I
n the barroom, the innkeeper whistled a tune from Wolfgang’s
Figaro
.
Lenerl crept to the foot of the stairs. She held up her hand for me to wait. “Joachim,” she called, “let me have a bottle of your delicious Steinfeder.”
“An early lunch, Lenerl?” he said. “I’ll bring it up from the cellar for you right away, my dear.” He descended the steps to his basement, singing. “
If you want to dance, Little Count, I’ll play the guitar for you.
”
Lenerl gestured for me to hurry. I trotted past her, out to the baron’s carriage.
I climbed inside. “How do I look?” I removed my hat and set it on the seat beside me.
Swieten rested his chin on the silver knob of his cane, shaking his head. “You look like—like Wolfgang.” He reached over and touched the blond hair knotted at the nape of my neck.
I opened my hand. In my palm, tied with a thin ribbon, lay a lock of the hair I had cut away. “Wolfgang used to wear his hair long for a man, but I still had to hack off quite a lot. It seems a shame that it should be used only to stuff a pillow.”
The baron put the lock to his lips and slipped it into the pocket of his vest.
I rubbed at my red breeches and slapped my thighs. “I don’t know how you gentlemen wear such trousers. They chafe terribly.”
“We’re excused whale-bone corsets and stays designed to lift our breasts. We don’t suffer as much as women, despite the restriction imposed by our leg wear. How does the hat fit?”
I pushed the three-cornered black hat with its gold trim onto my head.
Swieten adjusted it. “Wear it like this, a little to the side. Otherwise it sits too low on your brow.” He sat back to take me in. “It’s remarkable, remarkable.”
“Did my sister-in-law suspect anything?”
He shook his head. “I insisted that I wished to buy Wolfgang’s suit for my own use. Constanze knew this to be ridiculous. I’m more than a head taller than he was. The suit would never fit me. She took my purchase for a donation to my friend’s widow which I disguised to preserve her dignity.”
“And the emperor?”
“We’ll await his pleasure shortly. He was reluctant at first.”
“How did you convince him?”
“I told him that if he went along with our plan he’d discover something that’d truly astound him. He agreed. But he warned me that—” He halted and grimaced.
“What?”
“That if things don’t work out as I told him they would, my position at court shall be forfeit.”
“No, Gottfried.” I reached for his hand.
“Don’t fret about it. The emperor has given his agreement. He wishes to see evidence of the crime about which I spoke to him. It’s up to us to provide it.”
“And our most important invitee?”
“The emperor has commanded his attendance. He’ll be there.”
The coach went under the archway of the imperial ballrooms and pulled up in the Swiss Courtyard at the steps to the oldest part of the Hofburg. When the footman opened the door to the carriage, Swieten descended and held out his hand to me. I shook my head. “No need to be chivalrous now,” I said.
He pulled his mouth tight at his error.
Schikaneder came through the ornate Swiss Gate and bowed to the baron. I reached up to slap his shoulder.
“Emanuel, old fellow, thank you for coming,” I said.
If he flinched, it was only a flicker deep in his eyes. After his lifetime of dissembling, I could count on the actor not to give me away. He inclined his head. “Lead on, my dear sirs,” he said.
We entered a staircase of white marble. A scarlet carpet covered the steps. The three of us went side by side up the long flight, each doubtless carrying a private dread. No matter how much of the spirit of my brother I had absorbed with his clothing, I waited for the palace guards to step forward and unmask me.
The chamberlain led us through the palace. Its corridors seemed measureless. The massive building represented sovereignty, as though no smaller palace could house the immense prestige of the emperor. But authority is never infinite. If it were, Pergen and his secret agents would be of no use. The greater a power, the more it advertises its tiny weaknesses.
I listened to the reverent murmur of our feet on the carpet. The whisper of distant doors. Clocks ticking in closed rooms as if they were the very pulse of the palace. Underlying it all, a silence like waiting itself, so that I wanted to stop at every keyhole to see who crouched behind it.
Wolfgang’s clothes were comfortable now that I was accustomed to them. I followed the baron’s step, matching my breathing to his steady rhythm. He caught my glance and winked.
The chamberlain showed us into a small concert salon. Its wall panels were carved with shells and clusters of leaves. A piano stood before a semicircle of chairs. Mute and still, it beckoned to me.
