The Figaro Murders (3 page)

Two men in their mid-sixties stood in front of the theater's doorway, deep in discussion. They had not seen me. I lowered my head and took a sharp right, hoping to skirt the edge of the plaza and duck down a side street until they had left.

“Signor Da Ponte! Signor Poet!” a high, nasal voice called.

I groaned. Damn. There was nothing I could do but turn back. I approached the pair and bowed to the taller of the two. This was Count Franz Xavier Rosenberg, high chamberlain to the emperor and also, more important to me, the director of the Court Theater, and thus my supervisor. His steely eyes took me in from head to toe. He grimaced slightly as his eyes alighted on my shabby cloak. He himself wore a deep purple court suit cut in the latest fashion, the coat made of fine satin. He graced me with a curt nod.

“Tell us, Signor Poet, how is your latest project proceeding?” the nasal voice asked. “The opera with Mozart?”

I struggled to keep dislike from showing on my face as I turned to the speaker, the Abbé Giambattista Casti, my most guileful enemy. Like me, Casti was a poet and a priest. Unlike me, he had enjoyed a celebrated career all over Europe. Monarchs, aristocrats, and connoisseurs of modern poetry delighted in his satirical style and the lubricious subject matter of his rhymes. After many years at the courts of St. Petersburg and Tuscany, he had settled in Vienna a few years ago, hoping to use his friendship with Count Rosenberg to win a post with the emperor.

“It is going very well, signore,” I said. “We have dress rehearsal in two weeks.”

“Is Mozart pleased with your translation of the Beaumarchais play?” Casti asked.

As I took a moment to measure my response, I studied him. His wispy hair was uncombed, and as usual, he wore a rumpled satin cloak. A long, dark hair sprouted from a mole on his right cheek. “I am not translating the play, signore,” I said. “I am adapting it. You see the difference, I am sure?”

“Adapting it? Like you did for your last libretto, the one for Martín? What was it called,
The Grumpy Curmudgeon
?”

My cheeks grew hot. My opera with the Spanish composer Martín had been a hit just a few months ago. Casti knew the correct title perfectly well.
“The Good-Hearted Grump,”
I said.

“Ah, yes. A nice translation of the Goldoni play, but would you really call your work original?”

I glanced at Rosenberg as I fought to bite back a retort. The theater director's face was expressionless, but I saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “The public loved my libretto, signore. As you recall, that opera sold out every performance.”

Casti fixed his beady eyes on me. “You are right, it did. Martín is a very talented composer for one so young. His music was sublime.”

“I believe—”

Rosenberg coughed. “I trust you and Mozart are taking care with the text,” he said. “The emperor was reluctant to allow you to use that play.”

“Yes,
Figaro
was a sensation in Paris,” Casti said. “I've read it. The emperor was wise to ban its performance here.”

Mozart and I had written an opera based on the most notorious play on the Continent—Beaumarchais's
The Marriage of Figaro
. In the play, a nobleman carries on affairs with his female servants while his wife flirts with a teenage boy. A servant openly expresses his belief that he is the social equal of his master. The emperor had allowed the play to be printed in Vienna, but had banned its performance in any of the city's theaters because of its vulgarity and impropriety.

“I've cut all the objectionable parts out,” I said to the count. My voice grew tighter. “We are focusing on the human aspect of the material—the characters' yearnings for love and respect, for reconciliation and forgiveness.” Rosenberg just stared at me.

“Ah! The human aspect!” Casti said. “Yes, I see now.” He sighed. “I hope the emperor isn't disappointed with the final product. You must admit, you and Mozart took a great risk deciding to write the opera without his prior approval.”

Mozart and I had been so sure we could make a successful, acceptable opera out of Beaumarchais's play that we had written it without a commission. My enemies have big ears and mouths, however, and one went running to the emperor with the tale of our deed. I had been summoned to explain myself and I had described the libretto to him, and then had sent for Mozart, who had played some of the arias he had already completed. The emperor had been delighted with our work and had ordered Rosenberg to put the opera on the theater schedule. It had been a bad day for Casti and Rosenberg.

