Mozart's Sister: A Novel (35 page)

Vincent seemed to crumple in his saddle, while the corners of his mouth curved down, his forehead wrinkled, and his green eyes were hidden under long, thick lashes. He turned and galloped off.

“Wait!” Nannerl shouted, immediately sorry, but he speeded up, and she was left with an intense desire to slap herself. To make a child cry! Perfect! It was the only thing missing from her list. Why did she always realize her mistakes too late? And what was the source of this rage, which always exploded unexpectedly and always against the most unsuitable object?

“Ebony, we have to follow him,” she murmured nervously, but she didn’t know how to get into the saddle; obviously she didn’t have the stool with her, nor was there a fence in sight, nothing that could help her up. She walked as fast as she could, but her pace could not match the horse’s, and their progress was awkward. Suddenly she came upon a crumbling wall on one side of the path; maybe it wasn’t high enough, but it was better than nothing. “Now you have to help me, Ebony,” she said decisively and settled the horse beside the wall. She climbed up, hoisted her skirt, stuck her left foot in the stirrup, and with a great effort managed to lift herself, turning in the air so that she fell heavily onto the saddle. Ebony snorted and staggered, but otherwise didn’t seem to disapprove of the strategy. Vincent was no longer to be seen, nor could the sound of his horse’s hooves be heard; he must have taken the path to the lake.

“Now go!” Nannerl cried, and gave Ebony a heel and the whip, and away they went along the path. She ducked to avoid the branches, in the uncomfortable position required by the sidesaddle, with both legs on the left, and at that moment she wished she were a man so that she could control the horse’s movements properly and ride with greater freedom. At the summit of the little slope that led down to the lakeshore, she stopped abruptly and in the distance saw Vincent amid a small group of people, all men, and as many horses. She straightened her skirt and proceeded cautiously and slowly, and realized that the boy was recounting something to his audience. No doubt he was talking about her and her rude behavior, and yet he wasn’t crying, nor did his attitude seem offended. Three of his listeners were boys, while the fourth, presumably the father, had long blond hair gathered at the nape. Vincent pointed to her and the man turned and rested two magnetic eyes on her, one gray, one blue: it was Baron Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.

VI.

“Welcome, Fräulein Mozart,” Baptist began tranquilly, showing the same irresistible smile of nine years earlier. “Hermann, help her down,” he said to his oldest son, a youth who was an exact copy of him. “We have bread and butter and some
Würstchen
—just a small snack, I’m afraid, but the wine is good and they tell me that you eat rather sparingly.”

“Who tells you?” Nannerl said, heedless of Hermann’s arms reaching up toward her.

“Tresel, naturally.”

“And how do you know her, may I ask?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

“Sankt Gilgen is only a small village: the sound of a fart echoes from one end to the other even before one has finished producing it.”

The boys giggled, while Nannerl said, sharply, “I didn’t recall, Baron, that your poetic eloquence could reach such heights.”

“You, however, are exactly as I remembered you, Fräulein Mozart: full of enchanting sarcasm.”

“I haven’t missed our skirmishes at all. I have no more desire to compete. And I’ve realized, besides, that showing one’s anger is completely pointless, not to say damaging.”

“You think so? I wouldn’t be so sure of it. In any case your anger never bothered me: it was only a habit, identical in that sense to my couplets. Now will you get down, please, from that nag?”

Nannerl wished with all her heart that Ebony would rear up and shatter that perfect nose; but the damn horse seemed to enjoy the attentions of the baron, who was idly patting her flanks. Should she turn and flee? But where? It seemed to her that she was in the middle of a conspiracy in which all of them, from Tresel to the fair-haired child now observing her with an irritating little smile, were trying to push her into some unclear territory. Alone against this mass of manipulative humanity, she decided to join the game and carefully jumped to the ground.

“Compliments on your dismount. Now, boys, get things ready,” the baron ordered, and pouring her a glass of red wine, he led her to the shade of a beech. “Sip it slowly, not all in one swallow, the way you like to drink: it’s quite strong.”

“What do you know about what I like?”

“Not much, in truth. Lately I’ve led a somewhat retired life, more often here than in Salzburg, and very seldom in Vienna. The aristocratic world began to bore me. Ah, just for your information: I’m not married.”

“Well, neither am I,” she murmured.

“I did know that. Katharina von Esser told me. Rather, to be precise, she wrote me.”

Nannerl began to regret not having fled.

“Her letter,” the baron continued, “had a triumphant tone. Even the handwriting—full of capital letters, as if it were an ode carved in marble, with a few spelling mistakes here and there, but one can’t ask too much. In essence the countess announced that you, Fräulein Mozart, were again a free woman, and she let it slip that she deserved much of the credit, and proposed that I should court you again. Something that I never did seriously, as you know, and I have no intention of starting now—don’t worry.”

“Then why did you come? Because you feel sorry for me?”

“Should I feel sorry for you? Why?” he asked, widening those unique eyes. “Because of that dark, melancholy expression? On the contrary, you have my most complete approval: you don’t hide behind a frivolous manner but show your feelings in a genuine way. And as far as I can deduce from your complexion, you don’t hide under a parasol, either. And in that, too, you have my total approval.”

“Baron, I would like to know why you looked for me.”

“It wasn’t me. My son Vincent is the sole maker of this delayed meeting. I hope that confession doesn’t offend your self-esteem.”

“I don’t have much left.”

She didn’t utter too many other words. The butter seemed to her rancid, the bread dry, and the
Würstchen
stringy. She drank three glasses of wine, but that didn’t help her forget herself. She returned home at a walk, slow and sad, with an irritating sense of alienation from Ebony, who was stubborn and wouldn’t go into the stable. Nannerl tied her up outside the stable, then went to her room, fell onto the bed, and stayed there, practically inert, for a week.

