Mozart's Sister: A Novel (11 page)

“Oh, then…,” she stammered, reflecting rapidly on what to do, “please, Major, come in. Maybe we should have some coffee now…I’ll go…No, I’m not moving from here! Victoria, please, could you go ask Tresel to make some coffee?”

“I?” the student said, a little puzzled and a little fearful of encountering the Mozarts’ fierce maid.

“Yes, you. Go on, dear. You, Major, sit here beside me, and you, Nannerl, opposite. There, good, like that.”

“Mama, really; there is supposed to be a lesson here.”

“Yes, but it’s the last of the morning, isn’t it? Surely we can allow ourselves time for a little chat. Isn’t that so, Major?”

“Of course. With pleasure,” he said, cursing the moment he had agreed to go to the Mozart house.

“You know what I am most sorry about? That my husband isn’t home. He, too, would have been so pleased to meet you, I’m sure. But every morning he goes to court and…Oh, how stupid! Perhaps you two know each other already.”

“Only by sight, Frau Mozart.”

“Well, I suppose it’s understandable. The work of a soldier and that of a musician are very different! I imagine you seldom meet.” Then her tone became sharper. “But, excuse me for asking, Major, do you intend to be a soldier all your life?”

“I confess that I don’t understand the question.”

“I mean, it’s such a dangerous profession! And if one day you should have children—that is, other children, apart from Victoria, who is grown up by now—don’t you think it would be more suitable to assume less active duties? At the moment, you are always traveling, going, coming, a mission here, a delegation there. It doesn’t seem to me a very stable life. I don’t know if I make myself clear.”

Just then, Wolfgang appeared in the doorway and started at the sight of Armand. “What a surprise! Have you come to ask for my sister’s hand? My father isn’t here at the moment, but I would be happy to play his part.”

“Angel, don’t make jokes. You are embarrassing Major d’Ippold,” his mother said, contrite. “We are just exchanging some opinions.”

“Why, what’s embarrassing about a proposal of marriage? Oh, of course, in this case the difference in age might be a little embarrassing, but apart from that, I would say we are within the rules. It’s a little late for my sister, that’s true. Twenty-six is more than old enough to tie the knot! Luckily someone has decided—”

Nannerl jumped up. “Really, I must give Victoria her lesson, so I will ask you to please leave. Major, forgive me, I couldn’t imagine—”

“For your information,” Wolfgang said, “Tresel has got Victoria peeling potatoes, so you’ll have to wait until she finishes the pile. And it’s quite a pile—I would say almost a mountain.”

Armand, too, rose. “It is I who must go. Excuse me,” he announced with great politeness. “Your company is very pleasant indeed, but I did not anticipate staying long, and unfortunately I cannot do so. I am truly sorry, but I cannot.”

“Oh, what a pity,” Anna Maria said, as he settled the collar of his uniform. “And when will we have the honor of seeing you again?”

“The truth is that at the moment I cannot make any plans. Tomorrow I go to Linz, and I will be there at least ten days. Then we’ll see.”

Nannerl had to sit down again. Her mother looked at her purposefully. “My goodness, it’s a real problem. It’s so difficult to cultivate a relationship at a distance. I wonder if it’s worth the trouble.” Then she smiled affectedly at the major. “In any case, if you find some time for us, you may be sure that this house is always open to visitors who have serious intentions. Serious and steady, am I clear? Please, come; I’ll show you out.”

“Thank you. Farewell, Herr Wolfgang Mozart. Fräulein Mozart, my compliments,” Armand said, without even looking at her. He clicked his heels and went off toward the door.

Nannerl remained sunk in the chair, her heart in tumult. The efforts she had made to appear attractive now seemed ridiculous. She would have torn her dress to shreds, peeled away the stupid makeup, she would have yanked out the hairpins and pricked herself with them. But she let none of her agitation show.

Sadistically mocking, Wolfgang began to circle around her. “I am happy to discover, O my queen, that you are not made of ice, as you would like to make us believe—that you are even cultivating romantic proposals. Who ever would have thought?”

“Please go and call Victoria.”