“As I said, I've read the play,” Casti continued. “It seems to be challenging material from which to make a comic opera.”

As if Casti knew what made good theater! In my position as theater poet, I am the first to read librettos that are to be performed. I had read several of Casti's. He had an elegant style, to be sure. His lyrics were beautifully worded and sparkled with wit. But his plots dragged, his dramatic structures were absurd, and his characters were clichéd. I strained to hold my temper, and bit off the snide retort that was forming on my lips.

“Thank you for your concern—”

“Be careful, Da Ponte,” Rosenberg said. “Remember, you are on shaky ground with this opera. I worry that your career here won't survive another debacle like the one with Salieri.”

I tightened my fingers around my stick. Antonio Salieri was the court composer. My first assignment had been to write a libretto for an opera to be composed by Maestro Salieri. I had heard he was a gentleman of good taste and artistic discernment, so I had proposed a number of possible subjects and left him to choose. Unfortunately for the opera and for me, he had selected the work that was the least suitable for adaptation to opera—a play called
Rich for a Day
.

Casti nodded. “Yes,
Rich for a Day
lasted only one poor night in the theater.” He tittered. A glob of spittle had formed at the corner of his mouth.

“That play was extremely difficult to adapt,” I snapped. “There were not enough characters. The plot was much too slender to fill two hours of theater!” I had worked on the libretto for several excruciating weeks, only to have Salieri request “minor changes” that involved deleting most of the plot that I had created. The composer had then set what remained of my verses to that shrieky music he had admired on a recent trip to Paris. It was then that I had learned the most important truth about theater in Vienna: if an opera is a smash, the libretto is considered, at best, a frame surrounding a beautiful painting. The composer receives all the credit. The words are unimportant. But if the opera is not well received, why, then the words become paramount—in fact, so very important that they can cause the failure of the work all by themselves!

Casti looked at me with feigned sympathy. “How unfortunate for you, Signor Poet, that the court composer looks elsewhere for his librettos. How long has it been since you last worked together? Four years?”

I clenched my teeth. My hands began to shake. “It's not my fault—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” Rosenberg said.

After
Rich for a Day
had quickly closed, Salieri had sworn that he would never work with me again. I had heard from friends that Rosenberg had advised the emperor to dismiss me and appoint Casti to my post. My beloved sovereign would not play the game, however. He encouraged me to try again, and since then, I've had a few successes, most notably my recent collaboration with Martín. I hoped that my opera with Mozart would erase Vienna's long memory of my failure with Salieri.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said to Casti. “I'm sure my new opera will be a success.” I bowed to the count. “If you will excuse me, sir.” He nodded his dismissal, and the two started off toward the Hofburg next door.

As I opened the heavy door to the theater, Casti's high voice rang out, mocking me. “I'm thure my new opera will be a thuccess.” Rosenberg laughed.

I stood in the empty foyer of the theater, trembling with anger. I took a deep breath to calm myself. I needed to get to work.
Figaro
must succeed. I couldn't bear another failure.

 

Two

The next morning I rose early, hoping to call on Vogel's fiancée before she started work. The sun was shining as I crossed the Graben to my favorite coffeehouse, where I found a seat at one of the long, crowded tables. I liked this establishment because it was frequented by government clerks and merchants, not theater people, so I could enjoy breakfast without the need to engage in idle chatter or gossip with my colleagues. Most of the patrons today were either talking quietly with their neighbors or had hidden themselves behind various newspapers. I nodded greetings to a few of my fellow regulars and ordered coffee and a roll from the harried waiter.

I reached across the table for a pile of political pamphlets that had been left behind by a previous customer. The emperor was an enthusiastic disciple of the liberal ideas spread by the French
philosophes
. One of his first acts upon ascending to the throne had been to eliminate government censorship of the press. The result had been a steady stream of monographs from the city's printers, most either praising or condemning the emperor's ambitious reform program.

