The Figaro Murders Read online

  * * *

  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.

  Two men in their mid-sixties stood in front of the theater’s doorway, deep in discussion. They had not seen me. I lowered my head and took a sharp right, hoping to skirt the edge of the plaza and duck down a side street until they had left.

  “Signor Da Ponte! Signor Poet!” a high, nasal voice called.

  I groaned. Damn. There was nothing I could do but turn back. I approached the pair and bowed to the taller of the two. This was Count Franz Xavier Rosenberg, high chamberlain to the emperor and also, more important to me, the director of the Court Theater, and thus my supervisor. His steely eyes took me in from head to toe. He grimaced slightly as his eyes alighted on my shabby cloak. He himself wore a deep purple court suit cut in the latest fashion, the coat made of fine satin. He graced me with a curt nod.

  “Tell us, Signor Poet, how is your latest project proceeding?” the nasal voice asked. “The opera with Mozart?”

  I struggled to keep dislike from showing on my face as I turned to the speaker, the Abbé Giambattista Casti, my most guileful enemy. Like me, Casti was a poet and a priest. Unlike me, he had enjoyed a celebrated career all over Europe. Monarchs, aristocrats, and connoisseurs of modern poetry delighted in his satirical style and the lubricious subject matter of his rhymes. After many years at the courts of St. Petersburg and Tuscany, he had settled in Vienna a few years ago, hoping to use his friendship with Count Rosenberg to win a post with the emperor.

  “It is going very well, signore,” I said. “We have dress rehearsal in two weeks.”

 
; “Is Mozart pleased with your translation of the Beaumarchais play?” Casti asked.

  As I took a moment to measure my response, I studied him. His wispy hair was uncombed, and as usual, he wore a rumpled satin cloak. A long, dark hair sprouted from a mole on his right cheek. “I am not translating the play, signore,” I said. “I am adapting it. You see the difference, I am sure?”

  “Adapting it? Like you did for your last libretto, the one for Martín? What was it called, The Grumpy Curmudgeon?”

  My cheeks grew hot. My opera with the Spanish composer Martín had been a hit just a few months ago. Casti knew the correct title perfectly well. “The Good-Hearted Grump,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. A nice translation of the Goldoni play, but would you really call your work original?”

  I glanced at Rosenberg as I fought to bite back a retort. The theater director’s face was expressionless, but I saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “The public loved my libretto, signore. As you recall, that opera sold out every performance.”

  Casti fixed his beady eyes on me. “You are right, it did. Martín is a very talented composer for one so young. His music was sublime.”

  “I believe—”

  Rosenberg coughed. “I trust you and Mozart are taking care with the text,” he said. “The emperor was reluctant to allow you to use that play.”

  “Yes, Figaro was a sensation in Paris,” Casti said. “I’ve read it. The emperor was wise to ban its performance here.”

  Mozart and I had written an opera based on the most notorious play on the Continent—Beaumarchais’s The Marriage of Figaro. In the play, a nobleman carries on affairs with his female servants while his wife flirts with a teenage boy. A servant openly expresses his belief that he is the social equal of his master. The emperor had allowed the play to be printed in Vienna, but had banned its performance in any of the city’s theaters because of its vulgarity and impropriety.

  “I’ve cut all the objectionable parts out,” I said to the count. My voice grew tighter. “We are focusing on the human aspect of the material—the characters’ yearnings for love and respect, for reconciliation and forgiveness.” Rosenberg just stared at me.

  “Ah! The human aspect!” Casti said. “Yes, I see now.” He sighed. “I hope the emperor isn’t disappointed with the final product. You must admit, you and Mozart took a great risk deciding to write the opera without his prior approval.”

  Mozart and I had been so sure we could make a successful, acceptable opera out of Beaumarchais’s play that we had written it without a commission. My enemies have big ears and mouths, however, and one went running to the emperor with the tale of our deed. I had been summoned to explain myself and I had described the libretto to him, and then had sent for Mozart, who had played some of the arias he had already completed. The emperor had been delighted with our work and had ordered Rosenberg to put the opera on the theater schedule. It had been a bad day for Casti and Rosenberg.

  “As I said, I’ve read the play,” Casti continued. “It seems to be challenging material from which to make a comic opera.”

  As if Casti knew what made good theater! In my position as theater poet, I am the first to read librettos that are to be performed. I had read several of Casti’s. He had an elegant style, to be sure. His lyrics were beautifully worded and sparkled with wit. But his plots dragged, his dramatic structures were absurd, and his characters were clichéd. I strained to hold my temper, and bit off the snide retort that was forming on my lips.

  “Thank you for your concern—”

  “Be careful, Da Ponte,” Rosenberg said. “Remember, you are on shaky ground with this opera. I worry that your career here won’t survive another debacle like the one with Salieri.”

  I tightened my fingers around my stick. Antonio Salieri was the court composer. My first assignment had been to write a libretto for an opera to be composed by Maestro Salieri. I had heard he was a gentleman of good taste and artistic discernment, so I had proposed a number of possible subjects and left him to choose. Unfortunately for the opera and for me, he had selected the work that was the least suitable for adaptation to opera—a play called Rich for a Day.