“Why don’t you go? Are your legs frozen?” Then he brought his face close to hers, so close that he could have kissed her, and whispered, “Teaching seems to have brought you something good. Of course, that man is not exactly a boy, he doesn’t have much wit, and he seems to have a big stick up his ass, but I acknowledge that he might have his attractions. You’re sure that his breath doesn’t smell?”

She didn’t react, and he pushed on.

“How far do your fantasies go, Nannerl? There are things about life that you still don’t know, that might even upset you. Think of nakedness, for example. Think of the skin free of its disguises. Not yours, I mean, but that of your man. Imagine him without the uniform, the horrible underwear he undoubtedly wears, lying on a bed on his stomach, and meanwhile you run your hand over his back, from the neck to the hips, in a slow caress in which you savor the curve of every vertebra, and the muscles next to the spinal column that form small strong hills, and slowly you go down, down, until you discover—what? The stick stuck up his ass!”

He guffawed coarsely, but, incredibly, even now she didn’t react. Disgusted, he reached the door. “I was wrong. You really are all ice,” he said, and he left her alone.

Salzburg, June 27, 1777

My dear Armand,

I am writing to you as always in the depths of the night, the third sleepless night after that unlucky day when you, consenting to my wishes, came to this cursed house. I am so tired my eyes are burning, but by now I know it’s useless to try to sleep: I have risen a hundred times, tried to read, gave it up—I even thought of getting dressed and going out, of returning to the Residenzplatz, longing to find you beside the fountain. It’s foolish, yes. I gave that up, too.

I don’t know if I’ll ever give this letter to Victoria to send, and yet I’m certain that it will be long and tortured, and that I will write and rewrite it many times. I have here before me your letters. They are more solid than the few memories I have of you, and they speak of you like an affectionate friend. And yet the thought of you, Armand, is colored not only by affection but also by pain: the pain of absence.

If I had known, dearest, that you were staying such a short time in Salzburg, I would certainly have agreed to meet you somewhere different from this house. And now it seems to me an outrageous crime that that time cut out for us two, which should have belonged to us alone, was ruined by those foolish interruptions that you, justly, would have liked to avoid. With my heart, with all my heart, Armand, I beg you to forgive not my mother, not my brother—since I cannot ask forgiveness for them—but me, and me alone.

I’m furious with myself, and not only for the mistake I made, but above all for the intensity of the love that I’m certain, absolutely certain, I feel for you. Maybe I shouldn’t confess it so explicitly, maybe it’s not prudent; some say that every relationship should be governed by calculation and cunning, in order to endure. But such attitudes, as by now must be clear to you, are not mine.

The thought of you runs tirelessly through my mind, beats on the walls of my skull, rebounds and sinks, and then quickly returns to start running again. During the day it seems to me that I am moving in water, and everything around me appears wrapped in a dense fog. I can’t concentrate on the most banal activity, and, no matter how much I try to remove the thought, your face reappears continuously before me. I wonder if I will ever see you again. I hope with all my heart that I will. I pause to imagine what at this moment, this exact moment, you are doing. Even now, for example. I suppose that at this instant you are peacefully sleeping, and I want to believe that your dreams are tranquil and refreshing.

I have no dreams, Armand, only flashes of hallucination. My imagination gives life to actions that involve you, involve me together with you, and I am amazed. I see the moment when we meet, and I imagine my smile, and my calm gaze; a steadier smile and a steadier gaze, not subject to the changeableness of time. That smile I have already inside, in truth, and yet I must wait to let it emerge, for only in that instant will I be sure of it.

My dearest Armand, I beg you, don’t turn your back on me, don’t leave me to be consumed with remorse. Agree to see me again, only tell me where and when.

Yours forever,
Nannerl

From the house to the Residenzplatz, from the Residenzplatz to the house. It was the route that every night exhausted her legs and her spirit; yet she inflicted it methodically, like a rite of purification or an act of love turned inward that feeds on regrets. In the vain expectation of a response from Linz, in the overwhelming absence of news (why was Victoria so stubbornly mute? It wasn’t like her!), Nannerl returned to the places that spoke to her of Armand and found a phrase of his or a gesture in every stone, in every statue, in every jet of water. She sat at the fountain, she wrapped herself in memories, she conversed with her lover in her mind.

