Mozart's Sister: A Novel (33 page)

“Take away that disgusting thing,” he ordered, indicating the chamber pot. “And stay out for a while.”

Warily, he approached the bed. By now he was certain: his daughter was seriously ill. Who knew what had happened in that stubborn head to make her sleep continuously, night and day, and eat almost nothing, and not even wash. Wolfgang had left for Vienna—well, three weeks earlier. So it was a little less than a month since she had buried herself in that room. And then, good heavens, Colonel d’Ippold had sent back the linens, the old harpsichord, and even some pieces of furniture, and it was all piled in the parlor, blocking the way and the view, in the useless expectation that Nannerl would decide where to put it. One couldn’t go on in that way.

“Daughter, it’s time you got out of this bed. Roll up your sleeves and start doing something useful in the house.”

No answer, no sign of having heard.

“Nannerl! It’s time to show a little willpower and overcome this ridiculous laziness. Come on, you must get up.”

“I’m cold,” she murmured.

“What? You’re cold? Well, that’s not surprising, if you never move.”

“I hurt everywhere.”

“It’s because you never get up, for heaven’s sake. At this rate your blood will stop flowing.”

“It would be a great relief.”

“What did you say?”

“The idea of death comforts me, Father. I would like it to come soon; I would like to take my life myself. But I am so inept that I would fail at that, too. Why don’t you do it?”

“That’s enough of this nonsense. Get up, right away!”

“You think you can force me? Go away and close the window,” she said, and covered her head again with the pillow.

Gnashing his remaining teeth, Leopold resigned himself and returned to the parlor (failing to close the window, out of spite). With his limping gait, he began pacing from one side of the room to the other, hitting the floor with his cane, obsessively following the outline of the uneven tiles. He had an invalid in the house, he thought with anger and impatience. It wasn’t enough to have lost his wife, and that his son was called to seek success elsewhere, and that the servant was soon to leave, abandoning him to unknown hands. Now, added to his troubles, was an unmarried daughter possessed by melancholy specters, who persisted ardently in her inner suffering and would not emerge from her state. Maybe he should call a doctor or find her a place in the hospital; maybe she needed a specialist to take care of her day and night, full time. Yes, that was the practical solution; he had neither the tools nor the will nor the desire to care for her. Of course, it would be a great expense.

“Herr Mozart?”

He turned in annoyance. Tresel had finished clearing up and had taken off her apron and cap.

“What in Heaven’s name do you want?”

“Herr Mozart, if you don’t mind, I have an idea.”

“Since when do illiterates have ideas floating around in their heads?”

With equal impertinence she sat down right in front of her master, who remained standing. “I would like to take Nannerl to Sankt Gilgen. I would like to have her at my house.”

“Why?”

“The mountain air will do her good.”

“That’s it?”

“What else should I tell you?”

Leopold was silent for a long time. A thread of interest brought him a few inches from the servant. “And, if I might ask,” he said, “how long would you keep her?”

“How should I know? Until she’s recovered.”

“I would like to determine an exact date; after all, you would certainly want something for her maintenance, and I think I had better calculate the costs.”

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t take much money.”

“Truly? Well, basically that’s secondary. What counts is that my dear daughter should get away from the places that represent so many sad memories for her, and so—so yes, I think that ultimately, in spite of everything, your idea isn’t bad. Give me the address so that I can write to her now and then, and see that you make her answer every so often. Come on, get the bags packed.”

II.

“Do you want to eat?” was the question, always the same, and Nannerl’s reply was always “No, thank you, Tresel.” So the old woman withdrew into the dark space of the ground-floor window and prepared the meal for the large population of her house, except the guest. Nannerl stayed outside in the noon sun—with a white parasol carefully arranged to shelter her head—her eyes closed and her thoughts more inert than her body. She never went far from the large farm building—just a few yards, to the bench surrounded by tufts of grass and flowering plants; the town that had given birth to her mother and to the old servant didn’t interest her, nor did she feel pressed to make friends with Tresel’s descendants, from her son Martin to the daughter-in-law with the lame leg, to their children and the children of their children. She had never found herself in a dwelling so crowded, and every so often, when the children tumbled about her too noisily, she found herself wondering who in the world had wanted her to go and stay in that chaos. But they all left her in peace each day; they asked no questions and made no claims on her, and the pale, luminous beams of the sun had begun to warm her soul. No part of her skin was exposed directly, but one day, just as an experiment, she cautiously took off a glove and stretched her hand outside the cone of the parasol’s shade.

The light made her flesh appear even whiter, and the skin of her palm and of her emaciated fingers seemed to be made of many infinite hollows, which could be filled with light and warmth. In those hollows was the vital substance of life, she imagined, and it spread from one finger to the next (for they were communicating) like an ointment, and from her arm to her shoulder; there it stopped, however, because the ointment was not inexhaustible. So now Nannerl thought of pulling her sleeve up above the forearm to expose it to the sun and let it, too, enjoy the warm massage; but to do it she would have to put the parasol down and leave her face uncovered. It was too great a risk. Not knowing what to do, with one hand holding the handle and the other in the border area between light and shadow, she managed to stick the parasol between her head and neck, quickly pushed the material of her dress up above the elbow, and courageously extended the limb into the sun.

First she was cold. The skin, unused to the air, was covered with tiny hills, one for each hair, and the rays wounded it. The warmth came suddenly, like a slap; it didn’t spread through her body but stayed on the surface, biting her. Suddenly she closed the parasol and placed it on the bench beside her, and untied her hat. As she took it off, some locks of hair remained tangled in it, and she freed them impatiently; then she uncovered the other forearm, took off the glove, placed her open hands on the bench, and threw back her head, eyes closed, to face the sun.

