The Figaro Murders (2 page)

“A business deal?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. You see, signore, my mother died last week.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you, Signor Abbé. In a way, it was a blessing that God took her. She had been suffering for a very long time,” he said. He stood up and reached for a cloth that sat upon a nearby pile of boxes. “Oh, it is a long story, signore. I shouldn't keep you from your business.”

“Do you have time to give me a shave?” I asked. “You could tell me about it while you worked.”

He nodded, crossed to the front of the shop, and opened the shutters. The afternoon sun flooded the forlorn room. He pulled the cloth off the barber's chair and invited me to sit. “Give me a moment, signore, to heat some water.”

As he headed out the back door of the shop, I moved my cloak and stick to the top of a pile of boxes and settled into the chair. “Who is the lady who lent you the money?” I asked as he returned with a bowl of water. He placed a cape around my neck and pushed the chair into a reclining position.

“She is called Rosa Hahn,” he said. He dipped a cloth in the water and placed it over my face. The warmth seeped into my skin. “She is the housekeeper where I used to work, the Palais Gabler.”

I nodded as he pressed the cloth around my face. After a few seconds, he removed it, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and covered my face with lather. “Hold still, signore.” I relaxed as the rhythmic scraping of the razor plied my skin. “You may remember, I used to work as valet to Baron Gabler. My fiancée, Marianne, is lady's maid to the baroness. When I decided to open the shop, Miss Hahn was eager to lend me the money. She is an older woman, never married. I'll admit, I flirted with her a little to get the loan.” He sighed. “I should never have taken the money from her, I know. But I told myself the loan would be a good investment for her.”

A warm tear hit my cheek as he began to weep again. He leaned his head down to wipe his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “I had no idea the cost of running a business would be so high. I have not been able to pay Miss Hahn on schedule. Both Marianne and I pleaded for more time, but she refused.”

“But I don't understand,” I said. “How does all this concern the death of your mother?”

“Turn your head a bit, signore.” He pressed my head against his burly bare arm. I studied a large purple birthmark just below his elbow. His forearm was covered with large freckles. Coarse hair tickled my nose, and I fought back the urge to sneeze.

“As my mother lay dying, she told me that I was not her natural son. She and my father had adopted me as a newborn, thirty years ago.”

“What? They had told you nothing about it all that time?” I asked.

“Not a word. I was shocked, of course. I tried to ask about my real parents, but by then, she was too far gone to answer my questions. I doubt that she even heard me.” His deep voice broke. I reached over and patted his free hand. “She passed away the next morning. When I was cleaning out her things, I found something odd.” He replaced the damp cloth, now cool, on my face. I heard his heavy steps cross the room.

“You see, signore—this box.” I pulled the cloth off my face and sat upright. Vogel was holding a plain carton the size of a lady's hat box. “I found this hidden deep in the cupboard where my mother kept her change of clothes.” He thrust the box toward me. “I believe this belonged to my birth mother. The contents look valuable.”

I reached for the box. A loud knock sounded at the door. Vogel started. The box fell onto my lap.

“Johann Vogel! Police! Open up!”

The barber began to tremble. “Oh no, Signor Abbé, they are here to take me to prison.” He had picked up the cloth I had removed from my face, and now began to wring it between his large hands. “Please, signore, please. Help me.”

I took the cloth from him and wiped the remaining lather off my face. “But what can I do?” I asked.

The pounding at the door resumed, this time much louder.

“You know so many important people, signore,” he said quickly. “You are educated, cultured. I am sure my real parents were rich, perhaps even of noble birth. Could you find them for me?”

My mouth dropped. Nobles? “But that seems like an impossible assignment,” I said. “Do you know anything at all about them?”

“No, signore. I just have the things in this box.”

“Vogel, open up! Now!”

“Please, Signor Da Ponte, take it and see what you can find.” He hurried to the door and flung it open. Two constables entered.

“You are Johann Vogel?” one asked.

The barber stifled a sob. “Yes, I am.”

“Take your things and come with us.”

