The Figaro Murders (24 page)

“Haydn,” Rosenberg said.

We stood while the machine went through its little song. It sounded as if an orchestra of tiny cherubs was playing flutes inside of the clock.

“There's a small flute organ built inside the barrel,” Rosenberg explained. “That's why they are so rare and expensive. Deym collects them for his gallery. It took me a long time to convince him to sell one to me.”

“It's charming, Excellency,” I said.

“Yes, I'll enjoy having it. Oh, by the way, let me congratulate you on the premiere last night.”

“Thank you, Excellency.” I rarely heard praise from the count.

He looked at me slyly. “Yes, it was quite the hit. Kelly was brilliant. His imitation of you was perfect.”

I clenched my teeth. Silly of me to think that this man would offer me genuine praise.

“Now, about your opera with Mozart—I've had some disturbing news about it.”

“Really, Excellency? What kind of news?” My heart began to beat faster.

“I've been told your libretto contains a ballet. Is this true?”

“Yes, Excellency. It does. At the end of the third act, during the wedding scene, Mozart and I decided to insert a pantomime. All of the characters dance while the maid hands the note to her lascivious master. Mozart has written a wonderful fandango to accompany the scene.”

He frowned. “But Da Ponte, how could you write such a scene?”

“I don't understand—”

“You of all people, the theater poet—you should have known better!”

My pulse raced. “I'm sorry, Excellency. I don't understand. What is it that I should have known?”

“The emperor does not wish to have ballets performed in his operas. He hates that French style. I believe I made that clear to you last year, when His Majesty informed me of his desires.”

I shook my head. “I do not remember—”

“That is why there are no dancers in the opera company!”

My cheeks were hot. “But, Excellency, our ballet is not in the French style. It is not dancing for dancing's sake, there is a dramatic purpose to it. It is a wedding celebration. People always dance at weddings. And the scene is very short, just a few minutes long.”

He sighed. “I see. Yes. I see your point.”

I let out a deep breath.

“Did you bring the libretto? Let me see the scene.”

I flipped through the pages of my libretto, pulled out the relevant sheet, and handed it to him. “Here, Excellency, this is the scene. You can see how short it is, just a few spoken lines. Mozart's music is brief, also. It is a charming scene. I believe you'll agree when you see the dress rehearsal on Saturday.”

He studied the page, then walked over to the fireplace. “Yes, I see,” he said. He threw the paper onto the blazing fire.

“Excellency, what are you doing?” I cried.

My heart was pounding, and I knew my face was turning purple. He gave me a small, satisfied smile. “That will be all, Signor Poet,” he said, waving me toward the door. “Tell Mozart to cut the music from his score.”

 

Nineteen

My stomach was still churning an hour later as I sat in the library at the Palais Gabler, idly flipping through the baron's copy of Dante's
Inferno.
That philistine Rosenberg! Although I had initially been skeptical when Mozart had proposed the pantomime, I had come to see that he was right, the scene did enhance the dramatic pace of the opera. I had lied to the count when I said I did not remember that the emperor did not want ballets in his operas. He himself had told me how tiresome he found the long dances that broke up the action in the French operas, many of which had nothing to do with the plot of the opera. But I also knew that my Caesar was open to new ideas, and I suspected that he would appreciate what Mozart and I had done once he had seen it.

I looked over to the windows. Dusk was falling. Casti's fingers were all over this, I was certain. We had dress rehearsal in less than seventy-two hours. It would be difficult to rewrite the scene, set it to music, and coach the singers and orchestra in the new material before then. Rosenberg would run to the emperor, complaining that due to my negligence, the opera could not possibly be ready for the scheduled opening.

I crossed over to the fireplace and stoked the fire. Who had told Rosenberg that Mozart and I had put a ballet in the scene? Had it been Thorwart, the jittery assistant theater manager? He had never seemed close to Rosenberg. I thought back to the last rehearsal, to the singers' complaints about the new scene. I remembered the Mandinis and Bussanis laughing at me behind my back, and Francesco Bussani's dark scowls. The bass and his wife were part of Casti's clique.

