Sent to the Devil (2 page)

“That's Turkish propaganda!” The crippled man shook his fist. “Joseph will be taking Belgrade any day now! The Turks will surrender. Everyone knows how bad morale is in their army. Our boys will be home before the end of summer.”

“How many will never come home?” The young protester looked the man up and down, taking in his dress suit and elegant stick. “It is easy for you to speak in favor of sending them to their deaths, while you sit at home, comfortable in your palace.”

“You insolent swine! How dare you speak to me like that!”

I watched, astonished, as the man raised his stick and swung it at the orator. The young man ducked and fell off the crate. He sprawled on the ground against the low balustrade that surrounded the monument.

“Hey now, stop that, sir.” One of the constables grabbed the assailant's arm.

“Let go of me!” the man said, his face red with anger. “I am Baron Walther Hennen. I'll report you to your superior officer.”

The constable withdrew his hand.

Hennen glared at the orator. “As for you—you are one to speak about avoiding service in the war. I know who you are. You had better be careful, or you'll end up in Semlin before you know it.” He turned and limped angrily in the direction of St. Peter's Church.

I continued on toward the Stephansplatz. I wasn't sure what to think about this war. I was not a native Austrian, so I had no emotional connection to the hostilities. But I worried that a prolonged war could affect my life here in Vienna, especially my position at the theater. When the emperor had left a few weeks ago to join the troops at Semlin, he had ordered the city theaters to remain open. If the war dragged on, though, that situation could change, and I might be out of a job. But I knew the emperor well, and I respected his wisdom and trusted his judgment. If he felt it was necessary to support the empress of Russia in her war against the Turks, who was I to question him? I just hoped the Turks could be defeated quickly.

In the Stephansplatz, the buildings were draped in black bunting, as were the main doors of the great cathedral. A funeral mass had been held yesterday for General Peter Albrechts, a hero in the late empress's war thirty years ago. I had not attended, but I had heard that the crowd of mourners had spilled out of the cathedral.

I walked by the west portal of the cathedral and crossed the small side plaza to a nondescript office building. I climbed four flights of stairs, made my way down a small corridor to the office at its end, and poked my head in the open door.

“Alois?”

“Lorenzo!” Alois Bayer rose from his desk. “I was beginning to worry that I had my dates confused.”

“I'm sorry. I was held up by a disturbance in the Graben,” I explained as I gently returned his embrace. My elderly friend was growing more fragile every time I saw him. “That young man who is always protesting against the war—he and a bystander almost came to blows.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, some constables broke up the fight before any violence occurred,” I said. I settled into the chair next to Alois's desk and looked around the familiar space. Books were piled on every free surface. I took a deep breath and inhaled one of my favorite smells—the scent of old books punctuated by a slight trace of the peppermint drops Alois ate constantly. A thin straw-filled pallet lay on the floor behind the desk. I frowned. “What is that? Are you sleeping here now? What happened to your room over in the Wollzeile?”

Alois shrugged. “The cathedral needed it for one of the new priests. I don't mind it here. It gives me more time to study.”

I opened my mouth to object, but closed it as the red tinge of embarrassment spread over his papery cheeks. “Are you ready for dinner?” I asked. “I'd like to try that new catering shop over by the Greek church.”

He hesitated. “I'm not that hungry, Lorenzo. The older I get, the less appetite I have. I have a nice bottle of Tokay. Why don't we stay here and drink it instead of going out for dinner? We haven't had a good talk in a long time.”

I shook my head. I knew why he was protesting. Since he had retired from the active priesthood, he lived on a small stipend from the cathedral, and he spent most of his money on books. I worried that he seldom ate a hearty meal, which is why I had made a point of inviting him out today.

“Nonsense,” I said. “We can discuss whatever you want at the catering shop.” I put my hand up as he shook his head. “I invited you out to dinner, and out to dinner you will come.”

“No, no, Lorenzo,” Alois protested. “You have better things to do with your money.”

“Better things to do than spend an afternoon with a good friend, enjoying a delicious meal?” I stood. “No more protests. You'll insult my Venetian honor if you don't come,” I added, smiling.