Vogel took a deep breath. “I am almost ready. Please, sirs, let me finish with my last customer.” He returned to the chair and leaned over me, wiping my face with a dry cloth. “Please, Signor Abbé.” He lowered his voice. “Please, you are a kind and generous man. Take the box. Go to the Palais Gabler and speak to my fiancée, Marianne Haiml. She will tell you everything we know.”

“But I have no idea where to begin,” I protested. “And the odds of finding your parents after all these years are slim.”

“Please, signore. At least talk to Marianne. I feel in my heart that my parents are still alive, and that they are rich.”

One of the constables grabbed Vogel's arm and pulled him toward the door.

“Wait, I need my bag,” Vogel cried, pointing to a large gripsack sitting in the corner. The other constable heaved a sigh and lifted the bag. As the three reached the door, Vogel turned and looked back at me. “Please, signore. I will give you ten percent of any money I get from my parents, if you find them for me.”

My heart surged with pity as I stared into his broad, decent face. Words came out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to advise caution. “All right, I will see what I can find. But do not get your hopes up too much. Your parents may both have died in the last thirty years.”

“I know, I know. But I must try to find them,” Vogel said. The constables pulled him outside. I grabbed my cloak and stick, hefted the box, and followed them out, closing the door behind me. Vogel nodded down at the pocket of his coat. I pulled out the key to the shop.

“Keep it for me, Signor Abbé,” he said. “Please. Go tomorrow, talk to Marianne. Find out what you can. My life's happiness depends on you!”

“Come on already!” The constables pulled Vogel down the street to a waiting carriage.

“Wait, Vogel!” I called. “I did not pay you for the shave!”

He turned toward me. “It is an honor to shave you, signore,” he shouted. “You can pay me by finding my real parents.”

“But wait—are you sure your mother never told you anything—”

The constables pushed him into the carriage, threw his bag after him, and jumped in. The door slammed, and a moment later the carriage rolled away. The street was silent again. I placed the box on the ground and locked the door to the shop. A pang of anxiety shot through me. What had I gotten myself into? I did not have time to investigate this fantastic notion of Vogel's. I was up to my ears in work. I sighed. The poor man was desperate. I wanted to do anything I could to help him. I pocketed the key, picked up the box, and walked slowly down the street.

*   *   *

The Graben was busy as I headed toward my lodgings. Long and wide, lined with apartment buildings, the street was the gathering place for fashionable Vienna. I joined the throng, this time taking care to stay close to the buildings so as to avoid the fancy carriages taking the fine ladies out to the Prater, the popular park at the northeast edge of the city. The crowd was mixed: government workers heading back to their desks after dinner; lackeys in the liveries of the great houses running errands for their masters; and minor noblemen dressed à la mode, hoping to see and be seen by the rest of society. Around me I heard chattering not only in German and French, but also in Italian, Greek, Polish, and Magyar.

I passed the Trattnerhof, the most famous address in Vienna. It was a large apartment house, built by a wealthy businessman who had come to the city as an inconsequential printer thirty years before, earned the favor of Empress Maria Theresa, and become the official publisher of all of the schoolbooks in the Holy Roman Empire. Trattner's publishing empire now encompassed five printing plants, a paper factory, and eight bookshops. He entertained the cream of society in his personal apartment, which took up the entire second floor of the building. I gazed up at the façade, which was decorated with what to my eye seemed an excess of furbelows. Two huge telamones flanked the doorway, and high above the street, a row of tall statues on the balustrade watched to make certain that passersby bestowed upon the building the admiration to which it was entitled.

A few minutes later, I turned into the portal of my own, more modest building. After arranging with my landlord's wife to have my cloak and handkerchief cleaned, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. My salary at the Court Theater, where I was responsible for editing all the librettos—the texts—of the operas performed and for coordinating production details, was a decent amount, and I was able to embellish it by selling libretto booklets at performances and by taking on commissions to write operas myself. Nevertheless, Vienna was an expensive city—a pair of silk stockings cost five florins!—so I tried to cut my costs as much as possible. I would much have preferred to live on a more desirable floor lower in the building, but the rents were very high, so I did not allow myself to complain about the long climb of four flights of stairs I made several times a day.

