I had been so sure my plan would work, I had not concocted a second strategy. Mozart turned to me from his seat at the pianoforte, his eyebrows raised in question. I gestured for him to stall for a few minutes. He turned to the stage.

“Let's take a five-minute break. Everyone stay onstage, please.”

Rosenberg stood and loudly cleared his throat. “Herr Mozart, continue with the rehearsal, please. Your opera is very long, and my time is short this morning.” Casti shot me a grin.

Mozart looked over at me. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest I could swear everyone in the theater heard it. I froze, unsure of what to do.

“Herr Mozart?”

Mozart shrugged at me and turned back to the orchestra. He raised his hand and waited a long moment. As his hand lowered, the flutes, cornets, and strings began to play the first measures of the lilting march that opened the finale. Just then, the door to my left opened. I exhaled loudly. The orchestra members who faced the door stopped playing. Mozart, his back to the door, continued to wave his hand.

Rosenberg leaped to his feet. “Herr Mozart, stop, please!”

By now everyone in the theater had risen. Mozart and I both stood and bowed as the emperor, accompanied by a few courtiers, entered the room. Rosenberg rushed to greet him, and led him to a seat in front of his own. Casti approached the emperor and kissed his hands. “Please continue, Mozart,” the emperor said.

The orchestra began the scene again. The chorus entered, the men dressed as huntsmen, the girls in long, flowing gowns. Two of the maidens sang a song praising Count Almaviva. The rest of the chorus joined in. When they had finished, Mozart put down his hands. The orchestra fell silent. Onstage, a wedding ceremony took place. Nancy Storace gesticulated wildly as she passed the amorous note to the count, Stefano Mandini. He waved his hands over his head. They looked ridiculous, like giant puppets on a children's theater stage.

The emperor snorted. He began to stand. Rosenberg jumped up. “Stop, everyone!” The emperor turned to Casti. “What is this?” he asked.

Casti rose and gave a fawning bow. “I do not know, Your Majesty. Perhaps if you asked the theater poet—”

“Da Ponte? Where are you?” the emperor called. I got to my feet, grabbed my libretto, and hurried to him.

“What is this?” he asked, gesturing toward the singers on the stage. I said nothing, just handed him the pages from the libretto. It was my other copy, which still contained the scene Rosenberg had thrown into the fire.

The emperor scanned the pages. “This calls for dancers,” he said. “Where are they?”

I shrugged and looked over at Rosenberg.

“Where are the dancers, Theater Director?” the emperor asked.

Rosenberg's face whitened. “Your Majesty, I considered it best to remove the ballet,” he sputtered. “As you know, the opera company has no dancers.”

“Can't they be borrowed from one of the other theaters?” my wise Caesar asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty, but I thought you—”

The emperor waved his hand. “Then get Da Ponte as many as he needs,” he said. He called over to Mozart, who had been standing at the pianoforte. “Mozart, skip this scene and continue. Dancers will be here later, you can rehearse the finale then.”

Mozart bowed, stole a glance at me, sat down on the bench, shuffled through his score, and gave instructions to the singers and orchestra. The emperor settled back into his seat. The music began. Rosenberg summoned Thorwart and whispered in his ear. The assistant theater manager hurried out the door.

I smiled.

 

Twenty-eight

The emperor stayed another hour, during which I entertained myself by glancing every so often at my adversaries. When the emperor applauded a scene, their faces fell in unison, and when he stood to shout “Bravo!” at the end of a difficult aria, three sets of lips tightened into thin, pinched lines. When the emperor left for the Hofburg, all three scurried after him.

Six dancers from the imperial ballet arrived by one o'clock, and we skipped dinner to work with them. By three, the long day was blessedly over. The singers and orchestra dispersed. Mozart and I left Thorwart to close up the theater and walked into the late-afternoon sun.

“Did you see Rosenberg's face?” Mozart clapped me on the shoulder. “I thought he was going to lose his breakfast then and there.”

I laughed.

“You are a genius, Lorenzo! What made you think to just invite the emperor to the rehearsal and see the butchered scene for himself? I would have stormed over to the Hofburg, demanded an audience, and tried to make my case.”

I smiled. “It was a risk, but I know him well,” I said. “I knew that he would think the scene was ridiculous without the ballet. Besides”—I grinned wickedly—“why go behind Rosenberg's back to embarrass him when you can do it to his face, with the emperor and the entire cast present?”

Mozart laughed. “I feel good about this opera, Lorenzo. I think we'll have a hit on our hands in a few weeks!”

A sudden weariness swept over me. “I hope so.” I sighed.

“What's wrong, my friend?” Mozart peered into my face.

“I'm tired, that's all,” I lied.

“Whatever happened with your barber? Did you find his mother?”

“No. I've followed lots of leads, all of which have gotten me nowhere. I think I'm ready to give up trying.”

“You did your best. That's all he can ask of you,” Mozart said. “Are you sure that's all that's wrong?”

“Too much work, not enough time,” I said.

He hesitated. “If you don't mind my saying so, Lorenzo—you should find yourself a nice wife. Stop running from this lady's maid to that singer. Find someone to make a life with. Things become much simpler with a wife. You know what I always say—a bachelor is only half alive!”