“Well, since you put it that way—” He laughed. “Do you mind if we stop by the cathedral for a moment on the way out?” He took a book off his desk. “I want to return this to the archivist.”

“As long as we're quick about it,” I said. “I'm famished.”

I helped him into his thin, worn cloak and followed him out of the office. We slowly made our way down the stairs. In the small lobby, I held the heavy door for him, and followed him out into the gray, warm afternoon.

*   *   *

The dark, bulky north tower of the cathedral hovered over the busy side plaza. The tower was much shorter than the ornate, elegant tower on the south side of the building. Legend had it that when the church decided to erect the second tower in the fifteenth century, the master builder had sold his soul to the devil to ensure the success of the project, and one day, while the man was high on the scaffolding, he uttered a holy name, angering his evil patron, who caused the scaffold to fall to the ground, taking the unfortunate builder with it. The tower had never been completed.

We waited as several carriages trundled by, and then crossed to the portico. To our left, several yards down the exterior wall of the cathedral, stood the old Capistran Chancel, a Gothic stone pulpit where Saint Johannes Capistrano, a Franciscan monk, had raised a crusade against the Turks in 1456. Fifty years ago, the Franciscans had erected a statue to commemorate the saint, who had died after defeating the Turks in Belgrade. The order's own founder, Saint Francis, stood beneath a richly wrought golden sunburst, his feet trampling the body of a dead Turk.

Two cathedral workmen stood atop rickety ladders, removing the black funeral bunting from the tall north doors. Alois and I ducked around a long piece of swaying fabric and stepped into the vestibule. Felix Urbanek, one of the priests, came to greet us.

“Father Bayer, Signor Da Ponte. How good to see you both,” he said. He turned to Alois. “Have you come for the meeting about funding the new parishes, Father?”

“No, we just stopped in so that I could return this book to the archives,” Alois said.

“Careful, Fathers!” a workman shouted from behind us. His colleague had climbed to the very top of his ladder, which teetered precariously as he tried to reach the highest swath of bunting. We moved deeper into the vestibule.

Urbanek shook his head. He was a homely man, with froglike features and a sallow complexion. His bright, intelligent eyes seemed to belong to another face. “It's taking them all day to clean up after that funeral. Did either of you attend?”

Alois and I shook our heads.

“You missed quite a show. There was much beating of the breasts over the death of the great man.”

“The general was a war hero,” Alois said quietly. “The country owed him a debt.”

“He was merely doing his duty, as we all are, Father,” Urbanek said. “He was generously rewarded for his service—a title, several fine houses, a large pension. What about all of those who fought under him, the men who never came home from the wars?” He gestured toward the bunting. “Where is their glory? I'm not the only one in Vienna who feels—”

Alois opened his mouth to speak. “How did he die?” I asked, hoping to head off an argument between the two priests.

“A seizure of some sort, I believe,” Urbanek said. “It was sudden.” He turned back to Alois. “I'm glad you are here, Father,” he said. “I am starting a committee to help the poor children who have lost their fathers in the current siege.” He sighed. “Already there have been too many deaths. It would be a great help to me if you would agree to chair the meetings. I'm busy with a lot of other things right now.”

Alois hesitated, and shook his head. “That's a job for an active priest, someone younger and more energetic than I, I'm afraid,” he said.

Urbanek pursed his lips. “You cannot find the energy to help war orphans?”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Alois said. “It is just that I—”

Urbanek waved his hand. “Never mind, Father Bayer. I'll find someone else to do it. If you'll excuse me, I'll bid you good day.” He nodded at me and turned away, heading toward the south transept.

Alois sighed. “He's always trying to recruit me for his latest committee,” he said. “I've done my share here, Lorenzo. I'm tired. I just want to spend my last years with my books. Is that so bad?”

