The Figaro Murders (22 page)

Tonight was the premiere of an opera I had written with Righini, one of the more mediocre composers in the city. I hadn't wanted to work with him, but Salieri had insisted. I did not hold out high hopes for the success of the opera, but I always enjoyed premiere nights, when I was entitled to sit in the special box reserved for the composer and the librettist. And although I knew better, I vainly hoped the Viennese public could see past the inferior music and enjoy my poetry.

“I'd better make an appointment,” I told the secretary. “I might miss him tonight.”

He consulted his book. “Tomorrow, three o'clock.”

“Did he mention why he wanted to see me?” I asked.

“Not that I recall. Wait, let me see if I made a note.” He studied the book. “Oh yes, he wants you to bring your copy of the libretto.” He looked at me apologetically. “That's all I know.”

I thanked him and left. What did Rosenberg want with the libretto? Were he and Casti up to some trick? As I walked down the Herrengasse, my mind was so deep in thoughts about my two enemies that I did not even notice when I passed the turnoff to the Starhemberg Palace, where I had delivered Caroline's message two days ago.

I let myself into the palais and trudged up the stairs to the top floor. When I was just a few feet from my room, I stopped short. The door was ajar. I hadn't left it that way this morning, I was sure. Since the medallion had disappeared I had taken care to put my things away and leave the door closed.

Heavy footsteps came from my room. I strained to listen. I heard the cupboard doors open and close, then a loud rustling of papers. I pushed the door open. “What—”

The intruder gasped. “Oh! Lorenzo! It is only you! You gave me such a fright!” Piatti said, as several sheets of my libretto scattered to the floor.

“Tomaso? What are you doing?” I asked.

His face turned red. He laughed quickly. “Oh, my friend, you've caught me out,” he said. He kneeled and gathered the papers he had dropped.

“What are you doing in my room?”

He rose and placed the papers on the desk. “I had a free moment, and I wanted to look at your libretto. Remember, you told me I could see it the other day? I knocked, but you were not in.”

“So you just walked in and went through my things, without my permission?”

He held up his hands. “Please, please, Lorenzo. I saw your papers lying on the desk. I hoped perhaps I could read them here. Please forgive me.” His left eye twitched.

I took the pile from the desk and shuffled through them, putting them back in order.

“Your libretto is very good, my friend,” he said. “If Mozart's music is half as good as your poetry, the opera will be a great hit, I am sure.”

I remained silent as I finished organizing the pages.

“Lorenzo? Please forgive me. I never meant to anger you.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “Please. Our friendship means so much to me. I have no one here in the house with whom I can discuss music, literature, art—”

I held up my hand to silence him. His upper lip glistened with sweat. “Yes, Tomaso. You are forgiven.” I took the first few pages from the pile. “Here, take this. It is the first act of the opera.”

“But—is this your only copy?”

“No, that is a draft.” I took off my cloak and placed it in the cupboard. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Tomaso. I have a bit of work to do.” I tried to make my voice gruff.

He bowed slightly. “Very good, my friend. I apologize again.”

I pulled out the desk chair and sat. He remained standing near the door, clutching my pages. I looked over at him. “Anything else, Tomaso?” I asked.

“You seem distressed, Lorenzo,” he said. “Is there anything wrong—besides my innocent trespass, that is?”

I shook my head. “No, just a few personal problems. Nothing I care to talk about right now.”

“A lady?”

I could not help myself. I nodded.

“She is lovely?”

I nodded again.

“She does not return your love?”

I shook my head. “She uses me for her own purposes, Tomaso. That is all there is to our relationship.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Ah, Lorenzo. I understand,” he said softly. He nodded. “All beautiful women are like that.” He gave a small bow and closed the door behind him.

*   *   *

My stomach growled as I turned my attention to the work before me. I scribbled idly for a few moments on a page of the draft, then threw down my pen and went down to the kitchen. The large room was empty except for Marianne, who sat in the chair by the fire, bent over some mending, a large basket at her feet. I cleared my throat.