A serving boy brought me a bowl of coffee and a large crescent roll. As I blew on the brew to cool it a bit, I shuffled through the pile of pamphlets, studying the titles. “The Emperor Must Restore Pensions!” shouted one in large typeface. Before she died, the old empress had bestowed generous lifetime pensions on thousands of aides, servants, favored ladies, and the other flunkies who cling like barnacles to the rich and powerful. One of the emperor's first acts had been to revoke them all, for fear that they might drain the treasury dry.

I tore off a small piece of soft roll and chewed it. It was freshly baked, buttery and yeasty, with the proper hint of cinnamon. I sipped my coffee and ate small bites of the roll as I took up another pamphlet. Titled “Equal Punishment for the Modern Era,” it praised the emperor's reform of criminal law. Under the empress, aristocrats had not been subject to the same severe punishment for crimes as were the middle class and peasantry. I had heard about several cases where a nobleman had committed theft, fraud, or even murder, and had escaped trial. Since the emperor's reforms, everyone was subject to the same penalties for commission of a crime.

I took a final sip of my coffee and rooted around in my pocket for some coins. As I placed them on the table, a voice shouted behind me.

“I'm telling you—Joseph is a follower of Luther!”

I swiveled in my seat to find the source of the noise. Two corpulent men in expensive suits, merchants by the look of them, sat two tables away from me. One of them, most likely the one who had shouted, was red in the face.

“Keep your voice down,” his companion said. “That's nonsense. The emperor is merely holding the modern view. People of all faiths should be free to practice their religions.”

“But to let Protestants have the same rights as Catholics?” Red Face sputtered. “It's an abomination! Why should they be allowed to join our guilds, or to own property? Why, one snatched a warehouse I was eyeing right from under me, just last month!” He grunted. “Most of them weren't even born here!”

“You're looking at it the wrong way,” his friend said. “Joseph was smart to order toleration of the Protestants. We need people from other parts of the empire to move here to Vienna. You've said yourself that the Protestant areas are filled with skilled laborers.”

Red Face opened his mouth to speak. His friend held up his hand to stop him.

“Our economy needs these people. We have to give them the same privileges we Catholics enjoy, so they will be loyal to the emperor. Don't worry. Our religion will always be the official religion, and no Protestant can hold a position in the government.”

Red Face laughed. “You and Joseph both—you are so naïve, Hans! These people are not loyal to Joseph. They worship Frederick, the King of Prussia. The emperor is just asking for trouble, I tell you. The religions shouldn't mix. And I still think he is a secret Protestant.” He waved away his companion's protests. “Don't even waste your breath trying to convince me otherwise.”

I snorted to myself as I reached for my cloak, satchel, and stick. I knew the emperor well, and there was no better Catholic in all of Europe. I shook my head as I left the coffeehouse. I admired my sovereign's attempts to bring the empire into the modern age, but he really shouldn't allow people to make such ridiculous, undeserved criticisms of him.

The morning had warmed, and my cloak felt heavy as I walked through the marketplace in the Freyung, where the cooks of the great houses were fastidiously selecting foodstuffs and piling their purchases into the waiting arms of small kitchen boys. A few moments later, I entered the most fashionable part of the city. The quiet streets were lined with the homes of wealthy noblemen and merchants—solid, heavy mansions trimmed with an extravagance of columns, cartouches, and corbels; pedestals, pilasters, and paterae. At the end of a small side street I found the Palais Gabler. I laughed as I studied the building. In Venice, only the magnificent homes of the doge and the bishop were called “palaces.” The rest, no matter how large, luxurious, or expensive, were designated merely as “casas”—houses. Here in Vienna every nobleman called his home a “palais
,
” whether it was a truly grand mansion or just a large residence, as was the case here.

The façade, made of stone the pale yellow color of French champagne, was designed in the restrained style that had become popular over the last ten years or so. Simple milky-white pilasters alternated with tall windows beneath an entablature tastefully decorated with floral-engraved cartouches.