The piano was a Stein, like the one in Wolfgang’s study. I laid my hat on top of it, and played an arpeggio. As the notes trailed into silence, I heard people approaching. The chamberlain bowed in readiness. Swieten stiffened.
The emperor swept into the chamber with a group of courtiers behind him. Tall and pouchy-eyed, he wore a short wig and an autumnal velvet suit that matched the rosewood on the walls. Across his chest he had a red sash.
Swieten bowed low, his arm stretching gracefully to his side. “Your Majesty,” he said.
Schikaneder threw himself into a hurried bow.
I would’ve curtsied had Swieten not caught my eye in time. My bow was all the more formal because it was the first time I had practiced one.
“Herr Mozart,” the emperor said.
I flushed, nervous now the deception was under way. Leopold ran his tongue over his teeth, watching me.
I hoped Swieten had briefed the emperor correctly. I coughed to disguise my voice. “Your Majesty.” I prayed that I’d be required to speak no further—it would surely reveal me to be a woman.
The emperor took one of the chairs before the piano. The men who accompanied him went to their seats, too.
Except for one.
Count Pergen stood at the center of the room, staring at me. I saw the shock and indecision in his pale eyes. Usually so shrewd, they were gleaming and wide.
Swieten took the police minister’s elbow. He shoved him to a chair tapestried with peasants dancing at a spring festival. Pergen dropped into it, his mouth falling open.
The emperor blinked slowly so that we knew it was his pleasure for us to begin.
Gathering myself, I played the melodious Allegro of Wolfgang’s most difficult sonata, the F major. He had composed it during his visit to Salzburg with his new bride. I recalled the coldness I had shown Constanze then. I knew it had hurt my brother. I sensed his suffering in the music.
The second, slow movement in B-flat major seemed to carry all the proud melancholy I remembered in Wolfgang during his honeymoon visit. This music had protected him from my father’s disapproval, though it also measured out the sadness of that rejection.
I glanced at the emperor when I completed the Adagio. He scratched at his pale jowls. Beside him, Pergen quivered like the disturbed surface of a pool, his hands tight together in his lap and his staring eyes never rising above the gold buckles of my shoes.
Through the first rapid scales of the Allegro assai, I kept my eye on Pergen. His neck jerked, as though the tumbling notes were blows that fell on him.
Like the poor prisoners he has condemned to a public beating
, I thought.
I struck a false note and sensed a fluctuation in my tempo. I understood that my vindictiveness interfered with my concentration and my joy in the music. I turned my eyes from the police minister. The keyboard came to life in the fast finale.
I played the concluding chord. The emperor rose and led his courtiers in applause. He lifted a hand to silence them.
“No one could’ve given us such a performance of this divine music,” he said, “except the immortal Mozart.”
Pergen swayed, ashen and trembling, as the emperor resumed his place.
“What’ll you give us now, Maestro Mozart?” Leopold said.
I coughed and looked to Swieten in alarm, but he had already stepped forward to speak. “We had intended to perform a scene from the maestro’s opera
Don Giovanni
,” he said.
“Excellent.
Don Giovanni, or The Dissolute Punished
, its full title, I believe. A moral tale of which I approve with all my heart.” The emperor clapped his hands.
“The maestro was to have played his own piano transcription,” Swieten said, “while I was to take the role of the Stone Guest and Herr Schikaneder would sing Leporello, the manservant.”
I noticed Schikaneder push out his chest. Once a performance was broached, he was full of assurance. I was less confident.
“Our Don Giovanni was to have been another member of Herr Schikaneder’s company. To our distress, the fellow is ill. He was unable to accompany us to the palace,” Swieten said, “so we may not perform the scene, after all.”
“Can’t Maestro Mozart sing the role himself?”
“He’s no baritone, your Majesty. He won’t do for the Don. We must abandon our performance.” Swieten waited a moment. “Unless, of course, Count Pergen—”
“Absolutely.” The emperor grabbed Pergen’s shoulder and shook it. “Come along, Pergen. You have a fine voice, and a baritone at that. Perfect for the Don. Step up, fellow. I know you’re more of a church singer, but we won’t judge you harshly.”
