Mozart's Sister: A Novel (36 page)

In fact, the robe was hanging on a stand at the foot of the bed. Biting her lips, Nannerl kicked at the sheets, which were tightly tucked in under the mattress, wrapped herself like a mummy, got to the robe, and put it on, over the sheets.

Baptist burst out laughing, like a boy, throwing his head back and half closing his eyes. But when Nannerl’s bare feet passed in front of him, he stopped and couldn’t keep himself from touching one. They were long and very white, the blue veins prominent, and the big toe oddly shorter than the others. He let his hand slide over the cool skin until he felt the thick material of the nails, and it seemed to him that Fräulein Mozart shivered and that she slowed her walk slightly, before disappearing onto the stairs.

VIII.

With some apprehension Nannerl observed Vincent approaching Ebony, who, shut in her stall, was rolling her eyes and pawing the ground with her hooves.

“What’s wrong with her, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she is seriously crazy, or maybe just a bit capricious. One would have to mount her so she can find some relief by walking.”

“I don’t have the nerve anymore.”

“But you’ve got to try. She’s always been good with you. The only person who can make her recover is you.”

“Martin trains her almost every morning, and he was born among horses. Who could do it better than he?”

The boy grimaced. “Don’t say this to anyone, but I really don’t like the way Martin treats animals. He’s too quick with the whip.”

“How do you tame a horse without it?”

“There’s no need to frighten them; they’re natural cowards. They have to trust their rider, not do what he wants just to avoid punishment.”

Nannerl opened the gate and went into the stall. The filly stopped pulling on the rope, but her flattened-back ears gave her a hostile appearance.

“Ebony trusted you, and I think she still does,” Vincent declared. “You’ll see, after the first round she’ll be as docile as before.”

“Then maybe you should do the first round.”

He laughed. “In that case we’d have to saddle her twice. Unless you want to try riding like a boy. But I would advise you not to do too many things at once. And how could you, with that long skirt?”

“All right. Let’s lead her outside,” she said, taking the rope and setting off through the stable. Ebony was so impatient for the sunlight that Nannerl had to hold her back forcefully.

The wind shook the treetops, which perhaps was obscurely threatening to the horse. Pulling hard on the lead, she escaped into the stable yard and stood at the end, near the fence, at the farthest point from the woods.

“Let’s saddle her there, if that’s what she wants,” Vincent proposed. While Nannerl put on the saddle, he patted Ebony on the nose and spoke calmingly to her. When the horse was ready, her gaze had become mild again, her ears relaxed, and her tail swished against her flanks in a movement that seemed merely lazy. Maybe it was also that the wind, for the moment, had ceased.

The boy went to get the stool and placed it on the left. “Now get up. Try to avoid abrupt movements, and don’t be afraid. If you’re tense, she’ll feel it and she’ll be tense.”

Nannerl climbed cautiously into the saddle, anchored her right leg on the horn, and took the long crop from Vincent, who handed it to her skillfully, without alarming the horse.

She started off at a walk, and slowly went halfway around. It was all absolutely normal. With her whole body Nannerl followed the swaying of the animal, feeling her placid and even bored movements.

“You see?” Vincent exclaimed. “Keep on like that, then we’ll try going faster.”

Was it the stirring of a leaf? A passing chicken? A sudden gust of wind? No one ever knew what startled the horse: she swerved violently, trying to free herself of her rider.

Miraculously Nannerl managed to stay in the saddle. She regained her equilibrium, gripping the reins and biting her lips so hard that they bled. Meanwhile the horse stopped in her tracks, abruptly pulling her head and neck down in a movement foreshadowing serious trouble.

Beside the fence, Vincent had stopped breathing. In the softest possible voice, he said, “Nannerl, you’d better get off now.”

She was too frightened to do anything.

“Get off, right away,” Vincent repeated, a little louder.

“Can you do something to soothe her?” she gasped, holding desperately to the reins.

“No. Let go and get off, calmly.”

To resist the horse’s angry maneuver, Nannerl clutched the reins, and the more she tugged on them, the farther down Ebony lowered her head and neck, wrenching Nannerl’s shoulders.

“Let go and get off!”

“I can’t!” she cried, in a panic.

The boy ran toward her, and he saw clearly the horse’s eye staring at him with hatred, a moment before she bucked.

Ebony took off at a gallop, twisting wildly, planting her hooves on the ground and raising her rear to the height of an adult man, kicking hard, and then arching her back one, two, three times, until Nannerl was hurled away like a broken doll and flew, spinning, into the center of the stable yard, where Vincent reached her, screaming with fear.

IX.

“We could take her to my house. She would be cared for there day and night,” said a male voice, clear and in some way familiar.

“Better not move her,” said another, unfamiliar voice.

“Her father should be notified.”

“There’s no hurry. We can very well wait a few days.” This was a female voice, hoarse and resolute: certainly Tresel.

Out of the din rose the anguished crying of a child. Nannerl blinked her eyelids and felt a piercing headache, and realized that it was difficult to move her neck.

“She’s awake!” Vincent cried, jumping up next to her, and his eyes, swollen with tears, searched for hers.

“A good sign. Out of the way, little boy,” said a corpulent man with eyeglasses on his nose, picking him up and moving him aside. He leaned over her. “Fräulein Mozart, can you hear me?”

She tried to nod but immediately felt a stabbing pain in her head.

“Don’t try to answer. You’ve regained consciousness, and you’ll also regain your strength, I assure you. Unfortunately, to judge from the bruises on your forehead, you must have hit your head. Now let me examine you and make sure that you didn’t get any other injuries, and you try to let me know if it hurts when I touch you.”

“Should we leave, Doctor?” asked that male voice, coming now from the door.

