Mozart's Sister (38 page)

His words sounded like evidence presented in a trial. I couldn't
hear any more. "Papa, stop, please stop." Why had we ever let the
two of them go away? Mama, the homebody who was ill at ease in
the world, and Wolfie, the lover of fun who needed someone to
pick up his clothes and tell him what to eat. A new bout of sobbing
consumed me. Unable to get enough air, I pulled at my corset but
ended up coughing, which made it worse. My head began to ache
and I felt as if I might vomit.

Papa called for help. "Therese! Come here!"

Therese appeared in the doorway, her eyes darting, then landing
on me. She came to my side.

"Take her to her room. Get her to lie down, calm down."

"What's wrong?" Therese asked.

Papa started laughing, a horrible hysterical laughter. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Except our darling Wolfgang may have just killed
us all."

I did not want to go to any shooting party that afternoon, but
Papa insisted. Since we had agreed to host it, he said we had a
responsibility to provide the prizes, the painted targets, and refreshments.

I wasn't in the mood to hear about responsibility. Wasn't it
Wolfie's responsibility to take care of Mama? She'd certainly done
her best to take care of him. He seemed to be thriving. While she
was dying.

Was she dying? Wolfie's letter had been written nine days previous. Before the shooting party I went to mass and prayed that the
days since then had made Mama strong. Drat my brother for not
telling us earlier. And drat the post for taking eons to connect us to
our family. How I wished I could fly to Paris like a bird over the
mountains and land on Mama's windowsill, where I could see her,
talk to her, comfort her, and nurse her to fine health. I would not
leave her side until she was well. Then I would hire the finest carriage and wrap her in a silky robe and bring her home. I would
cater to her and continue to do the household chores. She wouldn't
need to do anything but lie around and accept the attention of visiting friends. I would help Therese make her favorite strudel and
bring her piece upon piece until she begged us to stop. I would
bring Bimperl to her room and let the dear puppy sleep at her side,
keeping her company during all the times I could not. I would make
the memories of her difficult time away from home fade and be
replaced with new memories of happy times and blissful days.

I would make her happy.

"Come, Nannerl," Papa said from the door. "Our guests await."

The targets could have been as big as a house and I would not
have been able to hit them. But instead of making fun of me-as
my friends were wont to do-they either said little or sympathized.
Yet I knew their sympathy was not for bad aim but for Mama's bad
health.

I was glad Papa had told them from the start. His honesty had
allowed me to move forward with the day. If Papa had insisted no
one know, I would have expired from the effort required in pretending to be happy.

Our friends' commiseration also allowed the afternoon to end
early. And none too soon. Yet as I took Papa's arm to head back
home from the park, I noticed that Herr Bullinger had stayed
behind while the others had quickly scattered ... eager to be free
from the tension of our worry? Joseph Bullinger was the friend
responsible for loaning us the original three hundred florins that had made Wolfie's present trip possible.

"Sorry the afternoon was cut short, Joseph. But we cannot keep
our minds on the target. They keep straying to Paris."

"Ali yes," Joseph said. "Paris."

There was an odd tone to his voice that made us stop our walking to look at him. Obviously uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.
"Your letter from Wolfgang was ..."

"Was a shock," Papa said. "I pray the post tomorrow has more
news. Better news."

With a sigh Joseph looked at the ground. The toes of his shoes
were dusty.

"Joseph?"

Joseph looked at Papa, then away. "I've been trying to think of
a way to tell ..." He took a breath. "I received a letter too. From
Wolfgang."

"There's more news?" I asked. "Is she better? Is-?"

Papa's head started shaking. "No, Joseph. No."

Joseph put his hand on Papa's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Leopold.
She's gone."

Papa's face turned white and he fell to his knees. I suffered disbelief at the sight of him, as well as with Joseph's words. But even as
my mind said, This cannot be, my body accepted the truth. My knees
gave way and I followed Papa to the ground, where my arms
wrapped around his torso, clinging to him, needing him to cling to
me.

It was then his wail began, slicing through my very soul.

My voice responded in kind, and together we created a horrific
duet beyond reason.

Beyond sensibility.

Beyond bearing.

On a sunny day, if I asked my brother the color of the sky, I would
get an evasive answer as if his primary consideration was what I
wanted to hear.

What I wanted to hear-what Papa demanded to hear in the
months following Mama's death on July 3, 1778-was the truth.