I felt a headache coming on. Why did they all hate me so? Why could I not work in peace, write my operas, enjoy some success? I was tired of all the intrigues. I wanted to go home to Venice. The little Harlequin figurine gazed at me sympathetically. I shook my head. Enough self-pity, I told myself. I could hold my own with the backstabbers if I had to. But I did not relish telling Mozart about Rosenberg's decree.

I turned my attention to the book. I had read the first two cantos when the door opened. “Oh, Da Ponte, I didn't know anyone was here,” Baron Gabler said. He wore a satin dressing gown, his long hair loose. One hand held a half-full bottle of brandy, the other a glass.

I jumped to my feet and bowed. “I was just enjoying your collection, Excellency,” I said. I closed the Dante and returned it to its place on the shelf. “I'll leave you alone.”

He waved the bottle at me. “No, stay. Have a drink with me.” He motioned toward the cabinet on the far side of the room. “There are glasses in there.”

I nodded my thanks and got a glass. His hands shook as he poured the brandy. He sprawled on the sofa.

“It's French, not that Hungarian swill,” he said. “One of the advantages of knowing Prince Kaunitz.”

I took a sip. The amber liquid trickled down my throat, its warmth bringing its usual false sense of well-being.

“How is your investigation?” he asked. His voice was slurred. “Have you learned anything?”

“Not much, I'm afraid, sir. I've observed every member of the household, and have a lot of questions, but it's difficult to get them to confide in me.”

He laughed. “I expected as much! I knew this was a bad idea. If there is a spy in this house—and mind you, I don't really believe it—it would take a professional to root him out. The emperor just wants to save money, that's all. He thinks that using men such as you will get the job done at a lower cost than creating a special police force.” He shook his head.

“But the murder—”

“I told you before, that must have been an accident. The boy was dancing around, he tripped and fell.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “This whole mess is a plot to discredit me,” he muttered.

We sat silently for a moment—I sipped the brandy, he stared into his glass. He reached over and grabbed the bottle, sloshed more liquid into the glass, and slammed the bottle down on the table. “Damn, you don't know how lucky you are, Da Ponte!”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You don't have to bow and scrape to these arrogant old families every day in order to keep everything you've earned,” he said.

I opened my mouth to correct his misconceptions about the job of theater poet, then shut it.

“Esterházy! That old ass! He's so high-and-mighty. I can advise the emperor, I am talented enough to be named the next ambassador to the Court of St. Petersburg, but I am not good enough to step inside his damned palace! My father made the arms that let us win the war, that protected that asshole's lands, but I am not considered noble enough to warrant a dinner invitation!”

I nodded sympathetically.

The baron stared into his brandy snifter. “It's all her fault,” he muttered. I sat up straight.

“Have you ever been married, Da Ponte?”

“No, Excellency. I have not had the good fortune,” I said. “I am a priest—”

He laughed. “That's a nice excuse to keep them from expecting marriage,” he said. He raised his eyebrows. “There have been plenty of women willing to distract you from the church, I'll bet.”

I said nothing.

“You are smart. Just love them and leave them.” He shook his head. “I should never have married Caroline. She's common. She does nothing to help my career. I'd be welcomed everywhere if it weren't for her.”

Bile rose in my throat as I recalled Caroline's tale of having to withstand the Auerstein boy's advances. “A beautiful woman like the baroness could only be an asset to you, sir,” I said tightly.

“So she's seduced you too,” he said, his voice mocking.

My pulse began to race. Could he read my feelings on my face?

“When I think of her when we first met—she was like a bitch in heat. We spent hours in bed.”

My cheeks grew hot. I wished I could get up and walk out the door.

“But then I made the mistake of marrying her. Now it is all about love, love, love. True, she goes along with anything I want, but damn, can't a man want a little variety in his life? I want the excitement of the chase. You disapprove?”