The mention of judgment from his sovereign’s mouth jarred Pergen. He fixed Leopold with eyes that seemed to shake in their sockets.
Swieten thrust a score into Pergen’s hands and maneuvered him across the floor. He kept a grip on the minister’s elbow as they stood beside the piano.
Pergen’s features were as transfigured as they had been when he spoke of wandering ghosts at early Mass in the cathedral. A sinner encounters supernatural revenge, he had said then. It must have seemed to him such vengeance was now undertaken. The ghost of his victim returned from the grave, forcing him into an ordeal before a man whose power was absolute and lethal.
Pergen pulled at his cravat to loosen it. But the tightness was within his throat. Nothing he could do would relieve it.
Schikaneder leaned close and whispered, “There’s not much in this scene for me, you know. May I do Leporello’s aria about the list of ladies the Don has seduced?”
“Perhaps that’s not quite appropriate for the emperor,” I said.
“You’re right. Something else then? How about ‘Night and Day I Toil Away’?”
“By all means, but only after we do this scene.”
I struck the dramatic opening chords, announcing the arrival of the Stone Guest, the spirit of a man murdered by Don Giovanni, come to take his killer to Hell.
Schikaneder cowered, acting the part of Giovanni’s fearful servant. Pergen shuddered with each chord. In a strong baritone, Swieten sang the Stone Guest’s invitation for the reprobate Don to accompany him to the underworld.
Giovanni’s first lines came. Swieten’s fingers tightened around Pergen’s upper arm. Pergen fumbled with his score and sang, bidding his servant set a place at the table for his terrifying visitor.
The audience seemed not to notice Pergen’s nerves and weak singing. Their attention was consumed by Schikaneder’s unrestrained mugging, as he urged his master to turn away from the disquieting spirit. The emperor, however, watched only his police minister.
Schikaneder’s animation appeared to lend some backbone to Pergen. When the Stone Guest told Giovanni that he had come to claim his soul, it was time for the Don to respond: “None shall accuse me of fear. I shall succumb to no one.” Pergen’s chin lifted and, for the first time, he extended his jaw to let the notes resonate.
I worried that Pergen’s self-righteousness might carry him through this ordeal.
The Stone Guest called on Giovanni to accept his invitation. Pergen replied that he was fearless and would accept. Swieten held out his hand.
Pergen hesitated. Swieten reached for him.
There was no acting in the cry that came from Pergen’s lips when the baron squeezed his hand. He caught his breath and stuttered through the line about a deadly chill in his body. He pulled away, but Swieten held on.
“There’s no repentance for me,” Pergen sang. His eyes swiveled toward me. “Vanish from my sight.”
I heard the fear of God in Pergen’s voice, and I wished mercy for him. I thought of my prayers for Our Lord to show clemency toward my brother. I hated to think that there might be anyone from whom redemption would be withheld. I glanced at the baron, wishing that he might find some way to offer compassion. He didn’t waver.
Still gripping the count’s hand, Swieten forced his wrist down so that the poor man bent before him. With all the volume he could manage, Swieten sang: “Then dread the eternal wrath.”
I had loved this scene onstage. But when I saw it unfold in the palpitations and sobs of a terrified wretch, I confess that my desire to unmask Pergen weakened. I whispered to Swie-ten, “Your Grace. I—”
Pergen squinted over the piano toward me, gasping. “No,” he said. “No, no.”
Swieten released him.
Pergen leaned against the piano, his shoulders heaving.
The emperor snapped his fingers at his distraught minister. “Come on, man.”
Pergen swallowed hard, and sang: “Unknown terrors chill me. Demons of doom grasp at me. Is Hell let loose to torture me?”
The baron had read my reluctance to push this stricken man too far. He raised his hand as a conductor might, commanding and firm. I was as powerless to resist him as I had been when we kissed. I grew confident in the force of Wolfgang’s music and Swieten’s guidance.
He brought down his hand. I drove my fingers hard onto the keyboard to make the chords as loud as I might. In the deepest register I could manage, I sang the chorus: “Eternal torment awaits you. You’ll burn in endless night.”
Pergen bleated his final lines, though his distress was somewhat disguised by Schikaneder. The actor grasped for Don Giovanni, trying to haul him back as he fell into the flames. “The fire of doom surrounds him,” he called.