I shook my head. “No, my friend. In fact, I wish I were able to join you.” We laughed. Alois excused himself and ascended the stairway that led to the upper offices and archive. I walked onto the main floor of the cathedral. To my left, past the expansive choir, lay the elaborate high altar with its marble statues of bishops and saints. I turned my back on it and wandered over to the Gothic sandstone pulpit sculpted by Anton Pilgram in the late fifteenth century. The pulpit resembled a giant wine cup set against a large pillar. The bowl of the cup was made of four blocks of sandstone carved to resemble oriel windows, from which figures of the four fathers of the church—Saint Ambrose, Saint Jerome, Saint Gregory, and Saint Augustine—presided over the nave of the cathedral. A stone stairway curved around the pillar, its banister strewn with intricate carvings of frogs, snakes, and lizards. I had heard that the sculptor had hidden a self-portrait beneath the stairway. I ducked my head and leaned in to find it.

“Lorenzo, is that you?” A voice sounded behind me. I turned to see a dark-haired priest with a wide, crooked smile extending his hand to me. A second cleric, whom I did not recognize, stood behind him.

“Maximilian,” I said, shaking his hand. “It is good to see you. How is your work coming?” Maximilian Krause had been a lawyer before taking holy orders, and was an expert on the writings of Ludovico Muratori, a modern church reformer. I often ran into him in various bookshops in the city.

“Very well,” he replied. He gestured to the man behind him, who stepped forward. “Father Dauer, have you met Lorenzo Da Ponte? He is the poet at the Court Theater. Lorenzo, this is Hieronymus Dauer. He's just joined the staff here.”

As I shook hands with Dauer, I studied his face. He looked like no priest I had ever seen; instead, he resembled one of the heroes of the novels the ladies had taken to reading lately, with wavy chestnut hair; a long, aristocratic nose; and a heart-shaped mouth. His gold-green eyes considered me and dismissed me with a blink.

We strolled down the nave toward the great front portal.

“Father Dauer comes to us from the abbey at Melk,” Krause said. “He was rising in the ranks there, but our provost stole him away to help manage the cathedral. Now that the state is so involved in church affairs, we needed someone with his political skills and talents.”

Dauer gave a satisfied smile at his fellow priest's praise.

“You two have something in common,” Krause continued.

Dauer arched a delicate brow.

“You both have lived in Venice.”

“Were you born in Venice?” I asked Dauer.

He shook his head. “I was born here,” he replied. “But I spent my childhood and teenage years there. My father was attached to the Austrian embassy.”

“Lorenzo is a native,” Krause explained. “We are lucky that he has chosen to live and work here.”

Now it was my turn to look pleased at the compliment. I bit off the correction I wished to make to Krause's statement. I would much prefer to be back in Venice, my beloved home, instead of here in Vienna. But I was no longer welcome there.

“Excuse me, please, Fathers,” a small voice said. A girl of about sixteen, dressed in an elegant satin dress festooned with bows, the neck cut low as was the latest fashion, was attempting to maneuver her way around the three of us. We moved to let her pass. She smiled gratefully and entered a small chapel to our right.

Dauer stared after her. “Look at her,” he hissed. “Dressed like a common prostitute to light a holy candle. Why does her father let her out of the house wearing that dress?” He shook his head. “I must confess, my friends, that I am amazed at some of the behavior I've witnessed here in the city. The moral laxness—I've never seen anything like it.” His eyes narrowed. “It's due to the emperor's reforms, I believe. There are no longer any rules about how to behave properly.” He gestured toward the young woman, who had pushed aside her skirts and was kneeling before the altar in the chapel. “That is the result.”

Although I never would criticize my Caesar aloud, I agreed with Dauer's assessment. Over the last seven years, the emperor had attempted to apply the modern ideas of the French
philosophes
to Viennese society. He had ordered equal treatment for all the social classes in matters of taxation and criminal punishment; had modernized medieval church practices; and had built new schools and hospitals. But instead of the society he had aimed to create—one based on freedom and reason—it seemed to me that the emperor's efforts had had the opposite effect. Instead of acting for the greater good, everyone these days did whatever they wanted, with no concern for the well-being of their neighbors, and no consideration of propriety.