She seemed to feel its weight. Her eyes seemed to be rotating, radiating concentric waves, like a rock thrown into a lake. Stirred by that internal movement, Nannerl listened to the rustle of the wind, a distant meowing, the hooves of horses beating on straw, and she felt herself part of an organism made of mountains, and meadows, and warm light, making life possible; her own organism did not differ from the larger one, and now she felt herself swell with air, and deflate, and swell again, and grow strong from the fascinating contractions of her heart. The apparent immobility of her flesh was no longer a renunciation but a recharging—the vigilant stillness of one who, in waiting, becomes.

“What did I tell you?” Tresel said to her son, from the window. “It will pass, finally.”

III.

Her face was peeling and red, and the shadowy light of the hearth had begun to feel confining. She was restless indoors, unable to accept her condition of inactive guest; everyone was very busy during the daylight hours, but there didn’t seem to be a suitable task for her. Tresel absolutely would not let her clean or cook. She allowed her to make her own bed in the room on the upper floor that she shared with a couple of kids who slept like logs (thank Heaven!), but, otherwise, the old woman considered it absurd that she whom she had served for years should now serve her. “I’ve always done it myself” was the recurrent excuse. Or “You’re not capable!” And Nannerl, who although she felt at home in that household as she never had in the Mozart house, couldn’t resign herself.

She went out into the courtyard with an old hat on her head, to keep the sun off her already sunburned nose, and for a moment thought about splitting logs, but the idea of accidentally amputating a foot discouraged her. Then she thought of making a neat stack of the logs lying in a heap in a corner; she unpiled them one by one, then invented an orderly and efficient arrangement (she thought, with great satisfaction): the first layer perpendicular to the wall, the second parallel, with a distance between one log and the next of exactly three inches. When she reached the fifth row her head was spinning a little, but she thought it was from the lack of physical exercise and how little she had eaten, and, unalarmed, she kept going. Halfway through the eighth row, she had used up the logs. Not satisfied, she stood up to see if there were others in the courtyard or the fields, so that she could finish the prodigious sculpture; but at that point she became extremely dizzy and, panting, she prudently sat down on the construction itself, which collapsed with a crash.

“Come with me,” Martin said, looking at her as one looks at a halfwit, holding out his hand. Tresel’s son was short, but he had strong arms and was only a little more talkative than his mother. He didn’t lead her inside to recover, or give her time to catch her breath, but without releasing his grip he dragged her along the rocky path that led to the stable. “If you really want to be useful,” he said, “you can take care of Ebony.”

“Who’s that?” she asked breathlessly.

“A horse, obviously,” he answered, as he pushed her through the stable door and then toward the narrow stall of a filly, who greeted them with an angry neighing and retreated. Flattening her ears back, she pawed the ground and showed her teeth. Despite her name, only her mane, muzzle, and the area around her eyes were black; she had a grayish coat and a squat, ungainly body with a disproportionately large head.

“Why in the world did you name her Ebony?”

“She was black when she was born, like a raven, a real beauty; but when she grew up she played this trick. She’s certainly not a purebred; I have no idea who got her lustful beast of a mother pregnant!” Nannerl blushed violently while he, with utter naturalness, continued: “And she also has quite a character, to tell you the truth. The owner foisted her off on me because she shied all the time. No one wants her around.” And saying, “Good luck!” he went off.

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Curry her!”

And he disappeared, swallowed up into the light of the stable yard.

Disoriented, Nannerl looked around: all the horses were dozing or eating quietly; only Ebony was beating her hooves on the ground, and the dark-circled eyes, which stood out against the ash-colored coat, watched her sullenly. She was supposed to take care of this hostile beast! That Martin was astonishingly rude, to think that she was at his service. Helping in the house was one thing, but to be ordered about by an ignorant despot was another. Her father, Herr Leopold Mozart, was sending a mint of money to the family to pay for her stay. Nothing else was due them, unless she herself chose to do something for her own pleasure.

She abandoned the filly and, with lowered head, retraced her steps, wrinkling her nose at the foul smell; she reached the stable gate, which Martin had left open, and imagined his mocking expression when he discovered that she had been unable to do the job. She stopped. After all, what else did she have to do in this remote place? She had no wish to read; she hadn’t brought many books, and in the house there was not even one. She had read the most recent letter from her father and was not in the mood to answer. After all, if she thought about it, in the past she had done things more arduous than curry an ugly, capricious horse. She turned, settled the hat on her head, and called, “Ebony!”

A few sleepy sounds responded. The one addressed, hidden in her stall, was silent.

“Ebony, now I’m coming to see you and I’m going to take you out and curry you. Whether you like it or not.”

The other horses slid past her gaze as she cautiously approached the filly. The warning seemed to have disposed her favorably, or perhaps Nannerl’s deep voice had recalled to her some mysterious memory.

The two studied each other for a long time, motionless and watchful. Nannerl stood twenty paces away. The horse looked at her, then turned her head slightly, pretending indifference, and then looked at her again, ears straight and eyes so dark against the gray coat that they were like the eye sockets of a skull. When Nannerl advanced two steps, however, Ebony let out a strange whinny and flattened her ears like a cat.

“I know you don’t like me. I’m sorry, I really am, but I confess that I don’t like you, either. If no one else likes you, why should I?”

A strangled sound came from the horse; she shook her mane and scraped the straw with her hooves.

“Now I’m moving another step closer. Look at my hands: they’re empty. I have nothing that can hurt you. Besides, I don’t see why I should. Believe me, you’re not that interesting to me.”