Sent to the Devil (3 page)

“The result of what?” Alois joined us.

“Father Dauer was commenting on the young lady's attire,” Krause explained, nodding toward the chapel, where the young woman had stood and was now lighting a candle.

“I'll speak to her,” Dauer said, turning toward the chapel.

Alois placed his hand on the new priest's arm. “I would not advise it,” he said gently. “You will not make friends that way, my son. Her father is the government minister who oversees the cathedral's treasury.”

Dauer stiffened. “You are probably right, Father Bayer,” he said. “I appreciate your guidance.”

“Let me be, you cruel man!” a woman's voice cried from behind us. A tall, slender young woman, shrouded in black satin and velvet, her face covered by a dark veil, rushed out of the Chapel of the Cross. She was followed by a much shorter, thick-set man with light hair. He took her arm.

“My love, please. Listen to me,” he said.

She shrugged off his hold. “I want to die too! Oh, my poor father! Can you really be dead? How could you have left me?”

All four of us gaped at her.

The young woman clutched her companion's arm. “Swear to me! Swear to me that you will do something! Promise me you will avenge his blood!”

Dauer turned to me. “I see my presence is required, gentlemen. Signor Da Ponte, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He hurried over to the couple and murmured a few words to the young woman. She collapsed in his arms, sobbing. Dauer gently led her back into the chapel. The light-haired man followed.

“Christiane Albrechts,” Alois said. “The late general's daughter. The man is her fiancé, Count Richard Benda. Father Dauer has just been appointed her confessor.”

“You know everyone, Father Bayer,” Krause said.

“I was her confessor years ago, when she was ten years old,” Alois explained. “Her mother had just died. Of course, her father was often away. And like most men, he had wished for a son. She was a lonely child, perhaps too serious for her own good. When the general was home, he managed her education. I thought his choices inappropriate for a young lady. I approved of the books he encouraged her to read, but he also taught her to hunt and ride astride.” He sighed. “It was a sad time. The two of them, alone in the palace on the Freyung, she pining for her mother, he for the son he never had. But she has grown to become a lovely woman. I was happy to hear of her engagement to Count Benda. He is a good man. He'll do his best to make her happy.”

We stood quietly for a moment.

“While you are here, Father Bayer, I would like to ask a favor,” Krause said. “I'd be honored if you would read my latest article and give me your thoughts.”

“More of your natural religion ideas, Maximilian?” Alois asked, his eyes twinkling.

Krause laughed. “If you are referring to the idea that religious belief should be instilled in our flock through rational discourse rather than medieval mumbo jumbo, well then, I would say yes, that is my topic.”

“I agree with you that many of the superstitious activities the church encouraged in the past should be abolished,” Alois said. “Worshiping the icons, dressing the statues of the saints and parading them around the city—everyone knows those practices are ridiculous. But if you are arguing that we should not teach about the existence of Heaven and Hell, there is where we part ways.”

“But surely you don't believe that we should lead people to God by using fear of retribution and threats of burning in Hell,” Krause protested. “That flies in the face of all modern church philosophy.”

I stifled a yawn.

“No, no. Not that,” Alois replied. “I just worry where all this new thinking will lead, that is all. If we take your theories to their logical ends, the laity might question whether the church is necessary at all. That is my fear.”

I coughed.

“Yet you support the emperor's reform of the church, Father Bayer, do you not?” Krause persisted. “You must admit, the cathedral has changed for the better since Joseph took away control of the church from Rome.” He looked at me. “You're a priest, Lorenzo. What do you think?”

I smiled. “I think it's time for dinner.”

The priests laughed. “Send your article over to my office, Maximilian,” Alois said. “I'd be happy to read it.” We said our good-byes to Krause and headed outside.

*   *   *

Dusk was falling as I made my way home after a pleasant afternoon. We had tried the new catering shop near the Greek church, and the food had been tasty and plentiful. After the waiter had cleared away the dishes, we directed our attention to finishing the bottle of wine I had ordered. Our wide-ranging discussion eventually turned to the cathedral.

“These new men!” Alois said. “Maximilian, spouting all the new philosophies, and now Dauer, with his political acumen. I can no longer keep up with them. I'm happy to be retired.”

“There are a lot of new ideas floating around this city,” I agreed.

“But enough of that,” Alois said. “Tell me. What are you working on now?”

“Mozart and I are modifying
Don Giovanni
for the premiere on May seventh,” I told him.

“The old Don Juan farce.” Alois laughed. “People never tire of that story.”
Don Giovanni,
like many other operas and plays that had come before mine, was based on the Don Juan legend, the story of a noted libertine who is dragged to Hell by the ghost of a father whose daughter he had seduced.

“I hope the public here in Vienna is not tired of it,” I said.

