The Figaro Murders (5 page)

I nodded. The prince was from one of Vienna's oldest families. He owned one of the largest, most opulent palaces in the city, and I had heard that his country home made his dwelling here look like a hut in comparison. He was a patron of many of the composers in the city, and frequented the opera.

“Florian has hinted to me that he has information about Johann's birth,” Marianne continued. “He probably overheard something while he was in his father's house, some rumor about another noble family whose baby was kidnapped and sold for adoption thirty years ago.”

“Vogel thinks he was kidnapped from his birth mother?” I was astonished.

“Well, that is the most likely explanation, isn't it?” she asked. “Why would any noble lady have to give up her child for adoption?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Why hasn't this Florian told you what he has learned?” I asked.

Her cheeks colored. She lowered her eyes and rubbed her finger on the little Harlequin figurine. “He wants me—he wants certain favors from me in exchange for the information,” she said in a low voice. She looked up at me, her eyes pleading. “Please, signore, don't tell Johann. He'll be so angry. Perhaps you could talk to Florian? You are much more clever than I. I am sure you can find out what he knows.”

My heart stirred again with the desire to help her. “When can I speak to him?” I asked.

“He—”

A bell on the wall jangled loudly.

“Oh! The baroness wants me. I must go.” She set the figurine on the table, rose from the sofa, and smoothed her skirt. “I will speak to Florian and find a time for you to return. Where can I reach you?”

I told her my address. She repeated it and ran to the door as the bell clanged again. “Can you find your way out, Signor Abbé?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

She came to me and took my hand. I bent and kissed hers. She smelled of freshly cut roses. “Please, Signor Da Ponte. You are the only one who can help us. Please find Johann's parents. My happiness is in your hands.” She ran out of the room.

*   *   *

I sighed as I watched her go. Vogel was a lucky man! As I turned to take my cloak and stick, my eyes caught the gleaming books on the shelves before me. Surely no one would take offense if I lingered a few moments to survey the collection? I crossed over to the nearest shelf and ran my fingers over a row of books at eye level. The leather felt soft, warm from the sunlight. I smiled when I saw that I had chosen the shelf that contained the baron's poetry collection. I scanned the titles on the book spines: Dante's
Divina Commedia
and
La vita nuova;
Ariosto's
Orlando Furioso;
Tasso's
La Gerusalemme liberata
and a few volumes of his
Rime;
a collection of poems by Metastasio, the imperial poet who had died just after I had arrived in Vienna. I pulled out a volume by Petrarch, my favorite of the great Italian poets.

The beautifully bound book felt substantial in my hands. As I opened it, my mind traveled back to my first experience with the printed word, back in Ceneda, where I had been born. Fathers, of course, are notorious for giving little attention to their young children, but to be fair, after my mother died, mine had spent most of his waking hours toiling in his leatherworking shop in order to feed three young mouths. Thus my younger brothers and I grew into adolescence with little supervision and no formal education. I was a quick-witted child, curious about everything around me, burning for knowledge, yet, I am still ashamed to say, I did not learn to read or write until after age ten. The children in the town snickered at me, calling me “the brilliant dunce.” I laughed along with them, but to this day, my cheeks burn when I remember their teasing.

One day, when I was about thirteen, I climbed up to the attic of our small house to explore. To my astonishment, I discovered a treasure trove—a carton of dusty, yellowed books, left there by a previous generation of the family. I dragged the box down to my room and hid it under my bed. Thereafter, I read whenever I had the opportunity. I pored over volumes of medieval romances, collections of country tales, and tomes of ancient history. My favorites, however, were the slim volumes of poetry, which I had studied for hours. I must have read each book in the box four or five times.

The soft rustling of the drape in the window drew me back to the present. I turned to the first page of the Petrarch, and read aloud. “‘You who hear in scattered rhymes the sound of these sighs…'”

“‘You who hear in scattered rhymes the thounds of these thighs,'” a loud voice said. I jumped and turned toward the window.

“Who is there?”

