Mozart's Sister: A Novel (26 page)

And Mademoiselle Jeunehomme makes a tiny stumble. It’s strange; maybe she’s tired, maybe she had to learn the part too quickly, maybe deep down she’s irritated because she would have preferred to elaborate the cadenzas by herself, as she has always done. It’s an almost imperceptible mistake, but Wolfgang can’t help noticing and can’t suppress a grimace. She sees it and becomes more nervous and stumbles again, very slightly. Wolfgang begins to be seriously worried. Even Leopold notices. Let’s hope the audience is not aware.

Nannerl, however, proceeds with mastery; she resolves every passage brilliantly, expresses every shade with the power of repressed passion that is just waiting for the moment to burst out. She is no longer herself, no longer the hard, bitter young woman; she is again capable of creating and being moved, of touching the center of her own humanity and making it vibrate, and connecting it to the divine that is in us. But suddenly, unexpectedly, she takes her hands off the keyboard; looking around, she perceives her own anguished solitude, her silence. She jumps up, hurries to the house door, and runs like the wind.

It’s far, but she covers the distance in a few minutes. She hasn’t put on her wrap, but she doesn’t feel the cold. She runs fast, faster and faster, frantic, panting, holding up her skirts, and meanwhile in her mind the orchestra resounds, and it’s she, not Mademoiselle Jeunehomme, who is playing the concerto. There is no one in front of the theater, and the door is open. She crosses the foyer, her heart in her throat, just in time to hear the final chords of the rondeau and see the entire city jump to its feet, in a crash of applause and a deafening roar of acclaim.

At that moment, Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart ceased to live. And, indeed, she might have been a soul without a body, since no one noticed her. She felt minuscule, a nullity, an insect to be crushed underfoot; every man, woman, and child was turned to the stage, shouting, “Brava! Bravissima!” at the Frenchwoman and, “Bravo, Maestro!” at her brother. And she, what was she doing, down in the orchestra? She advanced a few steps, in the confused purpose of jumping onto the stage, but just at that moment her brother and that other woman took each other by the hand and bowed, together: a graceful, harmonious, affectionate bow.

It was the last image she took in before her vision darkened. She turned around and left the hall, dragging her feet, and meanwhile people went on clapping, ignoring her, and she repeated, in a whisper, “Now it’s my turn…”

The foyer was deserted, and her steps became more and more hesitant. The mirrors on the walls reflected her image into infinity, blurred, distorted, grotesque, until she saw nothing anymore and fell, inert, on the floor.

The applause faded, and the spectators prepared to go home; but first, Armand reached Nannerl. He fell to his knees beside her and laid his head on her chest to listen to her heartbeat, then his fingers on her mouth to feel her breath, and then, not satisfied, he touched the veins of her neck. Reassured, he stopped to steal a glance at that lovely face, defenseless now, the eyes closed, the features relaxed and the lips parted—free of that uselessly severe expression that she loved to put on.

Then the major took Nannerl in his arms and carried her off. No one was in time to see them. Only Baptist: who followed them with his gaze as they went along the deserted street, under a crescent moon.

VIII.

A few drops of water on her forehead, and her eyes opened in the darkness; a shiver ran through her entire body in spite of the cloak that enveloped her—a rough cloak, it must not be hers. She realized that she was lying on the steps of the splashing fountain in the Residenzplatz, and that her head rested on something solid yet soft; she opened her eyes and recognized Armand’s face above her and that the something solid were his thighs.

She sat up with a start.

“Be careful, Fräulein Mozart—don’t make sudden movements,” the major said solicitously.

What time was it? How long had she been unconscious? What had that man done to her?

“Would you like me to take you home?”

She shook her head.

“Would you like me to bring you some water?”

“Please, be quiet,” she murmured, and pulled the cloak tightly around her, curling up her legs. The major nodded; he stopped asking questions and did not even look at her. He sat still, beside her, and she felt that she could not do without that quiet, substantial presence.

After a long silence, she murmured, “Did you like the concert?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

She turned to look at him. “I’d like to know if you enjoyed the concert.”

“Victoria wanted to go at any cost, and I went with her,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “According to her, the music was marvelous, but the pianist played some wrong notes.”

“That’s impossible. Victoria must be mistaken,” she said submissively, losing her gaze again in the deserted Residenzplatz.

“Nannerl, I don’t know if I can ask you, but why did you come only at the end? Was there some problem?”

She seemed not to have heard the question. Her hands were clasped around her knees, and suddenly he took one. It was freezing. “Are you cold?” he asked.

The gesture moved her and she liked it. The major’s hands rubbed her hand; their touch was perfect, and they warmed it pleasantly. Nannerl offered him her other hand. The man’s fingers seemed to sink into hers and his palms were just the right size to envelop them, like a glove. She had never felt anything like that. She had held the hands of her brother, of her mother, she had taken in hers the hands of her students to examine them, gentlemen had kissed her right hand out of politeness, but that touch, that touch was something utterly different. There was no sweat or sensation of stickiness, no harsh friction or excessive softness, but her skin and the major’s seemed made purposely for that mutual contact, seeming to provide for each other nourishment and strength. Who knew if he felt the same sensations. Nannerl lowered her eyes onto that grip and for the first time could observe the man’s hands. They were not much bigger than hers; the palm was strong and broad, naturally, but the fingers were not especially long; and the fact that Armand had almost no nails made them shorter. Was it possible that he cut them so close to the root? No, he bit them, out of a nervous habit; this must be the explanation. And not only the nails were cut off, but the skin around them had been pulled away cruelly, leaving red patches and ugly furrows where the flesh of the fingertip should have been pink and healthy.

