Sent to the Devil Page 3

21 aprile

  “I am coming. April 21,” the Italian read. I had no idea what the string of numbers meant.

  I went to my desk and took a folded packet of paper from its small drawer. It was a duplicate of the newest one, again hastily addressed to me at the theater, with the same messy, unmarked seal. My hands shook as I unfolded it and placed it by the newest message. My eyes traveled between the two pages, comparing the contents. They were the same.

  Loud laughter came from the street below my window as Sophie’s party broke up. I studied the messages. What was the meaning of the numbers? Was someone toying with me for his own amusement, or did he have more sinister motives? What was going to happen on April 21, seven days from now?

  As I stared at the notes, my mind full of worry, the happiness I had gained from an afternoon with an old friend completely unraveled.

  Two

  The next morning I worked for an hour in my office, then took my Don Giovanni libretto and went upstairs to the main hall of the theater. Workmen were arranging chairs on the stage, where Mozart and I would continue leading the cast through the libretto and score we had written for the performances in Prague. We had already worked through the first act and part of the second act of the opera last week. These preliminary rehearsals were very informal—Mozart would accompany the singers on a fortepiano as they tried out their arias. Later, once we had determined what changes must be made, we would begin rehearsing with the orchestra. I stood down in the parterre watching Thorwart, the assistant theater manager, directing the workers on the stage.

  Most of the cast members had already arrived and sat chatting with one another in the seats behind me. The company had changed members since Mozart and I had last worked together on The Marriage of Figaro two years ago. Only three singers from that cast remained—the talented and handsome bass Francesco Benucci; the delicate soprano Luisa Laschi, now the prima donna of the company, heavy with child; and the scowling Francesco Bussani. New to the company were two men who had just arrived in Vienna a few weeks before: the baritone Francesco Albertarelli, who would sing the title role of Don Giovanni, and the highly touted tenor Francesco Morella.

  Our cast also included two sopranos who had performed in Vienna for many years. Aloysia Lange was Mozart’s sister-in-law, and had been a star in the recently closed German opera company. Caterina Cavalieri had been a star of the Italian opera company five years ago. But her voice was starting to fade, and her squat, bosomy figure was showing the effects of middle age and too much pastry. She was the longtime mistress of Antonio Salieri, music director of the company, however, so a role had been found for her. She would sing Donna Elvira, a woman used and abandoned by Don Giovanni, while Lange played Donna Anna, the daughter of the libertine’s murder victim. I watched, amused, as the two sopranos exchanged cool nods.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Mozart bustled into the hall. He placed his score on the bench of the fortepiano, nodded at me, and greeted the singers one by one, shaking hands with each of the men, kissing Laschi, and giving a hug to Lange.

  “How do you feel?” he asked her. Like Laschi, Lange was in the advanced stages of pregnancy.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “A bit tired, but—”

  “Wolfgang! My favorite composer!” Caterina Cavalieri swooped over and pulled Mozart away from his sister-in-law.

  “Hello, Caterina.” Mozart bowed with a flourish and kissed her hand. She giggled.

  “I know I said this last week, but I wanted to say it once more. I am thrilled to be working with you again,” she cooed. “I cannot wait to see what you are going to do with my role.”

  Thorwart climbed down from the stage and came over to me. “We’ll be lucky if those two make it through the first three performances,” he muttered, gesturing toward the two pregnant sopranos. “I don’t welcome the expense of hiring replacement singers, but the emperor specifically requested this cast.” He sighed. “I don’t know why—he won’t be here to see any of the performances, the way this war is going.” He shook his head. “And he has no idea what it costs to put on these productions.”

  “Well, he did close the German company and transfer all its resources to us,” I reminded him. “Surely that gives us a big enough budget to replace the ladies when the time comes?”

  Thorwart laughed. “You are naïve, Da Ponte. Most of those savings went to the higher salary the emperor gave Salieri when he promoted him to music director. And now Mozart has a salary too, as court composer.”