“It’s not necessary, Baron,” he said. “You can stay.” Slowly and with intense pressure he felt one leg and then the other, from the ankle to the groin. “Everything all right, Fräulein Mozart?”

She nodded; it was barely perceptible. The doctor conscientiously went over her arms, her ribs, and her stomach, and finally appeared satisfied. “As I thought,” he declared. “At the moment the regulatory fluid can’t be released by the brain in the usual way, and as a result the muscle fibers don’t contract and expand as they ordinarily would.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tresel.

“That there’s nothing serious, apart from the blow to the head. She’ll have to be utterly quiet. For today don’t give her anything to eat, and starting tomorrow she can have liquids, but don’t force her if she refuses.”

Vincent ran to her side. “Nannerl, forgive me,” he murmured, while his green eyes filled with tears again. Raising a hand to touch his cheek, she tried to smile at him and opened her swollen lips to say something that no one could hear.

“Don’t try to speak!” the doctor interrupted. “Ladies and gentlemen, she must be kept as tranquil as possible. You had better leave. You, especially, little boy. Out!”

“My son and I will stay and watch her,” Baptist said, with equal firmness, and he settled himself in a chair by the bed, getting the child to sit in his lap. Then, in a gentler tone, he added, “Tresel, go on. Thank you, Doctor. We’ll take care of the fee later.”

The others left the room, without another word.

In the silence, Nannerl closed her eyes again and concentrated on her breath, trying to maintain a regular rhythm and imagining the painful point on her head gradually dissolving, like a hill of sand washed by ocean waves. The man and child beside her seemed to be caressed by the same wavelike motion, and they breathed in harmony with her, except that Vincent every so often blew his nose and stifled a sob. It seemed to her that she saw Baptist affectionately embracing his son, and she heard him whisper, with immense tenderness, “It’s not your fault…it’s not your fault…”

X.

“My poor wife never liked Sankt Gilgen. She said that she hadn’t married me to end up in a prison. She felt comfortable only in Salzburg, where she could go to the theater and the parties, visit her friends—and she literally adored Vienna. She would have liked to move there, but I abhor big cities, and was always opposed. It’s strange. At a distance of years, I begin to think that we weren’t very well matched. We married too young to realize what we were doing; and we did it essentially to please our families. I brought the noble title, and she a stream of money. Put like that, it seems rather squalid, but I assure you, Fräulein Mozart, that Johanna and I truly loved each other. We were the same age and had been friends since childhood. To get married seemed to both of us utterly natural. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

Lying among the pillows, Nannerl assented weakly. Baptist was wandering about the room with his hands in his pockets, and sometimes he seized from the night table her hairbrush or the jar of hand cream, examined the item attentively, and then put it back.

“There, good: limit yourself to nodding or, if it’s really necessary, denying. Speaking isn’t allowed. Too tiring. So, as I was saying, I loved Johanna deeply, and when she died I was overwhelmed by grief. It was a little over ten years ago, in early spring. You will agree that no season is suitable for death, but spring even less so. Yet, with the passing of time my wife has become a loving memory that at times emerges spontaneously, but which I can also summon for myself. Above all, I’ve learned to appreciate how much good I got from that marriage, and I assure you it’s a lot. Starting with my sons.”

“May I ask how she died?”

He was silent for a moment, reflecting. “Six words, seventeen letters, among them seven vowels. From now on that’s the most I will allow you, O my sweet convalescent.” Then he moved closer, and with a sad, serious expression said, “She died giving birth to Vincent.”

“Oh God. I hope he never finds out.”

“Actually he already knows, and always has. I told him myself, when he was very young.”

“I must say, Baron, I find that cruel.”

“But don’t you think it would be worse if he had learned it as an adult, and from someone else, and in the wrong way? The world of the nobility is teeming with poisonous tongues, as you well know: imagine my boy now twenty, and one fine day Katharina von Esser comes along and for who knows what ridiculous reason lets fall the valuable information, which now leaves an indelible mark on his consciousness. That, in my opinion, would be cruel.”

The light from the half-open window illumined Baptist’s face fully, and in the sun’s rays his right iris, the one flecked with blue, seemed almost transparent.

“It’s shocking,” Nannerl murmured, “how certain people are able to ruin the lives of others.”

“Spare your resentment for more worthy targets, Fräulein Mozart. The countess is one of the most fragile people I’ve ever met.”

“I certainly wouldn’t call her fragile.”

“Katharina has an absolute need to control the lives of others, since she has no control over her own.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will seem like gossiping, but—it’s the truth. The count, her husband, has always betrayed her, with whatever skirt he finds in the neighborhood. The convents of the principality are home to his many conquests.”

“Oh. I see. But still I can’t feel pity for that woman.”

“You are not required to,” he said and smiled at her, coming even closer to the bed. Then politely he asked, “Would you mind if I sat next to you?”

“Of course not—please.”

Baptist sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to close the door a little. A ray of light rested on Nannerl’s legs, hidden by the covers. He ran his gaze over her body, from the bottom to the top, and stopped finally to observe the golden hair scattered on the pillow and on the shawl, fastened at her breast by a cameo.

After a moment she murmured, “Do you still write poems, Baron?”

“No, these days I merely demolish those of others.”

She laughed lightly. “I don’t believe you. I’m convinced that you still do it yourself.”

“Would you like me to recite ‘My Lady Nannerl in Springtime’?”

“No, please,” she said laughing harder. “Although I sincerely appreciated that particular homage. By the way, I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

“You can do it now, Nannerl,” he said, and suddenly took one hand and brought it to his lips. She held her breath, while the beating of her heart accelerated madly. “Please, Baron, please, no,” she whispered, withdrawing her hand.