She jumped. The sewing fell to the floor. “Oh, Signor Da Ponte! I did not hear you come in.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Haiml. I didn't mean to startle you. I was working and grew hungry.”

She pointed over to the table. “Just cold meats today, signore. Miss Hahn has the day off.”

I groaned inwardly as I looked over at the platters. More tough roasts for my miserable teeth. Why could the housekeeper never make anything meltingly tender? As I turned back toward Marianne, I saw her quickly stuff something into her sewing basket.

“Signore, have you learned anything to help Johann?” she asked. “If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem to be spending much time finding his mother. We both are counting on you.”

I sighed at her disapproval. I pulled out a chair from the table, dragged it toward her, and sat down.

“I know it doesn't look as if I'm making progress,” I said. “But I assure you I've been following a lot of leads.”

She arched her brow.

“I took the things in the box to a pawnbroker,” I told her. “Unfortunately, he believes they are of no real value, merely trinkets a woman of lesser means might treasure.”

Her face fell. “Oh no,” she whispered.

“Don't give up hope yet,” I said. I explained how I had found the medallion sewn into the lining of the muff.

“A religious medallion? How strange.” She frowned.

“I showed it to a friend of mine at the Stephansdom. He recognized it immediately. It belonged to a nun or novice at a convent called the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin. The convent was closed a few years ago, when the emperor dissolved the religious houses. I spoke to a bureaucrat who was involved in those reforms. He's promised to search for any records he might have kept, to see if we can identify the medallion's owner.”

“But why would Johann's birth mother have a nun's medallion?” Marianne's face paled. “Oh no. You don't think his mother was a nun?”

“It's a possibility, strange as it sounds.”

“Poor Johann. He was so sure his parents were rich,” she said softly. “May I see the medallion, signore?”

My cheeks grew warm as I shook my head. “I've misplaced it. I left it on the desk in my room the other day, and I can't find it anywhere.”

“The thief!” Marianne said. “Everyone in the house has lost something. Johann gave me a beautiful hairpin on my name day. Someone took it out of the drawer in my cupboard.”

I sighed. “I think I should go talk to Johann. Maybe he can remember if his adoptive mother ever mentioned anything about a convent.” Marianne had returned to her work, stitching white ribbons to a bonnet decorated with gold thread.

“I am going there tomorrow morning,” she said, as she drew out a small pair of scissors and clipped the thread. “Why don't you come along?”

A bell on the wall shrilled. “Oh, that's the baroness. Good, I finished her bonnet just in time,” Marianne said. “I'll leave you to your dinner, signore. Shall we meet in the foyer tomorrow at ten?”

I nodded. She pushed her sewing basket aside and left the kitchen. When I had counted her footsteps on the stairs, I leaned over and rustled through the basket, shoving aside a tangle of colored scraps and threads. My heart grew heavy as I pulled out what I had suspected I would find underneath: a single white silk ribbon, embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of delicate flowers.

 

Seventeen

I sat for a while in the lonely kitchen, morosely picking at cold tubers that had had the flavor boiled out of them, then I scraped and rinsed my plate, climbed up to my room, and attempted to work. I fought to keep my thoughts from turning to Caroline, to my unwelcome suspicions. The record of payments in Florian Auerstein's notebook; Marianne's attempt to hide the partner to the ribbon I had found in the library drapes, obviously torn at some point from Caroline's bonnet; Caroline's own confession that the boy had forced himself upon her—I did not want to follow these indicators to their logical conclusion.

The afternoon dragged on, and I accomplished little writing. At sunset, I pulled on my finest evening suit, a blue satin I save for special occasions, trying to ignore the fraying at the coat sleeves. I sighed, remembering Salieri's beautiful green wool suit. Perhaps when I received the payment for
Figaro
—I shook my head. I had already spent that money threefold in my mind. I would just have to take the coat to a tailor to see if the fabric could be rewoven.

