Nightingale (35 page)

The audience gaped, but Wolfgang astounded the room with a speech accompanied by another low bow.

"Most noble Count,
Amor Vincit Omnia
is also my motto."

Count Oettingen permitted himself a frosty smile at the young man.

"Musician and gentleman alike have sacrificed upon the altar of Venus tonight." The Count turned and spoke to the room, then turned and gestured at Klara. "Blood runs at the feet of the goddess."

Mozart and his more than usually white-faced father bowed low again. After accepting their homage, the Count offered a crisp military bow to Prince Vehnsky.

The Prince said, "Your approbation, Count, that of a justly famous connoisseur, places the final seal of perfection upon my musical evening. I thank you."

A few words, too low to overhear passed between these high and mighty gentlemen, and then the Count swept from the room, straight through a path hastily made by the audience. He did not pause except when he passed Madame Wranitzsky, whose arm he collected. They exited together.

Vehnsky inclined his massive bewigged head. He made a small gesture towards his Major Domo, who bowed low and then lifted his wand of office.

"The players, singers and orchestra, are thanked for their services and now may depart." Then, as the room bent the knee for him, the Prince and his Major Domo and all other members of his entourage, went through the path the Count had earlier made.

As the gilt doors swung closed behind the Prince and his people, the Mozart father and son joined Klara and Almassy. Manzoli came along too, trailing behind Florian and Adele.

"For a moment I thought he was going to kill one of us," Wolfgang said.

"He can afford to wait," Manzoli said grimly. "We'll be meeting with him, I'm sure, one by one, and in lonely places."

"A thought not exactly conducive to good cheer, Signor
," Leopold Mozart said dryly. "We shall be on our way tomorrow, straight back to Salzburg."

Wolfgang, hitherto the model of adult behavior, let out a boyish groan.

"A good idea." Manzoli looked glum, utterly weary. Like the Count, he seemed, Klara thought, to have aged years in the course of the evening.

"Good bye, my darling Prima Donna Maria Klara Silber." He drew her close for a quick kiss on each cheek. "The nightingale had better take flight into the forest as fast as she can. God go with you, and may He be armor sufficient."

"Signor," Klara began, but as soon as Manzoli finished speaking, he waddled away, departing with an almost unseemly haste.

"An unhappy prognostication
," Leopold sighed and spoke to Klara."Fraulein Silber, let me say that in all my life and all my travels my ear has never been blessed with such angel song."

Klara, numb, fetched up a smile. She knew she'd excelled, despite her fear.

"Concertmaster Almassy, allow me to offer congratulations, too."

"We thank you for your gracious compliments, Kapellmeister."

"Now," Leopold said, gazing at Wolfgang, his face settling into stern lines. "Come along, Wolfgang. A word to the wise is sufficient. No dallying."

"Firste Singerin Silber! Herr Concertmaster!" Wolfgang exclaimed, seizing Almassy's hand. "A delight! An honor! I pray we shall meet again. Perhaps in Graz or Brno
– perhaps in Prague!"

"The honor was all mine, dear sir. Your music is beyond perfection."

His blue eyes turned to Klara. "Never have I had the delight of writing for such a divinely flexible throat." He swept them an elaborate and playful bow. When Klara, full of affection for him, extended her arms, he came into them and boldly took a kiss from her lips.

Leopold caught his impetuous son by the arm and drew him away. "A very good night to you both. I believe that under the circumstances a certain agreement between my son and the Prima Donna may be forgotten."

"Ah, Herr Mozart," Klara said, "a bargain is a bargain. How mean I should think myself to penalize your good fortune!

"Let it be a small token of our good wishes upon the occasion of your wedding."

The question remained a shuttlecock for a little longer, but eventually the Mozarts had their way. As they withdrew at last, Almassy slipped an arm around Klara's waist.

"In another year or so, that boy will play havoc with the ladies."

"Oh, but his opera! My freedom! Dear Almassy, a kiss seemed like very little in exchange for all that."

Her lover smiled. "They do have more gold than Prince Vehnsky offered."

"But how can money make up for such destruction?"

"I'll wager that only paper, time and ink are lost. You could write out your part and most of the duets you sang, but that astounding boy can remember every note he ever set. Of course, he will complain of the boredom and fatigue, and a cramp in his hand, but I’ll wager he can do it." Akos smiled and stroked Klara's arm, for she was silent. Now, when she might have been full of triumph Klara suddenly felt dizzy. Color drained from her cheeks; her heart knocked against her ribs.

Yes, she had carried through the plan. She had publicly broken with Max. She had declared her intention to marry, had found a new protector. Nevertheless, for love of the man beside her, she had given up her career in the Vienna! Vienna, the capital of the Empire! The city where, for the last five years, she had reigned supreme….

Klara's throat constricted. She swayed. If Almassy hadn't been so quick, the faint would have carried her down to the floor.

***

Manzoli caught sight of himself in the mirror, white as a ghost. Feeling ill, he dropped into a chair in a small side room, one that had served the players as a dressing room before the opera. Perhaps he could rest here, just for a few minutes, and gather his forces sufficiently to face the carriage ride home through the cold.

It did not hasten his recovery when a steward of the house opened the door and Count Oettingen appeared framed within it.

"See that the Signor and I aren't disturbed, will you, fellow?" The Count's tone was cold.

As the door closed with a snap, Manzoli shuddered as he dragged himself upright. A long tremor went through his bulk, as if through an immense bowl of jelly.

"Quite an evening, Signor." The Count’s voice cut, scissors through velvet.

Miserably, Manzoli inclined his round head. He couldn't meet the Count's eyes.

"It isn't over, you know."

