Sent to the Devil (20 page)

“You must come meet Constanze,” he said to her. “You two would get on well.” He bowed over her hand, raised an approving brow at me, and turned toward the main hall.

As I steered Marta to the stairway that led to the boxes, Casanova approached.

“Ah, I was hoping I would see you both tonight,” he said, kissing Marta's hand. “My dear, you look absolutely ravishing this evening. If I were twenty years younger—no, maybe just ten—I would lure you away from this pedestrian poet and make you the Countess of Seingalt.” He fingered the glass hanging from Marta's right ear. “But alas—”

I snorted. My friend styled himself as the Chevalier de Seingalt, but I knew he had been born to theater people in the warren of narrow streets between the Campo San Stefano and the Grand Canal.

Marta giggled. Her face was flushed with pleasure and excitement. For the first time since I met her, she looked happy. Perhaps I was succeeding in my goal to make her forget about von Gerl. I fervently hoped he would not make an appearance tonight. I took her arm.

Casanova leaned over to me. “We must continue our discussion of the other day,” he said softly. I nodded.

Marta and I climbed the stairs to the boxes. Most of them were rented by the oldest aristocratic families in Vienna, but the emperor had directed that one always be held for the librettist and composer of the opera being performed. I opened the door to the box and ushered Marta inside. Salieri and his wife were already there. I introduced Marta to them and settled her into one of the comfortable armchairs.

The orchestra played the opening notes of the opera, and I settled back to enjoy my work and Marta's company. The opera was an adaptation of a libretto written by Beaumarchais, the French playwright, which Salieri had set to music last year in Paris. I had tightened Beaumarchais's flowery language and tendency to use too many words when I had translated the libretto into Italian for this performance. The opera had everything the Viennese audiences adored—an Oriental despot, a loyal soldier in love with a beauty from the despot's harem, the despot's schemes to kill his rival, and his final capitulation to the purity of young love. It had been very popular since it had premiered in January.

I stole a glance at Salieri, who leaned forward in his chair, his arms propped on the railing of the box, his eyes intently following the action on the stage. Next to him, his wife yawned. A wicked thought came unbidden to my mind. What was Caterina Cavalieri doing this evening, while her lover and his wife were at the theater? Did the music director leave his wife at home on those nights that his paramour was singing? I hoped so, for his sake. I wouldn't have wanted to be him should Cavalieri have glanced toward the box and seen him sitting there with Madame Salieri. I smiled to myself. I was sure he would have heard plenty from that flexible throat when he went to the dressing room after the performance to congratulate his lover.

At intermission, I hurried downstairs to order champagne for the four of us. When I returned, followed by a waiter with a tray of glasses, Marta was conversing with Madame Salieri.

“Miss Cavalli was just telling us that she recently arrived from Venice,” Theresa Salieri said to me. “Weren't you frightened, my dear, with the war going on?”

“I saw no indication there was a war,” Marta said.

“You cannot miss it here,” Salieri said. “The soldiers on the street, the protesters, the shortages—why, I went into Adam's the other day to order a suit and he told me he was having difficulty procuring satin.”

“At least it will end soon,” I said.

Salieri raised an eyebrow. “I would not be so sure. The troops have been sitting outside Belgrade for weeks now, with no progress to report.” He sighed. “No, I believe this will be a long, expensive war, Da Ponte. You and I may not have many more chances to sit up here and enjoy our operas.”

The crowd on the parterre below us buzzed as Count Rosenberg, the director of the theater and one of the emperor's closest confidants, took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Forgive me for delaying the start of the next act, but I have just received excellent news. A few days ago, the emperor took the fortress of Sabac from the Turks. It will not be long now before Belgrade is ours!”

The applause was deafening. Some of the men in the audience, including Mozart, stood and cheered. I looked over at Salieri.

He sniffed. “Sabac is a small fortress, valuable for cutting the Turkish supply lines to Belgrade. But when will the emperor move on Belgrade itself?”