  “I’m sure the emperor is aware of our costs,” I said.

  “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t be so certain. If this war drags on, we may be the next to close.” He glanced over at the stage. “No! You over there! Put the singers’ parts on their chairs!” He nodded at me and scurried off.

  “Let’s begin, everyone,” Mozart called. I bounded up to the stage with my libretto as Mozart sat at the fortepiano. “I want to begin with the sextet,” he said. In the libretto, Don Giovanni, the notorious seducer, seeking to escape the consequences of his actions, orders his manservant to pose as the master and woo one of the libertine’s former lovers. In the dark streets of Seville, where the opera is set, the servant attempts to escape the woman and several neighbors who seek revenge for the evildoer’s many crimes. The characters express their deepest emotions during a sextet. I was pleased with my work on the number, and Mozart had set my poetry to beautiful, evocative music.

  I leaned back in my chair as the six singers worked through the piece. Occasionally Mozart would stop them to suggest a different way of singing a phrase, but overall, I was impressed by the way the singers took to the music so easily. When they had finished the ensemble, Benucci, who played the disguised servant, sang an aria in which he pleaded with the others to spare him from harm. With his inflections and gestures, the talented bass convinced me that he was indeed arguing for his life.

  The aria came to a close, and Benucci feigned the servant’s escape through a side door on the stage.

  “Bravo, Signor Benucci!” Mozart cried as the rest of the cast applauded. “Please don’t change a thing. That was perfect.” He turned to the tenor, Morella. “You are next, signore. Remember, in this aria, you are telling us that your beloved is your treasure, your very reason for living. Please give me a signal when you are ready.”

  Morella stood and squirmed uncomfortably. He straightened his cravat, held the sheets of music at arm’s length, and squinted to read them.

  “Signor Morella? Are you ready?”

  Morella coughed loudly. “One moment, maestro, if you please. I have something caught in my throat.” He coughed again. “All right, maestro. I am ready.”

  Mozart played the first few bars of the aria. “‘Meanwhile, go and console my treasure—’” Morella sang in a tight voice. He coughed again. His face reddened as he threw the music onto his chair. “I am sorry, maestro. My throat is very dry today.” He waved a hand around the stage. “The air in here—if it would not be too much trouble, I would prefer to sing the aria another day.”

  Mozart glanced over at me and raised his eyebrow slightly. “Fine, Signor Morella. We’ll work on it together, you and I, perhaps tomorrow.” Morella heaved a loud sigh of relief, took up his music, and sat.

  We rehearsed the rest of the act. At its end, Don Giovanni was taken to Hell. Francesco Albertarelli’s performance was brilliant, as we had expected it would be. The emperor had paid dearly to lure him to Vienna, and would be pleased to hear that he had gotten his money’s worth from the young baritone. The singers gathered their parts and left, Cavalieri sailing out accompanied by the young men. The workmen began to move the chairs off the stage and extinguish the lights.

  I walked with Mozart to the lobby. “What do you suppose is wrong with Morella?” I asked.

  Mozart shrugged. “Chances are there is a line in the aria he does not want to sing. I’ve seen that plenty of times before. I’ll meet with him tomorrow and find out. Oh, and I’ve been thinking, Lorenzo. You’
ve been saying we should add some physical comedy. What about some sort of burlesque scene after the sextet?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll sketch out a few possibilities.”

  “Come for dinner on Sunday. Constanze has been asking after you. There won’t be anyone else there, so we can work on the new scene afterward.”

  “I’d love to come,” I said. We shook hands and Mozart left. I started downstairs to my office. In the narrow hallway, a tall ladder and a mandolin leaned on the wall outside my door. I shook my head. With a different production being performed every day, there was not enough space for all of the props in the small rooms behind the stage upstairs. I would have to take care that Thorwart and his workmen did not wall me into my office.