“I'm in no position to judge you, Excellency,” I said coldly.

“So I find my excitement elsewhere. Now she is locking her door against me!”

I stood. “Please, sir, I don't want to hear this.”

“Why not? We are just two men talking.” He peered at me. “What is it? You know something. Has she confided in you? Has she taken a lover? Or have you had her yourself?”

My hands shook as I placed my glass on the table. “You do a great disservice to your wife, sir,” I said. “You are drunk, so I will ignore that last remark.” I turned to go.

He grabbed my arm. “Sit down! I haven't dismissed you!”

I pulled my arm away, but sat.

“Tell me what you know. Does she have a lover? Who is it?”

I hoped he could not hear my heart pounding in my chest. “I know nothing, sir. The baroness and I merely discuss poetry when we are together. She does not consider me a confidant.”

“You think I have no right to be suspicious of her?”

I said nothing.

“Listen, Da Ponte. You tell my wife to be careful. If she does anything to jeopardize my career, I'll kill her.”

I raised my hands in a defensive gesture. “Sir, I know nothing—”

A loud knock sounded at the door. Bohm entered.

“There you are, sir,” he said gruffly. “It is time to dress for the theater.” I watched as the valet took the glass from the baron's hand, pulled him from the sofa, and put his shoulder under the deadweight of the drunken man.

The baron shook him away. “I'm fine!”

Bohm nodded. A brief look of satisfaction crossed his face. “Yes, sir. Come, it is time to dress.” He led the baron out the door.

I exhaled and looked down at my trembling hands. Did the baron sense that I was attracted to his wife? I chided myself for letting him draw me into the argument. Why hadn't I just kept my mouth shut, let him rant?

And Caroline herself—she had guessed my feelings for her, I was sure. I had believed she returned them. Instead she had humiliated me by using me as her errand boy, asking me to take the note to her lover. After finding the notebook, I had begun to suspect that she had murdered Florian Auerstein. Why had I leaped so vigorously to her defense?

My hands had stopped shaking. I sighed, and buried my face in them. The answer to my question was clear. I could not help myself. Despite what she had done to me, I still loved her.

 

Twenty

The skies were threatening rain when I arrived at Maulbertsch's office early Thursday morning. The bureaucrat was in the large anteroom, consulting with a colleague.

“Good, you came promptly,” he said as he ushered me into his office. “Did you have a chance to speak to the Hassler woman?”

I nodded. “Yes. An admirable lady. She is doing good work at the school.”

“Could she be of any help to us?”

“No. She is too young. She didn't come to the convent until ten years after my friend was born. And she knew of no stories or gossip about a nun or novice who had given birth there.”

“I was afraid that might be the case,” Maulbertsch admitted. He gestured me toward a chair, went to his desk, picked up a book, and pulled his chair toward mine. “Here is what I found.” The book was about a foot and a half tall, eight inches wide, and an inch thick. It looked old, its dark leather cover worn. Some of the gilt on a large cross embossed on the front cover had chipped away.

Maulbertsch opened it and slowly flipped through the first few pages. The paper had yellowed, and the pages had been written on with different inks and in different hands over the years.

“I've been so busy I haven't had time to look at this yet. This is the roster book for the convent. As you can see, the records go back many years, to the last century, when the order was established. Each page lists the names of the nuns who resided in the convent on the first of the year.” He handed me the book. I started at the beginning, turning the pages gently. Each leaf was lined with names, some written in a flowing, large hand, others in more-cramped writing. The pages were dated from the middle of the last century to the beginning of our own, then up to the year of my own birth. The ink, faded on the early sheets, grew darker as I turned the leaves. Pity flooded through me as I thought of these women, all of whom had dedicated their lives to serving God in this house, the early ones believing that the sacrifices they had made—love, marriage, children—would strengthen the order for many centuries to come. None had suspected that their home would be destroyed in the name of modernity.

Maulbertsch took the book from me. “The pages of interest are back here. Now, what year was your friend born?”