It was slow in coming. Upon receiving the latest letter, Papa
crumpled the paper into a ball before I could even read it. "Will of
God? Will of God, he says! It is not the will of God my darling wife
died; it is the negligence of her son!"

With difficulty, I left the letter on the floor-I'd retrieve it later.
"Papa, you yourself have said it was God's will, and-"

Papa swung toward me, his index finger raised. "The Almighty
is in control-on that point we agree-but God expects us to do
our part. I fear that when your mother became in, Wolfgang sat back
and said, `Let God's will be done."'

"He called a doctor."

"Too late." He sank into a chair, his huff turning to weariness.
"I am partly to blame. I always did too much for Wolfgang, while
emphasizing a certainty of God's will being accomplished." He held
out his hands, as if studying them. "Yet God gave us hands to act,
to achieve His will through hard work." He made fists and dropped
his hands to his knees. "We are not to ignore logic or shun labor,
confusing laziness for the blessed assurance that comes with knowing one has done all one can humanly do." He pressed his hands to his
eyes. "Even your mother relied too much on prayer alone, thinking
it was a magic potion to all our woes."

I didn't like him speaking badly of the dead. "Mania had a very
strong faith."

He sighed. "Yes, yes she did." He held out his hand to me. "And
thank you for listening to the rantings of an old man. It's just that I
have so many regrets. My mind keeps returning to the memories of
the day your mother and brother left us, when I was so consumed
with packing and my own health issues that I never had a chance to
say a proper good-bye." He kissed the top of my hand. "If only I'd
known it was the last time I'd see her. And now, to have her buried
so far away ... Saint-Eustache in Paris is not our St. Sebastian." He
gripped my hand to stand. "At least your brother is sending her
things home to us." He hesitated and glanced at the letter on the
floor. "Unfortunately, he used your mother's watch to pay the doctor, and gave her ruby ring to pay the nurse."

"Papa, no!"

He put an arm around me. "I know you would have liked to
have those possessions, but Wolfgang implied if he hadn't paid the
nurse with the ruby ring, she would have taken your mother's wedding ring."

My head shook back and forth. "Couldn't he have found money
somewhere else? Did he sell any of his own possessions? Why
Mania's, when she had so little? Couldn't he collect on the compositions he's been writing for people? Or have all those commissions
been a lie?"

Papa's eyebrows rose. "It's not like you to be bitter, Nannerl."

No, it wasn't.

Until now.

How I missed her. With Mama gone, I was alone. With men.
Dealing repeatedly and incessantly with men.

Wolfie was still in Paris driving Papa to distraction; Papa was
here at home, consumed with his own sorrow and the politics of his work for the archbishop, and with his constant struggle to find work
for Wolfie.

And then there were the suitors. Plural. Where there had been
none, now there were three. For in addition to my dear captain
Franz d'Ippold, I had Franz Molk's renewed interest, as well as that
of a widower named Johann Adam. The latter was persistent, proclaiming his love for me for all to hear, causing me to find excuses
to not be home when I knew he was coming to call, to not attend
functions he said he would attend. He forced me to be rude. But he
was not for me, and the sooner he accepted that, the better.

So who was for me?

It was no contest.

I pulled the lace curtains aside and looked out the window
toward the Virgilianum where my dear captain lived and worked.
He'd said he was coming over this Saturday afternoon.

But this was not a normal visit amongst a group of friends where
Franz and I could parry and flirt behind the backs of a crowd. No
indeed, on this day Franz was coming over to speak to Papa about
as, about his love for me and my love for him. About our future.

We had not let Papa be privy to our connection. With other
suitors I had never been hesitant to let Papa know of my flirtations.
Why had I been so hesitant to let him know about Franz?

Because Franz was different. I loved him. And I desperately
wanted Papa to love him too and accept him as a prospective sonin-law.

I spotted Franz coming around the corner of the church. He
looked toward our house and our eyes met. I waved. He waved
back. My stomach flipped at the sight of him-and at the magnitude
of the upcoming meeting.

I hurried toward the front door, not wanting Therese to answer
it, wanting Franz and I to have a moment alone before we talked
with Papa.

I opened the door to find his knuckle ready to knock. Startled,
he stepped back, then smiled. "Eager, are we?"

I put a hand to my corseted midsection. "Petrified."

He took my hand and, with a glance at the street, pulled me
close for a swift kiss in the doorway. I, in turn, pulled him inside, closing the door behind him. He looked into the music room, then
whispered, "Where is he?"