  I felt a brief stab of worry as I opened the door, wondering if another mysterious message waited on my desk. But all that sat on my worktable was a stack of new librettos for my review. I pushed them aside, sat down, and pulled a fresh sheet of paper from my drawer. I started to toy with ideas for a burlesque scene, and after a few moments I was immersed in my work.

  A few hours later, I put my scribbles and my Don Giovanni libretto into my satchel, took my cloak, and climbed the stairs to the lobby. The porter was about to lock the front door, as there was no performance scheduled for this evening.

  “Oh, Signor Poet,” he said. “I did not know you were still here.” He held the door for me. “Have a good evening, signore.”

  I paused halfway through the door and looked back at him. “Did you leave a message in my office yesterday?” I asked.

  “Let me think. Yes, one came for you, early in the morning. I put it on your desk.” He frowned. “Was there a problem with it, signore?”

  “No, it is nothing. Do you remember who brought it?”

  He thought for a moment. “A boy. Yes. He was waiting at the door when I arrived to open up. It was early, about eight.”

  “A servant? What did he look like?”

  “Hmmmm. Let me think. He wasn’t wearing any uniform, signore. No livery. I remember that.”

  “Tall, short? Young, older?”

  He closed his eyes. “An older boy, tall—no, no, that was the one who came later in the day.”

  “Dark hair, light?” I prompted.

  He shook his head. “I am sorry, Signor Poet. I cannot remember. It was just a boy. I take so many messages every day, I cannot remember every boy.”

  “I understand,” I said. “If I should receive another message, and I am here, would you please send the boy down to my office?”

  “I will, signore. Good night.”

  I wished him good night and left.

  * * *

  Wednesday passed without the arrival of another mysterious message, so I breathed easier as I made my way to work on Thursday morning. The temperature was still warm, and I left my cloak in my room and carried only my satchel, into which I had tucked a few of my poems. I planned to drop them at Alois’s office on my way to the theater.

  Dark clouds lowered over the spires of the Stephansdom as I cut across the Strobelgasse to the plaza in front of my friend’s office building. Ahead of me, a large crowd had gathered around the Capistran Chancel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the ragged war protester near the entrance to the north tower. He placed his box at the edge of the crowd and climbed up on it.

  I approached a young man dressed in a postal uniform who was standing at the back of the crowd.

  “What is happening?” I asked.

  “Good morning, sir. It’s a body. Up there by the chancel.”

  “A drunk?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. I cannot see from back here.”

  “Friends! Our men are dying from disease at the miserable camp in Semlin!” the protester shouted. The crowd, its attention focused on the old chancel, paid him no attention.

  In front of us, a washerwoman balanced a large basket on her hip. She turned around. “It’s an old man—a priest, by the looks of him. He’s dead,” she said, her cheeks ruddy with excitement.

  A wave of icy cold washed over me. I pushed my way past the washerwoman and plunged into the crowd, straining to get to the front.

  “Hey, watch where you are going,” a merchant snarled at me.

  “How many of our husbands and brothers must die to feed the empress of Russia’s greed for land?” the protester shouted.

  “Pardon me, I must get through.” I propelled myself to the front of the crowd. My head felt light, as if I were floating. As I neared the wall of the cathedral, the throng of onlookers suddenly parted, revealing a horrible sight. An old man lay at the base of the chancel, his right arm draped over the sandstone plinth, his left hand cradled near his side. His eyes stared blankly at the sky. His mouth was frozen open in surprise, his forehead smeared with a thick reddish-brown paste. My stomach turned over as I breathed in a salty, metallic fetor. Below his head, at the collar of his cassock, snowy white tubes protruded from a mess of dark blood. I stared at them, my jaw slack with disbelief, and then my legs gave way.

  Three

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the awful sight to disappear. But when I opened them, Alois’s body was still splayed on the sandstone. The stem of the chancel and the leftmost steps to a small portico that led into the cathedral were spattered with crimson.

  “A robber,” a man next to me said. “The stupid old man. He shouldn’t have tried to fight.”