“I'm certain they won't be,” Alois said. He reached over and patted my hand. “You told me it was a hit in Prague last fall. It will be successful here, you'll see. Tell me, what kind of changes are you making?”

“Well, it is always necessary to change some of the arias to suit the talents of the new cast. Sometimes a singer isn't comfortable with an aria that hasn't been tailored to his or her particular voice. Wolfgang prides himself on writing music to suit each performer. He calls it ‘fitting the costume to the figure.'”

Alois smiled.

“And of course Vienna is a much more sophisticated city than Prague,” I continued. “So we might have to add some scenes to appeal to the tastes here.”

“All that must take a long time,” Alois said.

“We'll soon know how much work there'll be. We've been working through the Prague libretto and score with the cast here, and we'll finish that tomorrow.”

“What else are you doing?” my friend asked.

“I'm setting aside time to write a bit of poetry,” I answered. “I'm thinking of having a small collection published.”

“That's wonderful, Lorenzo! I'd love to read some of them.”

“I'd be honored if you did. I'll bring them by your office in a day or two.” We chatted about books for a while, enjoying our comfortable companionship, and did not notice the hours passing until the owner of the catering shop finally shooed us away. As I paid the bill, I remembered the pallet on the floor of Alois's office, and considered offering to help him pay for a room at my own lodgings. But I bit my tongue for fear of embarrassing him.

Now I was heading to my lodging house, through the great Stuben gate cut into the medieval battlements of the city, and over the wide bridge that crossed the
glacis,
the sloped, grassy field designed to deny cover to an approaching enemy. Like most Viennese, I would prefer to live in the city, but lodgings are much less expensive out in the suburbs. My father still needed my help educating my stepbrothers back in Ceneda, so I tried to cut my expenses so that I could regularly send him funds. I have a long walk to and from my office every day, but I try to view my situation as an advantage. I've been so busy lately, my walk to and from work is all the fresh air I get.

The evening was as warm as the day had been, and I carried my cloak over my arm as I walked across the dusty, broad path that ran parallel to the city walls and made my way over another, smaller bridge that spanned the Vienna River. Moments later, I turned into my street. I had to admit that it was pleasant out here. Small, neat houses lined both sides of the street, and a strip of land planted with linden saplings ran down its center. Shrieks of girlish laughter greeted me as I approached the house of my landlady, Josepha Lamm. Ahead of me, a burly young man was maneuvering a cart laden with hay through the narrow opening into the house's courtyard.

“Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” he called.

“Good evening, Stefan.” I gestured at the cart. “Are you giving up stonemasonry in favor of farming?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, sir. This is for Sophie's party. Come, you'll see.” He rolled the cart into the courtyard. I followed.

My jaw dropped at the sight before me. Madame Lamm's normally neat courtyard was strewn with hay. Six young women, dressed in white gauze dresses tied at the waist with satin ribbons, had formed a circle and, holding hands, were attempting to dance around a small goat in the center of their ring. A blond, heavily pregnant girl sat forlornly on a bench to the side. The goat jumped up and put its hooves on one of the dancers.

“Stefan, help! Get it off me!” she cried, laughing. The young man pushed at the animal.

“Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” the girl said. “Would you happen to know anything about goats?”

“Hello, Sophie,” I greeted my landlady's daughter. “What is the meaning of this bucolic display? Where did you get that poor animal?”

My landlady came out the door of the house, carrying a tray with a pitcher and several mugs. “The goat belongs to Hoffer down the street,” she said. I put my satchel on the ground and took the tray from her. She pointed toward the small garden that lay beyond the courtyard, and I carried the tray over and placed it on a table next to the garden bench.

Sophie extricated herself from the embraces of the goat and came to me. “It's my sixteenth birthday, signore. We're having a country party, like the queen of France.” The emperor's younger sister, Maria Antonia, had built a rustic hamlet on the grounds of the great palace of Versailles, where she and her lady's maids escaped from the boredom of court life and played at being shepherdesses.

“I think the royal farm animals are more obedient than this goat,” Sophie added. I smiled at her. She never failed to charm me, with her pleasing features, shapely figure, laughing gray eyes, and friendly smile.

Stefan captured the goat and tied a length of rope around its neck. “I'll take him back to Hoffer,” he said, dragging the animal out of the courtyard.

“Thank you, Stefan,” my landlady called. “Would you like a punch, signore?”

“Oh no, thank you, Madame Lamm. I'll just go up to my room.”

“There's a cold supper in the kitchen when you are ready,” she said.

I thanked her and went into the house and up to my room on the second floor. I dropped my satchel on the floor, crossed to the cupboard and put my cloak on a hook, and then took off my coat and waistcoat and hung them next to the cloak. My eyes fell on the pocket of my cloak. I sighed, then pulled out the message I had received that morning. I had put off looking at it long enough. I broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read the contents:

33    27    54    71    52    33    61    33    28    55

Verrò

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.