Something woke her. A presentiment? Armand was entering the gateway of the Palace. Was it her imagination? No, the reality, the only one worth attending to! She hid behind the statues, her heart beating so hard it frightened her, and meanwhile the major dismounted his horse—oh how he dismounted his horse—took off his hat, smoothed his long dark hair, and adjusted the tie that bound the hat at his neck. While she devoured him with her gaze, Nannerl set off in the wake of a carriage, approaching closer and closer, until suddenly she was right in the center of the inner courtyard of the Palace, and there, in confusion, she stopped.

“Hey! Who’s there?” a guard shouted, and he approached with thundering steps. She froze, and he stammered, taken aback, “Fräulein Mozart! What are you doing here?”

“The lady is expected by His Excellency!” Armand declared, joining them; he gripped the handle of his sword so hard that the knuckles stood out whitely. “I must tell you, Fräulein Mozart, that your appointment has, unfortunately, been postponed because our most esteemed sovereign has been called to fulfill an urgent duty without delay.”

“Major,” the guard objected, his whiskers quivering in bewilderment, “excuse me, but how do you know? You have just arrived.”

“Out of the way!”

The man hastily withdrew. Then, still peremptory but quieter, Armand added, “Go to the cellar of the Palace; hurry! I will join you as soon as possible,” and returned to the guardhouse.

Everything happened in an instant.
My God, what am I doing?
As she went along the corridor that led to the lower levels, Nannerl felt that she lived and died; she dragged her feet, she gasped for breath, she leaned against the walls. She wandered randomly through the deserted rooms, while the damp air saturated body and mind. Too much, she had done too much for a man who didn’t deserve such efforts! She had exposed herself, had thrown herself at his feet, had let herself be trampled; rather, had induced him to trample her. She had begged him to love her; how can we ask someone to love us who fundamentally doesn’t want us? That was why Armand had told her to go to the secret cellar. Because there, far from the eyes of leering soldiers or anyone else, he would tell her that he had been mistaken, that what he had declared in his letters was the result of a whim of which he had already repented; that she was not worthy of his attentions, that they would not see each other again. And, ugly as she was in that crisis, slovenly, pale, uncombed, she would have no way of getting him to reconsider! No, she had to avoid that torture. She turned back: she would cross the courtyard as quickly as possible and disappear, risk looking foolish in front of the whole corps of guards; but better the foolish figure than a pathetic scene that her pride could not stand. And yet if—if, on the other hand, Armand felt something for her, not love, certainly, love would be too much, but some sort of affection?

Suddenly she stopped, considering that there were a thousand innocent reasons for why he might have stopped writing: in a fit of jealousy, perhaps, Victoria hadn’t sent him her last letter; or she had done so, but he had not had a chance to respond. What did she know, an ordinary girl, of the serious duties of an army major? And who was she to climb into a pulpit to judge a man’s acts and make unwarranted assumptions? Not to mention that her letter could have been sent and not arrived, for the mail service was not infallible—not often, but every once in a while…

She made her way to a flight of steps and sat down. The steps were cut into the rock, uncomfortable and dirty; nevertheless she stretched out her legs and threw back her head and arms and remained like that, staring at the curves of the ceiling, drunk with conjectures. In her chest a whirling vortex of clouds colliding as heavily as bricks was making her feel sick to her stomach. Fearing she would throw up, she rose slowly and, in a dark cool passageway, took off her shoes and socks and lay on the ground with her legs vertical against the wall.

Skirts and petticoats fell onto her stomach, and the embroidered pantaloons slid down in a heap like an accordion. Nannerl paused to look at her legs (which she almost never did) and lightly touched them, caressing them. They were not ugly, after all; or perhaps it was the dim light that made them seem graceful, she thought. They were long, covered by an invisible down, with slender ankles between large feet and tapered calves, the kneecaps beautifully sculpted above the two mounds of soft flesh, connected to the big muscles of the thighs…Oh goodness, and what if Armand should arrive right now?