  My legs were numb. I could not get myself back on my feet.

  “This is murder, you fool!” another man said. “No thief would slaughter a man like that.”

  “The Turks! It’s the Turks!” a young servant girl wailed. “They must be here, hiding in the city.”

  A dull murmur rose from the crowd. Two constables appeared and pushed the crowd back with their sticks.

  “Do you need help, sir?” A young man leaned over me.

  “I cannot get up,” I croaked.

  “Let me help you.” He put his hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet. “Did you know him?” he asked me, gesturing toward Alois.

  I gulped. “Yes, he was my friend,” I managed to respond. He handed my satchel to me.

  “We must bring our men home right now! The emperor has made a huge mistake. It’s not too late to fix it,” the protester shouted.

  “That one should watch his words,” the young man said. I followed his eyes to the edge of the plaza, where a plain black carriage had just pulled up. The door opened, and a man climbed out. I shuddered as I recognized his sharp features.

  “Everyone move back!” the constables shouted. They had been joined by three others. “Get about your business!” The crowd grumbled, and then began to disperse.

  I took a step back as Georg Troger walked through the passage the constables had cleared. From my place at the front of the remaining spectators, I could see him stop at the chancel. His dark, cold eyes stared down at Alois. He turned, spoke briefly to one of the constables, and returned to the carriage. A moment later, it drove away.

  “You must leave, sir.” The constable pushed at me with his stick.

  “Please, I knew this man,” I cried. “He was my friend. What has happened? What did Captain Troger say?”

  The constable looked at me with pity. “There’s nothing you can do for your friend now, sir. Please move along. Inspector Troger’s orders are to clear the area.”

  “But I must speak with someone. I must know what happened,” I protested.

  The constable’s face softened. “I’m sorry, sir. There is nothing I can do for you. They’ve sent for the hearse. You have to go.”

  I forced myself to take one last look at my poor friend, and then walked toward the Stephansplatz. Before I turned around the corner of the cathedral, I looked back. Two priests, Krause and Urbanek, had come out the door of the small portico. Urbanek fell to his knees before the body and began to pray.

  I stumbled through the Graben, my eyes clouded with tears. The pit of my stomach was empty and
cold. What monster had done this to Alois? He had been the gentlest of souls. I could not picture him attempting to resist a robbery. The Alois I knew would have given his attacker his money willingly, even with a blessing.

  In the Kohlmarkt, I let the mass of bureaucrats making their way to their offices at the Hofburg carry my numb legs down the street. When the mob debouched into the Michaelerplatz, I automatically headed toward the theater. But as I approached the building, I found that I could not control myself. I veered off to the right, walked down a quiet side street, and entered the courtyard where my ordeal with the Ministry of Police had begun two years before.

  The small yard looked the same—rows of windows in tall buildings, no carriages or horses idling nearby. But where two years before the space had been deserted and dark, today it was bustling with bewigged bureaucrats chatting with one another before the workday began. I stood in the center of the court. Was I in the right place? Yes, there was the center door, ornamented with one simple lamp.

  I went through the door and up a flight of stairs. Was this the floor? I peered down the long hallway, where clumps of workers stood outside office doors. No, it must be up another flight. I dragged myself up to the next floor and looked around. Ahead of me was the long hallway that occasionally still featured in my nightmares. But unlike that night two years ago, when the doors were all closed and nothing but sporadic pools of light lit the way, today the office doors all stood open.

  A tall man in a gray woolen suit approached. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Count Pergen’s office,” I said.

  His brows shot up. “The minister of police? What would you want with him?” He studied me, suspicion written on his face. “Are you one of his spies?”

  “No, no! There’s been a crime, a murder. I believed—I remembered—no, I must be in the wrong hallway.” As I turned away, I stumbled.

  The bureaucrat caught my arm. “Wait, sir,” he said. “You are in the correct hallway. But Pergen’s ministry moved last year. This is the tax reform office now.”