The crowds in the streets on this warm spring night slowed my progress toward the theater, and so it was just a few minutes before the performance was to start when I joined Righini and his bovine wife in the box. I looked around the large hall. Mozart and Martín sat together down on the main floor, deep in conversation. Rosenberg and Casti were directly across from me in the emperor's box, and they rose with the rest of the audience as my Caesar entered and took his seat. The conductor raised his hand and the performance began. The opera was a comedy about an eccentric, pompous philosopher who continually finds himself in amorous difficulties. The tenor Kelly had the lead as the philosopher. As the orchestra labored over Righini's overture, my attention returned to the emperor's box. Casti whispered in Rosenberg's ear. I knew that he and the count would spend the evening denigrating my work to the emperor.

Loud guffaws all around me startled me from my contemplation of my enemies. The overture had ended and Kelly had made his entrance, clad in a shabby old blue satin suit with tears in the coat that were visible even from my seat high above the stage. He waved an ornate walking stick in the air, put it behind him, leaned on it, and began to sing. The audience howled as he sang his lines in the same Venetian dialect that I speak, his words accented by a strong lisp. He picked up the stick and strolled across the stage with a strange gait, mugging for the audience all the way.

My cheeks grew hot. My heart began to pound. Some of the people on the floor pointed up at me, showing their neighbors where I sat. Righini and his wife tittered. I could feel every eye in the theater upon me. I forced myself to look across at the emperor's box. Casti was elbowing Rosenberg in the ribs, while the count laughed heartily. To my greatest dismay, the emperor himself was laughing as hard as everyone else at Kelly's joke. But then his eyes met mine. He stopped laughing and gave me a nod. That small sign of encouragement fortified me. I quickly stood, smiled broadly, bowed to the audience and then to Kelly, and sat back in my seat. To my relief, that satisfied the crowd, and they turned their attention back to Kelly.

*   *   *

When the performance ended, it was all I could do to get away from the theater. Everyone I met slapped me on the back and imitated my lisp as they praised me for being a good sport. I heard Mozart call me, but I ignored him and hurried out the door into the night.

My stomach churned as I stood in the shadows, watching people leave the theater and climb into carriages, heading toward suppers in the fine palaces. I would be the subject of much amusement this evening, I supposed. When the crowds had cleared, I decided to treat myself before I returned to the Palais Gabler. I walked down the Kohlmarkt and turned into the Graben. I passed my lodging house and stopped a few doors down, at my favorite delicatessen, Amicis. The owner was a Neapolitan who ran a small trattoria in the shop's back room, open only to special customers. There he served delicacies from all over Italy: the hard cheese of Parma, anchovies from the Adriatic, olives from the islands. A small light burned in the window of the closed shop, a signal that the back room was open. I knocked on the door, and in a minute, Gaetano peered out at me and opened the door.

“Signor Abbé, welcome.” He smiled at me and ushered me into the dark shop. “You have just come from the theater?”

“Yes, one of my works was performed tonight,” I said. He took my cloak and stick and gestured me toward the back room. “You are not too busy tonight, I hope?” I was not in the mood to face another crowd.

“No, signore. Just a few gentlemen. Go on through. I have a new shipment of oysters. I'll bring you some.”

I walked into the small dining room. Only one of the six tables was occupied, by fellow Italians, tourists perhaps. I nodded at them and took a seat at the table farthest from them. Gaetano hurried toward me and placed a large plate of raw oysters in front of me. “Prosecco?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I was due for some luxury, I told myself as I watched him pour the glass. “Would you like something else, Signor Abbé?” he asked. “I have some good prosciutto tonight.”

I shook my head. “This will be fine, Gaetano,” I said.

“Buon appetito,
signore,
”
he murmured, and left me. I took a sip of the sparkling wine, relaxing as the bubbles tickled my nose and throat. I sucked an oyster from its shell. The cold, slimy mass slid past my injured teeth and down my throat. If I closed my eyes and tried hard enough, I could conjure up the characteristic brininess of the bivalves. Gaetano had to import them all the way from Trieste, so by the time they reached Vienna, they were already stale. A longing for Venice welled up in my breast. The seafood there was plucked right out of the lagoon, or came in on day boats from the Adriatic. I doubted I would ever taste a really fresh oyster again in my life.