The music began and we settled back into our seats. Salieri's pessimism had left me unsettled. What if he were correct, and the war dragged on? Would the theater close? What would I do then? I had no large pool of savings to support me should I lose my position. I would have to leave Vienna and seek my fortunes elsewhere.

I willed myself to dismiss these black thoughts from my mind, and leaned back to enjoy the rest of the opera. I stole a glance at Marta. She sat entranced, her green eyes fixed on the stage. A tendril of silky hair had loosened from the sapphire velvet ribbon. As she reached to tuck it back up, her attention still on the performance below us, my pulse quickened. She must have felt me watching her, for she turned and smiled at me. My spirit lightened, I smiled back, and then spent the rest of the evening watching her, smelling her delicate floral scent, listening to her voice, and falling in love.

 

Seventeen

Marta and I breakfasted together the next morning in the Lamm kitchen. Although we tried to behave as though we were merely fellow lodgers sharing a meal, I believe Madame Lamm sensed there was something between us, for as we conversed idly about the opera, she glanced at us with approval in her twinkling eyes.

Finally I pulled myself away and rose from the table. “I'm afraid I must go to work, ladies,” I said.

“On such a beautiful day? What a shame!” Madame Lamm said. “I was out at the market before you came down. It is almost like summer.” She looked at me slyly. “Perfect for a long stroll in the Prater.”

I sighed. “I agree, Madame Lamm. But unfortunately, I must attend a rehearsal of my next opera. We premiere in less than two weeks, and there is much work still to be done.” I turned to Marta. “Do you have plans for today?” I asked her.

“Yes. Mademoiselle Albrechts has invited me to dinner this afternoon,” she said.

“Christiane Albrechts?” Madame Lamm said. “You are acquainted with Christiane Albrechts?”

Marta nodded.

“Oh, my! She is such an elegant young lady. The poor girl—her father died suddenly, just a few weeks ago. He was a famous general, highly decorated by the late empress. Where did you meet her?”

“Signor Da Ponte introduced us,” Marta said.

My landlady looked at me with new respect. “Have you been in her palace?” she asked Marta. “You must tell me all about it. Was it very lavish?”

“Oh, yes,” Marta replied. “The rooms I saw were immense. The decorations are beautiful—and the furniture and fabrics, I've never seen any so fine.”

“It sounds lovely,” my landlady said. She joined Marta at the table. “But you know, that is just the family's city palace. Her father owned a large property right outside the city, outside the Karntner gate. It is called the Belvedere. It used to belong to Prince Eugene of Savoy, years ago. He built two palaces on the land, one at the top of the hill, another at the bottom. He lived in the lower one and used the one at the top of the hill just for parties! Can you imagine that? Of course, I've never seen it myself. I have no reason to travel out there, and even if I did, there are high walls all around it. But I've heard that the gardens are beautiful.” She took a breath and sighed. “I suppose Miss Albrechts inherits it all now that her father is gone.”

“I believe the household is readying for a move out there any day now,” I offered. I bade them both good morning and went up to my room for my satchel.

My landlady had been right—the day was summerlike, the skies clear. I hummed a tune from my last opera with Mozart as I crossed the bridge and went through the Stuben gate.

I had walked but three blocks down the Wollzeile when my happy mood vanished. I had reached the square that marked the entrance to the university. The onion domes of the Baroque church that had been taken from the Jesuits when that order had been abolished by the state fifteen years ago towered over the small plaza. Ahead of me, a stocky dark-haired young man in a forest-green cloak loitered near one of the two small fountains that flanked the entrance to the university administration building. My jaw clenched.

“You there,” I called. “What are you doing there?” I marched over to him.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Are you speaking to me?” he asked. He stood at attention and stared back at me arrogantly.

“What are you doing here? Were you waiting for me?”

His brow furrowed. “Waiting? I don't understand, sir. I was just—”

“You were just standing by until I came, weren't you?” I snapped. “So that you could follow me again!”

“Do I know you, sir?”

“Don't behave like an innocent with me. You've been trailing me for days now.”