“The thounds of these thighs. The thounds of these thighs,” the voice mocked me. I put the book down, crossed to the open window, and pulled back the heavy drape. A slim boy of about sixteen sat cross-legged on the deep sill. He wore the breeches of a livery uniform and a rumpled, untucked white shirt.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “Have you been eavesdropping on me this entire time?”

He grinned. “Yeth, I have,” he said. He pushed me aside, climbed down from the sill, and threw himself into an armchair. He tilted his head to one side and studied me.

“What is your name?” I asked.

He raised his voice to mimic mine. “What ith your name?”

I gritted my teeth. “I am Lorenzo Da Ponte. You must be the Auerstein boy—Florian, is it?”

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned again. “Must I be? I think I must be!”

“Why didn't you make yourself known before?” I asked. My right hand balled into a fist. I took a step toward him. “What gives you the right to listen to private conversations?”

He did not answer, but instead jumped out of the chair and darted over to the fireplace. He began to bounce from foot to foot. He was not tall for his age, and his delicately sculpted features and long, curly hair gave him a girlish appearance.

“What do you know about Johann Vogel's parents?” I asked. “Why won't you tell Miss Haiml what you know?”

His mouth curled downward. “She will not play with me,” he said sadly.

I fought the urge to go over and shake him. “Aren't you the son of a great prince?” I asked. My voice rose. “It is not very chivalrous to exploit the unhappy fortunes of an innocent woman to gain advantage over her.”

He waved his hand in the air and gave me a bemused smile. “She is the one with the advantage over me,” he said airily.

“What do you mean?” My voice shook with anger.

“I love her.”

My cheeks grew hot. I went over to him and wagged my finger in front of his pert little nose. “You love her! Liar! What do you know of love? You are just a boy. She is a grown woman, engaged to be married.”

He wriggled away from me and moved to the sofa. “Yes, she is,” he said, “but she cannot marry unless I help her. So she must love me back.”

I lunged at him, but he jumped from the sofa and began bouncing around the room, humming a tune I did not recognize. “See here,” I said, trying to corner him. “Tell me what you know, so I can help her.” I stopped still and put my hands on my hips. “If you really love her, as you say you do, you would want to make her happy.”

“Of course I love her!” He threw back his head and whooped. “She is a woman! I love all women!”

My patience with this young fool was nearing its end. “Sit down and speak to me seriously,” I snapped. “What have you heard about Vogel's birth mother? Did you overhear some gossip in your father's house? Tell me!”

He stared at me for a moment. A sly smile formed on his lips. “Say, do you like riddles?” he asked.

“Riddles! I don't have time for games. This is a serious matter! A man is in prison!”

“Try this one. What am I? See if you can guess!”

I was close to losing my temper completely. Only the fact that I was in a stranger's home, and that Marianne believed this boy knew something of use to us, prevented me from throttling him then and there. I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Listen. I have no body. I have no soul.” He peered at me. “Can you guess it?”

“I don't know.”

“Here's a bit more. No one can see me, but everyone can hear me.”

“I don't have time—”

“You are really stupid. All right, I'll give you one more clue. I can be brought to life only by man, as often as he wishes.”

I tried to grab his arm. “I told you, I don't want to play games.”

“My, you are a dense, irritable person! Since I feel sorry for you, I'll give you another hint, but this is the absolute last one. I die a moment after I am born. Go ahead, take a guess!”

I forced myself to take a deep breath to calm the pounding of my heart. “I don't know,” I said.

“You can't figure it out? You must be an imbecile. Well, then, you lose! I'll tell you. I'm a fart!” He collapsed in the armchair, giggling.

I looked at him with distaste. “Very funny,” I said. “Now that you have had your amusement, will you tell me what you know about Vogel's parents?”

He sighed loudly. “You are so boring! But all right, I'll tell you.”

I let out a breath of relief. Finally I was getting somewhere with this annoying boy.

“You should look for the woman,” he said.

“What woman? Vogel's birth mother?”