  Casti nodded. “Yes, Rich for a Day lasted only one poor night in the theater.” He tittered. A glob of spittle had formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “That play was extremely difficult to adapt,” I snapped. “There were not enough characters. The plot was much too slender to fill two hours of theater!” I had worked on the libretto for several excruciating weeks, only to have Salieri request “minor changes” that involved deleting most of the plot that I had created. The composer had then set what remained of my verses to that shrieky music he had admired on a recent trip to Paris. It was then that I had learned the most important truth about theater in Vienna: if an opera is a smash, the libretto is considered, at best, a frame surrounding a beautiful painting. The composer receives all the credit. The words are unimportant. But if the opera is not well received, why, then the words become paramount—in fact, so very important that they can cause the failure of the work all by themselves!

  Casti looked at me with feigned sympathy. “How unfortunate for you, Signor Poet, that the court composer looks elsewhere for his librettos. How long has it been since you last worked together? Four years?”

  I clenched my teeth. My hands began to shake. “It’s not my fault—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” Rosenberg said.

  After Rich for a Day had quickly closed, Salieri had sworn that he would never work with me again. I had heard from friends that Rosenberg had advised the emperor to dismiss me and appoint Casti to my post. My beloved sovereign would not play the game, however. He encouraged me to try again, and since then, I’ve had a few successes, most notably my recent collaboration with Martín. I hoped that my opera with Mozart would erase Vienna’s long memory of my failure with Salieri.

  “Thank you for your concern,” I said to Casti. “I’m sure my new opera will be a success.” I bowed to the count. “If you will excuse me, sir.” He nodded his dismissal, and the two started off toward the Hofburg next door.

  As I opened the heavy door to the theater, Casti’s high voice rang out, mocking me. “I’m thure my new opera will be a thuccess.” Rosenberg laughed.

  I stood in the empty foyer of the theater, trembling with anger. I took a deep breath to calm myself. I needed to get to work. Figaro must succeed. I couldn’t bear another failure.

  Two

  The next morning I rose early, hoping to call on Vogel’s fiancée before she started work. The sun was shining as I crossed the Graben to my favorite coffeehouse, where I found a seat at one of the long, crowded tables. I liked this establishment because it was frequented by government clerks and merchants, not theater people, so I could enjoy breakfast without the need to engage in idle chatter or gossip with my colleagues. Most of the patrons today were either talking quietly with their neighbors or had hidden themselves behind various newspapers. I nodded greetings to a few of my fellow regulars and ordered coffee and a roll from the harried waiter.

  I reached across the table for a pile of political pamphlets that had been left behind by a previous customer. The emperor was an enthusiastic disciple of the liberal ideas spread by the French philosophes. One of his first acts upon ascending to the throne had been to eliminate government censorship of the press. The result had been a steady stream of monographs from the city’s printers, most either praising or condemning the emperor’s ambitious reform program.

  A serving boy brought me a bowl of coffee and a large crescent roll. As I blew on the brew to cool it a bit, I shuffled through the pile of pamphlets, studying the titles. “The Emperor Must Restore Pensions!” shouted one in large typeface. Before she died, the old empress had bestowed generous lifetime pensions on thousands of aides, servants, favored ladies, and the other flunkies who cling like barnacles to the rich and powerful. One of the emperor’s first acts had been to revoke them all, for fear that they
might drain the treasury dry.

  I tore off a small piece of soft roll and chewed it. It was freshly baked, buttery and yeasty, with the proper hint of cinnamon. I sipped my coffee and ate small bites of the roll as I took up another pamphlet. Titled “Equal Punishment for the Modern Era,” it praised the emperor’s reform of criminal law. Under the empress, aristocrats had not been subject to the same severe punishment for crimes as were the middle class and peasantry. I had heard about several cases where a nobleman had committed theft, fraud, or even murder, and had escaped trial. Since the emperor’s reforms, everyone was subject to the same penalties for commission of a crime.

  I took a final sip of my coffee and rooted around in my pocket for some coins. As I placed them on the table, a voice shouted behind me.

  “I’m telling you—Joseph is a follower of Luther!”

  I swiveled in my seat to find the source of the noise. Two corpulent men in expensive suits, merchants by the look of them, sat two tables away from me. One of them, most likely the one who had shouted, was red in the face.

  “Keep your voice down,” his companion said. “That’s nonsense. The emperor is merely holding the modern view. People of all faiths should be free to practice their religions.”

  “But to let Protestants have the same rights as Catholics?” Red Face sputtered. “It’s an abomination! Why should they be allowed to join our guilds, or to own property? Why, one snatched a warehouse I was eyeing right from under me, just last month!” He grunted. “Most of them weren’t even born here!”

  “You’re looking at it the wrong way,” his friend said. “Joseph was smart to order toleration of the Protestants. We need people from other parts of the empire to move here to Vienna. You’ve said yourself that the Protestant areas are filled with skilled laborers.”