Mozart's Sister (34 page)

Often, they climbed back to the top of the mountain from
whence they could see their path. They started at the beginning, and tentatively gathered speed and confidence as they traveled down
the music's slope to a safe landing at the bot-

"You are progressing well, Nannerl. The runs are even in their
execution."

I reached the bottom of the run with a flat where there should
have been a natural. My fingers pulled away from the keys as if
embarrassed for being caught.

"Continue," Papa said.

It had been years since he'd asked me to play. "On that piece?"

He strode to the stack of music on the table and fingered
through. "No. This one. I heard you play it last week, and you executed the trills incorrectly." He brought me the music, a sonata by
Haydn. He pointed to a measure containing a trill marking. "Play
this for me."

I was oddly nervous but played it the way I had always played it.

"No, no, you go on too long." He nudged me over on the
bench so he could demonstrate. "See? If the composer wants a trill,
he will write it this way. But an embellishment is merely that." He
played two notes, the first barely there. "It should be a flip to the
ear, like the vibrato of a voice, so the listener is pleased but isn't sure
why. You are making the notes bright red when they should be
palest pink."

I nodded, truly understanding. I played it again.

"Bravo!" Papa said with a clap. "You are a good student"

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, looking at each other. "I used
to be your student, Papa."

His eyes held mine for a long moment before looking away. "We
must go back to that. I have been preoccupied too long. It's time
you benefit from my knowledge. After all, you are here" He chuckled and smiled at me. "You are here and so am I. I have the time
and you have the talent. It's the perfect situation, yes?"

Oh yes.

After work one day, Papa sought me out as I painted some targets for our air-gun shooting. I was painting the trees for a mountain scene when he found me and said we were going out to dinner.

"But why?"

He kissed my cheek. "Can't I take my favorite daughter to dinner?"

"But Therese has made"

He took the paintbrush out of my hand and dropped it in the
glass of water with a soft p{Ilop. "We can have it for lunch tomorrow
Come, Nannerl. We have something to celebrate"

In spite of my prying, he would not say more. Yet just the fact
he was in a good mood was reason to celebrate. Working for Archbishop Colloredo day after day had generally made grumpiness and
melancholy our evening's companion.

We walked arm in arm to the Boar's Head, where Papa ordered
breaded veal and gnocchi for both of us, with kirsch cake for dessert.
He joked with the proprietor and with the other patrons. He was
his old self again: confident, outgoing, gregarious. I did not press for
the good news. Knowing he had felt out of control so long, I was
willing to let him be in control now.

Finally he was ready to share. He placed his arms on the table
and leaned toward me confidentially. "The news is ..:' He drew it
out, smiling at me.

"Yes, Papa, yes?"

His eyes glanced furtively around the room, making sure no one
was listening. "The archbishop has been humiliated"

That was it? I sat back, disappointed.

He pulled my hand, wanting me close again. "I heard that
Count Firmian had a conversation with the archbishop about our
Wolfgang."

"And... ?"

Papa looked practically gleeful. "The archbishop started by saying, `Now we have one man less in the orchestra,' to which the
count replied, `Your Grace has lost a great virtuoso.' To which His
Grace replied, `Why so?"' Papa straightened his back, grinning.
"The good count replied, `Mozart is the greatest clavier player I have
ever heard in my life; on the violin he rendered very good service
to Your Grace, and he is a first-rate composer.' The archbishop was
silent, for he had nothing to say!"

"That's good," I said.

It was his turn to sit back. "That's the extent of your reaction?"

"That's very good." It was all I could manage.

"You don't care that your brother is missed? That his talents are
being requested? That the very person who has shamed our family
with such deplorable treatment is held accountable and is told he is
wrong?"

I knew I should be happy, even giddy with vindication. I knew
that's what Papa expected.

And so I gave it to him. Pulling from a place beyond the emotions of here and now, I pasted on a smile, leaned toward my father,
took his hand, and willed there to be a gleam in my eyes. "The
archbishop is getting what he deserves. Vengeance is ours, Papa."

He raised a finger. "Saith the Lord!"

He'd made the proclamation too loudly, and other patrons
looked in his direction. Which made us break into laughter.

He lowered his voice. "The point is, our dear Wolfie is loved.
His talent is acknowledged. And His Grace's actions have been
brought to bear at last. His humiliation is frosting to our cake."

This last fact made me a bit nervous, for humiliation was not an
emotion most people took lightly. Especially men in power.

It is a sad fact that one never appreciates a person until they are
gone.