I laughed as he slapped me on the back.

“You know, I think we have achieved the near impossible, Lorenzo.” Mozart chortled. “That rare moment when a good composer, one who understands what great theater is, meets an able poet.”

“Able?” I teased. “Is that all I am?”

“No!” He laughed. “You are that true phoenix—the perfect partner! A brilliant librettist
and
a brilliant conniver!”

My cheeks grew warm with pleasure at his praise. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. “I had better get home. I promised Carl a ride on Horse this afternoon.”

We embraced briefly, then I stood watching as he walked, whistling, down the Kohlmarkt, his hands in his pockets.

*   *   *

I turned and trudged down the Herrengasse to the palais. The relief and excitement I had felt when the emperor ordered Rosenberg to bring in the dancers had dissipated, and a strong sense of disappointment and melancholy overcame me. I had been so sure that Katrin Aigen was Vogel's mother! Now I was back where I started, with no other leads to follow. I did not look forward to visiting Vogel in prison and telling him I had failed him. And I had yet to decide whether to tell Troger that I suspected the baron had killed Florian Auerstein and Caroline.

The street was crowded this late sunny Saturday afternoon. It seemed all of Vienna, at least those without carriages to take them out to the Prater, had decided to stroll. I stayed as far to the right as I could, close to the buildings. I knew in my current mental state I would not be alert to a carriage rushing at me suddenly.

“Signor Da Ponte?”

I looked up from my thoughts to find a man, a stranger, had come from behind me and was matching my step on my right.

“Yes?” As I turned to him, I felt a sharp object push against my left side. A strong arm grabbed my left elbow. The man on the right pushed closer to me.

“Keep quiet, Signor Poet. Just keep walking.”

My heart raced as I recognized the voice and guttural accent.

“What do you want with me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Just keep walking, signore, and don't call attention to yourself. You will regret it if you do.”

We veered sharply into a long alley. They pulled me several feet around a corner. The tall walls of two noble palaces pressed in on the narrow alleyway. The ground was strewn with garbage, dumped from the kitchen of the great houses. I gagged at the stench. The noise of the street could not be heard back here. All was quiet except for the sound of someone playing a pianoforte high above in one of the homes.

“What do you want?” I cried. “I have just a little money.” I drew out my coin purse and threw it on the ground. “Take it and let me be!”

The man with the accent pushed me against the wall. His companion reached down and pocketed my purse.

“Go keep watch,” my assailant told him. He turned his attention back to me.

“Weren't you warned to keep out of business that doesn't concern you?” he asked me. He shook his head. “But you Jews can't help yourselves, can you?” He punched me in the stomach.

Pain shot through me. I groaned. “Who sent you?”

He laughed. “You know who did.” He punched me again. I fell onto the muddy ground. My hands clutched at something slimy. I shuddered and let go.

“Goddamn Jew!” He kicked me in the side.

I tried to curl into a ball to protect myself, but I could not move. The pianoforte tinkled from above. He kicked me again, then again. I recognized the tune, a sprightly aria from Mozart's last opera. My attacker leaned over and turned me facedown, pressing my mouth into the nearest pile of garbage. I gagged. He twisted me back around to face him. I tried to open my mouth to cry for help, but I could not move my lips. The music stopped. He mounted me and sat on my aching stomach. He pummeled my face with his fists.

“Filthy goddamn Jew! Think you're better than the rest of us!”

A warm, salty liquid came from my mouth. The pianoforte resumed, its player repeating the passage I had just heard.

“Come on,” I heard my assailant's companion call. “That's enough.”

“In a minute,” my attacker said. He leaned over me, his putrid breath in my face. “One more minute.” He smiled evilly, and reached inside his cloak, pulling out a halberd. My eyes widened.

“Who's the better man now, Signor Abbé?” he said, sneering.

“Come on!” His friend's voice was more urgent. “Someone will hear us. We're not paid to kill him!”

My assailant raised the halberd above his head. The music stopped again. I saw the yellow of his rotten teeth, then a field of stars. I fell into blackness.

 

Twenty-nine

I don't know how long I lay there before consciousness returned. I gingerly pulled myself up on my hands and knees and groped for my stick, which I found in a pile of trash a foot away. My face felt wet and sticky. I rummaged through my cloak and found a handkerchief. When I pulled the clean cloth away from my face, I saw blood and dirt all over it.

My entire body groaned as I pulled myself to a standing position. I stumbled as I slowly made my way out of the alley. The few passersby on the now quiet Herrengasse stared at me as I trudged by, but no one stopped to ask if I needed help.

My stomach churned with worry. How had my assailants discovered that I was born a Jew? I had not practiced that religion for twenty-three years, not since the monsignor of Ceneda, named Lorenzo Da Ponte, had baptized my family so that my father could marry a Christian woman. It was he who had seen that I was given an education. I had eagerly taken our patron's name, and would always be grateful to him for changing my life. I had never told anyone here in Vienna that I had been born in the Jewish ghetto. I shivered as I wondered who had paid the man to beat me, and how he knew so much about me.