Manzoli looked up. The Count's face was at least as white as his, his forehead livid.

"Don't fret, man. She has simply eluded us in her slippery fish way. A feint in our direction, and then, with a flip of her tail, into the weeds again. You wanted to believe that she would come to her senses; that she would throw over that Hungarian who will lock her up in the middle of nowhere and waste her talent. I confess I wanted to believe that, too, but in my heart I knew she was nothing but a young fool. Well, never fear. She will be safely back in her cage again, and not long from now, either."

"My Lord!” Manzoli’s voice emerged as a harsh croak. He coughed once, and then fell silent.

"I shall let them go on their way towards Komoron, but when they get into the forest
– well – something will happen. No one will know what, and they may guess as much as they wish, when the Prima Donna Silber sings at next year's Carnival."

"I believe she is with child, my lord." In spite of his resolve to appear calm, Manzoli could feel beads of sweat trickling from beneath his wig. The Count fingered his dagger in an absently suggestive way.

"He didn't waste any time, did he? But if she carries it, she will then foal in November or December. That will be plenty of time for her to recover and make an appearance at next season's Carnival opera upon the arm of a forgiving and generous benefactor."

Manzoli swallowed with difficulty. His throat constricted. “And
– ah – Herr Concertmaster?"

"Tragically, dead. There will be rumors, but who can stop me?"

"In Prince Vehnsky's land?"

"Why not? There are some exceedingly empty roads along the way to Komorom."

"If you kill him, she will not come back to you."

"She will have no choice. After I have killed him, I will take her to my Villa. She will stay there, weep, and grow a great belly."

"Are you not afraid she will sicken? She is extraordinarily sensitive."

"On the contrary, our rare bird isn't so different from the rest of womankind. She will have to set all her energy to bear the child of her martyred lover, if for no other reason than to spite me. It will be the last action she can take on behalf of her beloved."

Manzoli reached into a sleeve, brought out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

A diabolical analysis, but probably correct.

"And so then, Signor, if all goes as I imagine, by Carnival next year, you and I shall hear the Nightingale's voice perfected."

"You
– you – will not harm her?"

"My dear Manzoli!"

"But if the Concertmaster were to meet his end in such a manner … if Klara were to witness it…." Manzoli stopped and cast a pleading glance.

"Ah, Maestro!" The Count caught his drift. Once again the icy smile gleamed. It was a smile, Manzoli thought, with less warmth than sun striking Danube ice. "Like the finest of swords, a great artist must be tempered in terrible fires."

"But – my dear Count!" Manzoli coughed again, anguish closing his throat. "May a sword not be broken in tempering?"

"Yes, but to make the finest weapon, one final descent into hell must be hazarded."

Manzoli closed his eyes, tried to suppress the shudder now rising to the surface of his bulk. Silently he prayed to Saint Cecelia –
yes, and Apollo and Orpheus, too
– oh, protect her!

"Yes, indeed,
Molto Bene Signor
." The Count gazed fiercely into a middle distance, where, in his imagination, a glorious future was already forming. "Our Maria Klara shall be tempered. Perfected – or ruined. If she withstands the final trial, at Carnival next we will hear her give voice to a glory only vouchsafed to those who have experienced great passion and suffered great pain. It will be my supreme gift to her, and the sacrifice of the beloved and talented Concertmaster will be the ultimate lesson."

The terror Manzoli felt as he gazed at the madness before him was overwhelming, but his love for Klara forced a last weak protest to his lips.

"My Lord – please – consider. Maria Klara is supremely sensitive. Her health is so fragile. To so oppress such sensitivity, and in a delicate condition…." The words died away, for the Count came close, laid one strong jeweled hand upon the old castrato's trembling shoulder.

"Come, come, Signor," he said softly, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "Courage, man! Did you not bravely die a death yourself, in order to live for years with glory?"

Manzoli covered his face and gave way to tears. His fear for Klara mingled with the memory of his own tempering, that time of agony, of near death, suffered for the savage mistress that was Art.

Guilt flowed just as his blood had, as agony's knife sliced his manhood away. Were the screams he heard his, or were they Klara's?

"Your sacrifice, brought heaven to earth," the Count declared, breaking into his companion's terrible reverie. Manzoli lifted his head and met Max's gray eyes, eyes that were completely solemn, reverent.

"I, and others, too, gentlemen of refinement and taste, shall always remember your voice with awe. Baron von Mylsbeck, whose discriminating ear was a model for us all, told me that only you, of all the modern castrati, rivaled the perfection of the legendary
il Senesimo."

"
Grazie
, my Lord." Manzoli tried to say more, but Max had not finished.

"And since artists always say that we of the nobility are more generous with talk than with money, well, Signor, here is something for your service to Art."

A sealed letter was laid upon the table. Without another word, the Count turned away. In the next instant, the heavy polished door closed behind him. Manzoli was left alone with his guilt and the mysterious letter.

After heaving an enormous sigh, he picked it up. Using one long nail, he carefully lifted the seal and unfolded. As he eagerly perused it, excitement drowned all other emotion. It was a deed to a villa, in his name, clear and unencumbered, set in the mountains of his home province of Campania, far down the sunny boot of Italy. As he read, he learned that the rents of surrounding parcels were part of the gift, intended to sustain the residence.

Over and over again, his eye traveled across the deed. This was stunning, the utterly extravagant present he'd always dreamed of in the greedy and golden days of his youth!Oh, he'd lived well in Vienna, frittering the gold away, upon the beautiful works which decorated his rooms, upon lovers and flatterers. Somehow, when the end had come, it had taken him by surprise, the memory of his loss remained an open wound. Nevertheless, he'd been better off than other aging stars of his generation.