VII.

“Why, may I ask, must one show gratitude to one who offers us a hand?” Baptist said, opening the door.

Under the sheet, Nannerl half opened her eyes, then slowly uncovered her face in confusion: the baron, dazzling in his hunting clothes, was holding a piece of paper with the look of one who has just read a colossal bit of nonsense.

“Are you mad? Go away!”

“Not before you have explained the meaning of these verses, O sweet Fräulein Mozart. The poetic image is excellent, I won’t deny it, and the inspiration seems to me utterly genuine. Yet I really don’t understand why, in this life, one would need to rely on the help of a person one doesn’t even have the courage to look at.”

“Get out of here now! And give me that score!”

“I would be interested in hearing you sing it. Maybe the notes give the text a meaning that can’t be grasped from reading alone. I’ve studied music some, but as a mere amateur, and certainly at first sight, I wouldn’t be able to penetrate this little creation. So I’ll confine myself simply to reciting:

“I am grateful for your hand

And like a girl remain

beside you: knowing that,

I have no need to turn

My gaze upon you…”

“Tre-e-es-el!” Nannerl shouted, trapped under the sheets. She was wearing a loose, old-fashioned nightgown and beside the bed sat the chamber pot. She stuck out an arm and quickly shoved it in the nightstand.

The baron gave a faint, careless smile. “Spare your precious vocal cords, Fräulein Mozart. I can tell you that there is no one in the house. Tresel is out shopping. Martin is struggling to train that bad horse. Speaking of which, in recent days Ebony has regained her proverbial hostility. No one has been able to approach her.”

“But there’s always someone here. Help!”

“Whoever is here, I assure you, doesn’t care about my scandalous presence with you. Maybe they don’t even think it’s scandalous.”

He closed the door and didn’t open the shutters, but with sure, quick movements lighted the lamp on the night table. He wore a long coat, white trousers, and riding boots, and his body, though not imposing, was perfectly proportioned: his shoulders were broad and rounded, and one could imagine the powerful muscles of his chest.

“So?” he said, staring openly at Nannerl’s legs wrapped in the covers. “Do you want to explain the meaning of this composition, or do you prefer not to? I don’t understand how we can expect someone else to grant us permission to live, or help us to do so by offering us a hand.”

“You yourself, Baron, are here to offer me help,” she said argumentatively. “Isn’t that true?”

“No, certainly not. I don’t intend to rout your hypochondria or sweep away your gloom. In fact, I’m somewhat fascinated by it.”

“You said you had no interest in me.”

“I might have lied,” Baptist said, and held the score up to the light. “I would get rid of any concept of salvation or gratitude for it. So the first line has to be completely rethought. Not to mention the stale image referring to an infantile need for protection. The second line, too, I’m sorry, must be thrown out. But the next, ‘knowing that, I have no need to turn my gaze upon you’—that perception is admirable, in my opinion. Visual contact with one who is beside us may be unnecessary, provided it is dictated not by fear but by a mutual awareness. Also language, in that situation, may be superfluous. There, maybe I’ve got it. ‘In your silent consent I rejoice…’”

“It doesn’t fit the music,” Nannerl said curtly.

“There are more syllables than there should be—you are very right, Fräulein Mozart. But fitting it to the music is a job we could do later. Let’s try to see, now, if we can rework the whole without distorting the original. All right?”

“As you like.”

“Thank you. So: “In your silent consent I rejoice, I remain’—certainly not ‘like a girl.’ What nonsense. We have to get to the exact opposite concept, my friend: the one who chooses to be at our side does not try to help us, or make us, so to speak, better by offering us a hand, but, on the contrary, welcomes us and praises us for what we are, and that attitude makes us free. Now I need an animal.”

“An animal?

“Yes, something that represents freedom, to put in place of the word
girl.
Don’t bring out your nag, please.”

Nannerl sat up nervously, barricaded between the pillows and the sheets. “I don’t know. Nothing occurs to me.”

“Come to think of it, the idea of the animal is poor. What would you say, rather, to a reference to Roman history?”

“Such as?”

“You know what the Romans called the slaves who bought their own freedom? ‘Freedmen.’ We could use the term.

“In your silent consent I rejoice

and a freedwoman I remain

beside you: knowing that,

I have no need to turn

My gaze upon you…”

“How does it seem to you?”

“Without rhyme or reason.”

“Life is often without rhyme or reason, Fräulein Mozart. Now take off that sheet.”

“What?”

“Take off your covers, show me yourself. Just for a moment. I swear that nothing bad will happen.”

She yelled, “Get out, right now!”

“Let me admire you. Just as you are, in that nightgown, which may be a little too small.”

“I will not!”

“Reflect: there’s no point in being stubborn. Sooner or later you’ll have to get out of bed, and I won’t go before that. For instance, you might need to use that object that you quickly hid in the nightstand. Would you like me to watch you performing the act or let my eyes enjoy your legs, which are nice even if they’re wrapped in the finest cotton?”

“I won’t take the covers off, Baron. Leave this room…please.”

“That polite tone doesn’t suit you, Fräulein Mozart. It’s just an inauthentic and clumsy attempt to get me to yield. So I won’t.” And, very calmly, he sat down on the floor beside the door.

“Then I’ll go.”

“As you like.”

“Hand me that robe, please.”

“Again the false gentility? You won’t achieve your goal that way, Nannerl.”

“Give me the robe, for Heaven’s sake!”

“There, now I recognize you. And in that case I might agree to some of your requests, even the most bizarre. But at the present moment, unfortunately, I find myself in a rather uncomfortable position for reaching the object, which is obviously closer to you than to me.”