Mozart's Sister: A Novel (24 page)

Victoria was already on the stool, and Nannerl went to sit beside her. And under the guidance of her teacher, the beloved student began playing a Bach sarabande.

It was a slow dance, in a minor key, composed of broad chords that progressed with poignant mastery and trills that suspended the harmonic resolutions, holding off relief in an unbearable delay. Armand went to the instrument, listening, careful not to make the least noise; he observed, rapt, the faces of the two women, that of Victoria abandoned; Nannerl’s more vigilant. Then he walked around the instrument and placed a warm, protective hand on the shoulder of each of them.

Anyone who had seen them would have thought of a small, loving family group. Victoria appeared unaware of the paternal gesture and continued to play calmly, repeating the piece again and again, in an eternal da capo; and each time, she entered into the spirit of the composer more fully and added something of her own in a slight pause or an accent of feeling. Nannerl was, on the other hand, profoundly disturbed by Armand’s touch and was thankful that he couldn’t see her flaming face.

Slowly the man’s hand moved from her shoulder to her neck and then her cheek, and stopped there to savor the contact of her skin, which had grown damp. Breathing through her mouth, then holding her breath, Nannerl closed her eyes and bent her head slightly, enjoying that caress. Eyes closed, she slowly raised her arms and placed her fingers on the keyboard. Softly she caressed the keys while Armand caressed her, without pressing, without her nails touching the ivory and the ebony, without creating the slightest sound.

III.

Those were her hands! Long, appropriately for a tall girl, rounded and strong, with broad fingertips, nimbly producing a succession of notes astonishing for their rapidity and yet their precision. They were hers, Nannerl’s. But they were not hers. She was relegated to the audience like an ordinary spectator, and the pianist, known throughout Europe, had attracted to the theater not only the aristocrats of the city but those of the neighboring principalities. And she was good, oh she was good! Her technique was enough for two, and her capacity for emotion, and her interpretative imagination. This is playing! One cannot play better than this. Nannerl saw herself on the stage, the herself she could have become, if only…If only what? The young woman even looked like her. Her hair was the same gold color and was done in a style Nannerl liked. Her complexion was pink and white, like hers. In profile, the tip of her nose turned down slightly, just like hers. And the dress was perfect for a concert: it was the one she would have chosen, not too tight in the waist, the sleeves short and not puffed, not too elaborate, because the performer wants to be remembered for her music, not for her wardrobe. And now the concert is over and the pianist rises and bows. Even the bow is perfect. No simpering curtsies or inappropriate batting of eyelashes. Only a measured nod of the head, hands joined at the breast: this is how to say thank you. And then the artist leaves and doesn’t return, in spite of the prolonged applause: this is how we keep from confusing ourself with the image others have of us.

“So, how did she seem to you?” Wolfgang asked, rising from his chair and unfurling his legs.

“You want the truth?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t think I will ever have the courage to perform after seeing her. Tonight I’ve had the confirmation that I’m not worth much even as a pianist.”

“Do you expect me to contradict you and comfort you?”

“Not at all, Wolfgang.”

“Just as well. In any case, if you think you’re not worth much, you’re not. And as for courage, you’ve never had any. You’ve always been towed along behind someone else.”

She didn’t have time to respond, for Leopold took his son by the arm and led him away. “Into the dressing room. We have to do a little public relations.” He turned to his wife and daughter. “Would you like to come, too?”

“If it won’t disturb you,” Nannerl said angrily.

Herr Mozart ignored the combative tone and hurried on, talking to Wolfgang. “You should write a concerto for this Frenchwoman: it would be an excellent investment in the future.”

“Why not? I think it can be done,” the young man affirmed, while on his lips appeared a wicked smile. “You know what I hope, more than anything? That she’s not as masculine as her name. It would be a real waste, with those long legs.”

“Think about paying her some compliments on her artistic gifts and don’t worry about the rest.” He stopped at the door of the dressing room, made sure that his family looked presentable, assumed an obsequious air, and then knocked.

“Entrez, s’il vous plaît,”
said a clear voice from inside.

Upon opening the door, the Mozarts were assailed by a profusion of heady scents. The dressing room was overflowing with roses, freesias, lilies, carnations, camellias, arranged in jars, baskets, Chinese vases; bouquets had been placed on the shelves, on the chairs, even on the floor. The artist greeted the new arrivals with a gracious gesture of her arms similar to the opening up of a flower, and Wolfgang felt drawn to her full, shining lips like a bee to a pistil.

Leopold kissed her hand and said in his impeccable French,
“Je suis enchanté, Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.”

“Which in my language means ‘young man,’” answered the pianist with a beautiful smile. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Your
charme
is delightfully French, my dear mademoiselle. And your fame is certainly inferior to your art.”

“Oh, thank you. I know you, too, of course, by reputation—and your son the prodigy.” Her eyes were as green as a new shoot and she fixed them on Wolfgang’s; he was pervaded by a sexual energy that left no doubts about the femininity of Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.

“It is you who are the prodigy,” he said gallantly. “Your fame is certainly inferior to your…beauty.”

Nannerl had stayed in the doorway, stiffly, and her unease increased as she watched her brother take one of Mademoiselle Jeunehomme’s hands and place it on his heart.

“Do you hear these heartbeats?” he said. “During the concert they were in unison with your fingers, as they are at this exact moment.”

“Oh how sweet…You have a poetic soul, dear Mozart.”

“Especially when it’s useful,” Nannerl said in a whisper, but she was heard. Her parents gave her a furious look; Wolfgang, however, didn’t lose his composure.

“Mademoiselle, this is my dear, adored sister, Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart. Forgive me, ladies, if I neglected to introduce you. Nannerl is also a musician, did you know?”