He shook his head. “I don't know what you are talking about, sir. I am just waiting for a friend.” He bowed, turned his back on me, and sauntered toward the church.

I stared after him for a moment, and then continued down the Wollzeile, my face flushed. I had thought he was the young man who had been trailing me. But was I sure? There were many such young men in the city, and many forest-green cloaks. Might it have been mere coincidence that I had seen him so often the past few days? I shook my head. I didn't know what to think. I was losing my good judgment and reason.

*   *   *

When I reached the theater Mozart was standing outside chatting with the tenor Morella. After I greeted them, Morella excused himself to go in and warm up his voice.

Mozart stretched his arms over his head. “It is too beautiful a day to spend indoors rehearsing,” he said.

“Does Morella approve of the new aria?” I asked.

“I just gave it to him. He seems to like it very much,” Mozart said. “Oh, look!” He started toward the center of the Michaelerplatz.

“Where are you going?” I called. A man riding a small gray horse passed in front of the composer, and I suddenly understood. Mozart had owned a horse that color two years ago, but since the family had moved twice since then, first out to the suburbs and then back into town, they had sold the animal along the way.

Mozart returned to me, his face forlorn. “I hoped it might be Horse,” he said. He sighed. “The army has taken so many horses for the war—he must be a soldier now.”

We entered the theater and greeted the singers, who were gathered on the stage in the main hall. As I removed my libretto from my satchel, Caterina Cavalieri beckoned to me. “Have you and Wolfgang given any thought to the matter we discussed the other day?” she asked, glancing toward Aloysia Lange, who was chatting with Benucci.

“Yes, madame,” I said. “We are working on a long piece for you. It should be ready for you soon.” She beamed.

“Come everyone,” Mozart called as he sat at the fortepiano. “I want to start with the quartet in the first act. This is our last rehearsal without the orchestra, and I want to be sure everything is right.”

The singers took their marks and the rehearsal began. After a few moments, I was caught up in the music, both the delight and annoyance of the morning temporarily forgotten.

*   *   *

We worked until dinnertime. After Mozart and the singers left, I walked down the Herrengasse to a large, bright café and had a light dinner.

As I left the café to return to the theater, I saw Casanova walking ahead of me. I ran to catch him.

“Do you have time to come with me for an hour or so?” I asked him.

“Is this about the murders?” he asked, his eyes agleam.

I nodded. “I want to search Alois's office.” As we walked over to the cathedral, I reminded my friend about the contents of the messages Benda and I had found in Hennen's chamber. “They were lines from Dante's
Purgatory,
about the deadly sin of envy,” I said.

“You believe Alois may have received similar messages?” Casanova asked.

“Yes.” We reached the Stephansplatz. “I tried to get into his office a few days ago, but it was locked. We'll have to find Father Dauer in the cathedral. He has the key. I hope he hasn't had the office emptied yet.”

“There is no need for a key,” Casanova said. “I can break the lock for you.”

“I think we'll try to gain access using legitimate means first,” I said.

Casanova shrugged. “However you wish,” he said.

Inside the cathedral, a deacon told us Father Dauer was in the treasury room, and directed us to the large room in the cellar of the cathedral. The low-ceilinged room was furnished with display cases and shelves filled with objects. The walls were hung with paintings of the Madonna and Child from all periods, the medieval ones embellished with gold. An ancient painting of the founder of the cathedral, Duke Rudolph IV, overlooked the treasure. Dauer stood alone in one corner, fingering an exquisite small marble sculpture of the Pietà.

“Signor Da Ponte, how good to see you again. May I offer you condolences on the loss of Father Bayer.”

I thanked him and introduced Casanova.

Dauer gestured around the treasure room. “The archbishop has asked me to determine which items can be sold,” he said. “I've just managed to acquire a large collection of valuable crucifixes from one of the noble families here in Vienna, so we must make room for them.”

Beside me, Casanova shifted uncomfortably.

“Is there something I can do for you, gentlemen?” Dauer asked.