I unlocked the door and crossed the small room to place Vogel's box on my writing desk. The girl who cleaned for me had already been in to make up the bed, sweep, and refill the water jug on my basin cabinet. I selected a few pages of the libretto I was writing and stuffed them into my satchel, then pulled Vogel's box toward me and took off the lid.

I gasped. Was this some sort of prank? Was my barber trying to make a fool of me, with his sad tale of missing parents? I stared into the box. A white, furry dead animal lay curled inside. I forced myself to lean down and sniff. There was no foul odor, so I took a deep breath and plunged my hands into the box, pulling out the unfortunate beast. To my surprise, it was very light. I quickly threw it onto my desk and examined it, then laughed in relief. It was not a dead animal at all, but a fancy lady's muff. I picked it up and turned the silky fur around in my hands. The muff, colored a pristine white, looked expensive.

I reached into the box and pulled out a small book. Its leather cover was soft and worn, mottled with dark spots. The book's spine was engraved with tiny golden fleurs-de-lis, but displayed no title. As I opened it and gently turned the pages, the familiar musty aroma wafted toward my nose. I sneezed. The book was a French grammar, of the type students use when learning the language at school. I had purchased one myself when I first came to Vienna, for everyone connected with the court and high society conversed in French instead of German. I turned to the frontispiece, then to the inside back cover, but could find no writing to indicate the owner of the book, nor even the date on which it had been published.

The remaining object in the box was a small ring, its band dull and discolored, but possibly solid gold. A pronged setting held a small, rosy gem in the shape of a heart. A diamond? A betrothal ring, perhaps? I studied the inside of the band for engraving, but could see nothing because of the discoloration. I ran my finger lightly around the inside, but felt nothing but smooth metal. I laid the ring on my desk and considered the three objects. Perhaps Vogel's idea about his parents was not as far-fetched as I had believed. A muff of fine fur, possibly white fox; a leather-bound book; and a gold and diamond ring: these had surely been the possessions of a wealthy lady, a countess perhaps, or even a princess.

Questions tumbled through my brain. What had led such a woman to give up her newborn son? Why had she chosen to give him to the Vogel couple, people of humble origins? And why had she sent these valuable items along with the babe? Had she hoped that someday he might try to find her?

I returned the muff to the box and ran my fingers over the worn leather cover of the book. I did not remember much about my own mother, who had died giving birth to my youngest brother thirty-two years ago, when I was only five years old. Yet even today, when I hear a certain lilt in a woman's voice or see her lips form a soft smile, I feel a stirring of recognition, an awakening of an inchoate, bittersweet emotion deep within me.

The bell in St. Peter's Church next door chimed the hour. I started. I had grown so intrigued by Vogel's mystery that I had lost track of the time. I had work to do at the theater. I laid the book and ring on top of the muff and replaced the lid on the box. I pulled my second cloak, a frayed one I usually saved for bad winter weather, from the cupboard, stuffed a clean handkerchief in its pocket, took up my satchel and stick, and descended to the street.

*   *   *

The street had quieted while I had been up in my room. The government workers had returned to their offices, the ladies had vacated the city for an afternoon of pastoral recreation, and the rest of Vienna was sleeping off their dinners. At four o'clock, the promenade would begin anew, but for now, I and a few stragglers were able to walk about in peace.

I quickly made my way down the Kohlmarkt to the Michaelerplatz, the heart of imperial Vienna. At this hour the large expanse was almost empty. To my left, the stately portico of St. Michael's Church was deserted, its tall wooden doors closed. In front of me, the monumental dome of the Spanish Riding School marked the threshold to the great halls, apartments, courtyards, and gardens of the Hofburg, the emperor's residence and home to the government of the empire. Nestled under the dome was my destination, my place of employment, the Court Theater.