“Yes, of course,” Mademoiselle Jeunehomme answered arrogantly. “I was told that you, too, used to play a little, at one time. Now you teach, yes?” And receiving no response, she again turned her leaf-colored eyes to Wolfgang. “So, my dear, when will you make a nice journey
à Paris
?”

“My brother has already been to Paris,” Nannerl interrupted, offended. “We played together for your king, if you don’t mind.”

The pianist seemed hugely annoyed. “I know. A thousand years ago, if I’m not mistaken, or thereabouts. My dear Walburga, you must understand…”

“Nannerl.”

“All right, Nannerl, then. You must understand that times have changed. I realize that for a person who lives in a small city, and is merely a teacher, this isn’t easy to comprehend; but the world of music is constantly evolving. One doesn’t always have to be in the service of some ruler. It’s more of a risk, of course, but if things go well, the personal satisfaction is unsurpassed. Am I right, dear Mozart? Wouldn’t you like to live in Paris, or even Vienna, I don’t know, writing music on commission and not being anyone’s slave?”

Leopold was getting alarmed. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but it’s not clear to me what you’re getting at.”

“Only to say that a career like that is possible, provided—”

“Provided?” Wolfgang urged her on, curious.

“You have the right contacts. That’s all.” And she smiled at him again.

He devoured her with his eyes. “Contacts of what type? Close contacts, perhaps? My sweet ‘young man,’ the idea of close contact with you is delightful.”

This game of seduction was at its peak, and the two seemed to be alone in the room. Leopold and Anna Maria felt they were extraneous and so did Nannerl, but she refused to accept it.

“This discussion of contacts is interesting,” she declared in a sharp voice. “Now I can see how Mademoiselle has gained her reputation.”

Mademoiselle Jeunehomme turned suddenly. “What do you mean?”

“Love for music, of course, but above all for musicians. And for impresarios, patrons, theater directors—who else? Maybe even some governors. A life of love can smooth the path of a career.”

“Get out of this room!” the Frenchwoman screamed.

Leopold became a monster. He chased his daughter to the door and gripped her forearms with such force that they turned pale. Meanwhile his wife entreated the pianist: “Mademoiselle, for pity’s sake, don’t be offended, forgive her—Nannerl didn’t mean what she said.”

“Out of this room, is that clear?”

“Wait! Please, wait just a moment!” Wolfgang cried in his powerful voice. They fell silent and looked at him. He appeared the least upset; in fact, the situation amused him hugely. “I have a proposal. Why not transform this quarrel into something more interesting?”

“What do you mean?” the pianist asked suspiciously.

“Mademoiselle, I believe that there are duels more productive than verbal ones. And rather than waste a competition with great dramatic potential, I would suggest transferring it to the stage: organizing, that is, a public contest on the piano—between Fräulein Mozart and Mademoiselle Jeunehomme!”

“What a stupid idea!” Nannerl burst out, and tried to free herself from the grip of her father, who restrained her.

The other, however, began to show some interest (if only to oppose her). “A competition between two pianists? It might be interesting. Of course, it would get a good audience.”

“Especially if they played your music, Wolfgang,” Herr Mozart suggested.

“That doesn’t seem necessary, Father. Maybe I could write an introduction, a divertimento, say—a light piece to open the evening.”

“And you would perform it yourself, on the violin, with a small orchestra.”

“Whatever you think.”

Leopold pondered. “Mademoiselle Jeunehomme against Fräulein Mozart. It sounds good. I see it already on the posters.”

“I agree!” the Frenchwoman declared. “From my viewpoint, it can be done.”

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, in great satisfaction. “How long will you be in town, Mademoiselle?”

“At least till the end of the month.”

“The end of the month? I don’t know if the theater still has a free night. I’ll go and speak to the manager right away.”

“Tell him that you’re a friend of Countess von Esser and have him give you a discount,” Anna Maria whispered.

“Brava, dear wife.” And finally he let go of Nannerl’s arm, as she preceded him to the door, calling back to Mademoiselle Jeunehomme, “You’ll compete by yourself!”

And she vanished into the theater.

IV.

“Did you see what character she has? That’s why she plays so well. I wish you had her determination.”

“I’ve thought about it some more. She’s just a megalomaniac with big hands. She can roll out a thousand notes in a single minute, but it’s pure exhibitionism.”

“Keep your voice down,” Wolfgang said. The last spectators, leaving, passed the sister and brother putting on their mantle and overcoat. He took her hand and led her away from the door. “If you think you’re better than she is, show it.”

“But why? Why do you see life as a competition? I have no desire to play ‘against’ someone.”

“With someone, against someone, what’s the difference? In my opinion it’s simple: you’re afraid of losing.”

“That’s not true.”

“Are you sure? Now you live shut up at home, giving lessons to a few girls who don’t even know what a note is. You don’t do anything else. You don’t play anymore, you don’t compose. In my view that’s the attitude of someone who has a tremendous fear of confrontation.”

“It’s thanks to the money of those girls that you went to Italy to lead a life of pleasure! So you should speak of them with respect. And of me as well.”

“Respect for those people? But are you crazy, Nannerl? And in any case I’ve never asked you for a thing.”

“In words, no, but maybe by your actions you’ve claimed a lot. And what have you given me in exchange? You couldn’t even send me transcriptions of a few songs!”

“Be honest, please. You would have burned those, too.”

“You know something? I might have. And you know why? Because it doesn’t make sense for me to persist in writing music. No one will publish it. No one will sing it. Who in the world would it matter to?”

“You. Isn’t that enough?”

“But I…I can’t do it anymore by now. I don’t have any skills. I’ve hardly studied at all.”

“You know whose style your arias resembled? Antonio Salieri’s. Isn’t it enough for you to be like the director of the Italian Opera in Vienna?”