He had an impulse of shame. “You must be warm by now,” he said with some anxiety, and crossed his arms.

“Now it’s you who is shivering.”

“Not at all. I’m used to the cold. Would you like to go home?”

“What was your wife’s name?”

The man stiffened even more and was silent for a long time. “Monika,” he murmured, turning his head.

“And what, exactly, did she die of?”

He rose, annoyed. “I think it’s time you went home. Your family will be concerned.”

“I don’t care.”

“What would you like to do? Stay here all night?”

“If you don’t feel like keeping me company, go on. I can’t force you to stay. Besides, Victoria must be worried.” She held out the cloak.

With a sigh, he sat down again and the sword he wore at his side hit the step.

“May I see it?” she asked after a moment.

He unsheathed it cautiously and showed it to her, holding it flat. It shone in the moonlight like a mirror.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Major?”

“It’s not something to boast of.”

“Then you have.”

“It’s obvious, don’t you think? Why are you asking these questions?”

“Doesn’t Victoria ever do that?”

The man’s expression brightened. “You know her. More than anything, hers are demands. And to her credit, I should say that she always manages to get what she wants, one way or another.”

“Does that come from her mother?”

“Please, Fräulein Mozart, I don’t wish to discuss that subject.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Another long silence intervened, but it was less communicative.

“I’ve never been to your house,” Nannerl said timidly. “Where do you live?”

“Not far from here.”

“And when you’re away, you’re not worried about leaving Victoria by herself?”

“My colleagues watch over her. My daughter doesn’t take a step that they don’t know about.”

Nannerl smiled to herself, thinking of Victoria’s maneuverings to enter the Palace right under the nose of those colleagues. Then she said, “Victoria wants to be a concert pianist. And I think she has the talent and the perseverance. Don’t you?”

“And you, on the other hand, why do you no longer play?”

She had never initiated a game like this: a subtle pricking, with a sort of conscious pleasure, a push, maybe to induce a reaction that might expose the other, maybe just to see where one would end up. End up? Is there something toward which things inevitably tend?

“I think you’re right—it’s time to go home,” Nannerl said and started to rise.

He jumped to his feet and held out his hands in a gesture of protection. Laboriously pushing herself up from her heels, and trying not to trip on her dress, she managed to stand. She was at the top of the steps and he at ground level; it seemed natural to keep moving and so find herself in his arms. They held that embrace for a long time, and though between the two bodies there were many layers of fabric, the thick material of the uniform, the rough stuff of the housedress that she hadn’t had time to change, they gave each other warmth, and each felt the beating of the other’s heart, and Nannerl knew that a place nicer than that chest did not exist in the world.

“You don’t have to come with me,” she said, detaching herself and setting off rapidly.

“You don’t want my cloak?”

She turned with a half smile. “How would I explain it?”

As she disappeared into a narrow street, Armand reflected that that girl was exceptionally strong and free. A pity that he was about to undertake a long mission to Vienna. Perhaps he could correspond with her, using Victoria as a go-between.

Bitter Interlude

Salzburg, July 23, 1778

Armand, my love,

Never in my life, never, did I want to write this letter, and I’ve put it off for a long time, occupying myself with a thousand things, even those that I habitually avoid, and those that are not my responsibility, delaying the moment when I would again have to plumb the depths of grief, and feel it more intensely, and draw you, too, into it.

My beloved mother is no more on this earth. A mysterious illness took her from us in a foreign land. We couldn’t even have her remains; not even a final caress was granted us, or a final look at the broad face, the smooth forehead, the large, soft body of my mother. The last image I have is of a woman unhappy to leave us, a woman getting reluctantly into a carriage, perhaps aware that she will not return. My mother didn’t want to go to Paris with Wolfgang, but in this house, what my father arranges is not discussed.

Do you know what she said to me a moment before closing the window of the carriage? “Don’t behave foolishly with the major.” Yes, Armand: the last time I heard her voice, my mother spoke to me about you. But what did she mean? Why didn’t I ask her then? I’ll never know what she meant. Never.

I do know that the moment I heard the news will remain burned in my memory, extended like a rallentando before a da capo, and that it will never stop hammering there painfully: my father staggered and nearly fell, and the Reverend Bullinger had tears in his tired old eyes, and I was in the doorway listening to their whispering, and thinking, It can’t be true. My mother died in Paris? And of what, my God, did she die? An internal fever. What is that, an internal fever? An antispasmodic powder was administered, which did no good; two bowlfuls of blood were drained, which didn’t get rid of the fever. She died, unconscious, in my brother’s arms, the arms of one whom she brought into life. She died as a light dies. Is it really true?

Who was more like me than my mother? Once I would have said Wolfgang! But not anymore. Now that she is no longer among the living, I feel lost and incoherent, as if I could be carried off by the first gust of wind, a tree whose roots have been treacherously pulled out by an evil spirit, a lump of flesh and bone at the foot of that tree, tossed out among the rotting leaves, a rotting leaf itself, and like a leaf, unable to move by its own will.

Your
Nannerl

Linz, July 30, 1778

My sweetest girl!

I shed every tear with you, and urge you to weep, to cry out loud if you feel the need. It’s not true, my beloved, that tears are useless: if they were, God would not have given them to us. They are the heart’s blood; their flow is synonymous with life. Reading your letter and thinking of your suffering, I myself wept. Now, please, my love, my adored one, grieve with every fiber of your body and soul; sink into the cold mud of sorrow and let it dull you and, yes, immobilize you; then, when you have done so as long as you need to, begin to live again, in the certainty that your good mother would want that and nothing else.