“The woman who spilled the wine.” He giggled loudly.

I slapped my hand against the wall in frustration. “Spilled the wine? Is this another one of your stupid riddles?” I shouted. Once again I attempted to grab him, but he twisted away and darted toward the door. Something fell to the floor.

“Come back here!” I shouted. I ran after him, but I was too late. I crossed into the hallway and looked both ways, but he had disappeared.

Heavy footsteps sounded near the stair landing. They were too heavy to belong to the boy. I retreated into the library, my hands shaking with rage. I stood at the window for a few moments, trying to regain my composure. It had been foolish of me to lose my temper. My anger would do nothing to help Marianne and Vogel.

As I walked over to retrieve my things, I tripped over an object on the floor. I leaned over and picked up a small notebook, tied closed with a ribbon. It must have fallen from the boy's pocket. Probably a collection of his asinine riddles. I heard the same heavy footsteps, this time from the hallway. I quickly shoved the notebook into my satchel. I would give it to Marianne the next time I saw her. I stood at the door until I heard the footsteps retreat down the hall, then quietly let myself out.

*   *   *

I stopped by the theater and worked for a few hours, then returned to my lodgings for dinner. My landlord set an ample and appetizing table, and my fellow boarders included instructors from the university, musicians from the court orchestra, and the occasional writer or philosopher passing through the city. The talk was lively and the food flavorful. Afterward, I went up to my room, determined to put the finishing touches on the
Figaro
libretto.

I worked steadily for a half hour, then my concentration began to wander. I thought back to my visit to the Palais Gabler, to Marianne Haiml's bright eyes and warm smile. My stomach clenched as I recalled my exasperating conversation with that irritating boy. I had let him get the better of me, and in my anger, I had been unable to learn what he claimed to know about the circumstances surrounding Vogel's birth.

My eyes fell on Vogel's box. I pushed my papers aside, pulled it over, and dug out the ring. A little polish would make it gleam. Again I wondered about the woman who had worn it. Had it been given to her by her husband upon the joyous news of her pregnancy? Or had it been a gift from a lover? Perhaps that was why she had given away the baby, to avoid a scandal.

I returned the ring to the box, replaced the lid, and moved it onto the floor beside my chair. I reached for the aria I had been editing. I scratched a few minor changes onto the paper. A moment later, my mind turned again to the boy, Florian Auerstein. What had he meant when he had told me to find “the woman who spilled the wine”? Spilled what wine? Had he been referring to Vogel's christening, perhaps? Why would anyone in the Auerstein family know anything about that? Had Vogel's birth mother been a member of that noble household? I shook my head to clear my fancies away. The boy was a flighty tease. He had been trying to goad me into anger. I shouldn't dwell on what he had told me. It was probably just nonsense.

I returned to my work. A few moments later, I threw down my pen in frustration. I was getting nothing done today. I was too distracted by Vogel's mystery. I went over to my cupboard and pulled out my cloak, took up my stick and the box, and headed out into the Graben.

I turned right and headed into the maze of streets behind St. Peter's Church. A few minutes later I entered the Jewish Quarter, a small area of narrow streets crowded with medieval buildings housing small shops and moneylenders. The old empress had hated the Jews, and had done everything in her power to drive them from Vienna. Her son was much more broad-minded, however, and soon after he ascended the throne, he ordered a loosening of the restrictions on Jews. They were now free to worship in their own homes, but they were not allowed to build synagogues or, for that matter, to own land.

I passed a small group of older men in dark caftans and with long beards, but also saw a few younger men wearing modern clothing. At the end of the street, I entered a small pawnbroker shop. The proprietor, Michael, was deep in discussion with a middle-aged man dressed in a fancy silk suit even more out of style than my own. Several items lay on the counter. Michael looked up and nodded a greeting to me and returned to his customer.

“I can only give you ten florins for the snuffbox,” he said.

I put Vogel's box on the floor and walked around the shop to see Michael's latest acquisitions. I could not help but overhear the conversation.