So it was with Mama. When it had been the two of us alone at
home, I'd done my share of the chores and had never given too
much thought to what slie did. But now that she was gone two
months and I was left with her chores as well as my own ... Olt,
Mania. I'ni so sorry for taking yon forgranted.

Papa gave me a compliment. He said he was proud of me, and
called me industrious and steadfast. I appreciated his kind words, and
yet, as I stood in the kitchen, ironing his shirts with the sweat pouring off my brow making the curl in my hair rebel, I found them less
than appealing. For the same traits could be said of Therese, our
maid and cook, or of Roth, the man who handled our mail, or even Dren, whose job it was to scoop horse muck from the square in
front of our house.

I caught my reflection in the mirror that hung above the hooks
that held the bed warmers. It wasn't as though I hadn't looked at
myself that very morning, but seeing myself in this glance, without
benefit of adjusting a smile or a stray hair, was shocking. Was this
old woman in the mirror me?

I left the heavy iron on the stove and moved closer to the mirror
to study this person I didn't know. My fingers ran over my cheeks,
my neck, my lips. I was not pretty. My nose was too large, my eyelids too pronounced, my forehead too high. My eyes were brown
but devoid of the yellow and hazel flecks that graced Wolfie's. I had
a dimple in my chin, and my mouth was small when compared to
my other features, my lips far from voluptuous like some women I
knew. My eyebrows were expressive, as if they made up for the
blandness of the rest of my face. I had no pronounced cheekbones;
the outline of my face was simply drawn, with few variations as
points of interest. And my skin ... Though without blemish, it was
pale to the point of pallor. The slight blush to my cheeks on this day
came from the heat of my chore rather than health or happiness.
And the lustrous hair of my youth was gone. It had turned a nondescript dark blond, nearly brown, and was without sheen. My hair
was the color of a dusty bird's nest. I leaned closer. Was that one
gray? I plucked it and stood back.

I looked old.

I was old. I was twenty-six and unmarried. My merits were few.
As a young girl I'd seen the world and had entertained princes and
queens with my talent. But except for a few trinkets kept in a locked
case, my memories of that time were so faded that sometimes I
wondered if any of it had been real or if they were merely a pleasant
dream. How I wished I'd been an artist, able to sketch the places I'd
been ... to capture the moments with a picture.

My adolescent ambition to become a great musician was ailing,
if not dead and buried. My European performing career, which was
cut short because I'd become of marriageable age, seemed ironically
wasted, considering I was not married and had no eager prospects. My career had been sacrificed for a domestic ideal that was ... less
than ideal.

I was not only old. I was an old maid.

A pitiful vocation, all in all.

No wonder I didn't have a beau.

Apparently being industrious and steadfast wasn't an enticement.

The music room was a godsend. When we'd lived in the small
apartment, we'd had no room to entertain a large group of friends,
but here in our larger quarters, with this wonderful room that
stretched across the street-side of the house ... we could entertain
well, giving everyone plenty of room to perform and mingle.

That evening there was a roomful, including some visiting musicians from the theater whom we'd met after their performance.
There was an oboist, a flautist, a cellist, and two violinists. All had
brought their instruments. And to my delight Francesco Ceccarelli,
the famed castrato, was also present. I had been so impressed with
his voice at the performance. Clearer than any woman's.

Papa had splurged for this assembly. He often did so with traveling musicians because he hoped they would spread the word about
the Mozart name and household along their travels. Word of mouth
was so important. In return we often received free tickets. If only
Wolfie were here to perform with us. Now, that would have been
of even greater benefit. And pleasure.

Papa clapped his hands to get everyone's attention, then took up
his violin with one hand and pointed to the music on the keyboard
with the other. "Gather up, gentlemen. My daughter and I have just
completed copying portions of the latest opera by my son, Wolfgang, who is currently off on tour."

I inwardly shook my head at Papa's exaggeration. Tour,
indeed ...

The musicians gathered close, finding their parts. "Herr Mozart,
we are not a full orchestra. There are parts that will not be played,"
the oboist said.

Papa extended his bow toward me. "That is where our lovely Nannerl comes in. She will cover those parts on the keyboard."

"All of them?" the cellist asked.

He winked at me. "She is very talented."

I felt my face flush, and my mind flitted back to the kitchen that
very afternoon, where my pallor had been broken only by the heat
of my chores. How much better to gain beauty through the compliments of one's father.

As the musicians got settled with their music stands and chairs,
Signor Ceccarelli took his place to my right. "I will read off your
music and turn pages, si, mia cara?"

Blushing proved rampant that evening.