The Figaro Murders (7 page)

“Well, all right, then,” Salieri said. “Good. Now I must return to my box for the second act. Good evening, gentlemen.” He turned and headed toward the stairs to the second tier.

Mozart exhaled loudly. “May I? As a friend?” he said, mocking Salieri's Veronese accent.

I placed my hand on his arm. “Don't worry,” I said. “Let's make this opera the greatest that Vienna has ever heard. That will shut him up.”

He took a deep breath. “It will, it will.” He turned to go back to his seat. “Oh, Lorenzo, I almost forgot. I have a few more changes for you. I'd like to finish this week. I still have that quartet to write for Hoffmeister.” The music publisher ran a popular shop that sold chamber music to the public, to be performed in private salons.

“Yes, and I have to start working on the libretto for Martín. I've put him off for a few months already.”

“Good, then come to me tomorrow, anytime.” I watched as his small figure headed to a seat in the back of the theater. The orchestra began to play the opening music of the second act. I settled into my seat, but before I turned my attention to the action on the stage, I looked up to the box next to Salieri's. The woman in white had disappeared.

*   *   *

The long day had tired me, but although I went to bed right away, I could not sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, my mind full of the day's events. Even though Michael had told me the items in Vogel's box were of no value, I wanted to know more about the woman who had given them away with her newborn son. The ring, book, and muff must have been treasures to her, the only gifts she could give the baby. But why had she given him up?

I turned onto my side and punched my hard pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. My thoughts wandered to the Palais Gabler. What a strange group of people I had met there! Marianne Haiml was beautiful and charming, to be sure, and the music teacher—Piatti, I believe he had said his name was—seemed to be a man of learning and good taste. But that annoying boy, the waspish housekeeper, and that fey chambermaid!

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to lull myself to sleep. An image of the woman from the theater came to my mind. During the last act of the opera, I had looked up several times to see whether she had returned, but no one had appeared in her box the rest of the evening. I wondered again what or who had caused the sadness I had read on her face.

I turned the pillow over again and pulled the bedsheet over my shoulders. Stop thinking about her. Go to sleep. But I could not help myself. I set free my imagination and envisioned my fingers running through her loose, lustrous curls; my hands caressing her soft, pale face; and my words persuading her lips into a sweet smile. A familiar, joyful yearning spread in my heart, and after a while, I slept.

*   *   *

My dreams took me back to my childhood, to my neighborhood in Ceneda. I was ten years old, already a leader among the boys of my age, admired for my knowledge and wit. I stood in the middle of a circle of friends and recited a poem I had heard in church and had quickly memorized. As I finished, the boys my own age applauded, and I flushed with pleasure. The local butcher's son, an older boy with a domineering swagger, approached me and, with a sly grin, held out a book to me, demanding that I read a passage. I demurred, saying that it was someone else's turn to be the center of attention. He pushed the book into my trembling hands. “Go ahead, read to us,” he said loudly. The younger boys all looked at me expectantly. My mouth grew dry as I looked down at the words, which were unintelligible to me. My heart thumped in my chest. The older boy and his friends began to laugh. They began the familiar chant.
Brilliant dunce. Brilliant dunce
. The butcher's son grabbed a heavy stick and began to beat it against the trunk of a nearby tree.
Brilliant dunce
.
Brilliant dunce.
I stood red-faced with humiliation as he pounded out the rhythm with the stick, louder and louder.

“Open up,” a voice yelled. I sat up straight in my bed, wide awake but dazed, my heart racing. The room was pitch-black.

“Signor Da Ponte?” I heard the tremulous voice of my landlord. “Are you there? Signor Abbé, please open the door, quickly.” The pounding resumed. I rose from the bed and stumbled through the darkness to the door. As I opened it, a draft of cold air blew into my room. I shivered. My landlord, his nightdress clutched around him for warmth, stood there holding a lantern. Beside him were two men dressed in black uniforms. I peered at them through the dim lamplight. One was short and heavy. He held another lantern. The other man was of medium height, loose-limbed, with a week's worth of beard on his face. He stepped forward, pushing my landlord aside.

“You are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.

“Please, gentlemen, may we step inside?” my landlord asked. The lantern shook in his hands. “The other tenants—”

The heavy man turned to him. “You may go. Don't worry, we won't be here much longer.” The landlord flashed me a look of pity and scurried away.

The tall man pushed me back into my room and stepped in. He grabbed the front of my nightshirt and pulled me so that my face was inches away from his. I gagged at the smell of his breath, a mixture of fermented cabbage and stale beer. “Police,” he said. “Get dressed.”

By now I had recovered my senses. “What is this? What do you want with me?” I asked. He pushed me aside. I stumbled and fell to the floor. My pale, bare legs splayed out from beneath my nightshirt.

My cheeks grew hot with shame as the two officers laughed. “Get dressed,” the heavy one said. “You are coming with us.”

“Where? Why? Where are you taking me?” I sputtered.

“You'll find out soon enough.”

I pulled myself up and hobbled over to my cupboard. My hands quivered as I put on a pair of breeches and a shirt. I pulled on my stockings and shoes. “What do you want with me?” I asked again. “There must be some mistake. You have the wrong person.”

“You are Lorenzo Da Ponte, the theater poet?” the heavy officer asked. I nodded. He put the lantern on my basin cabinet and quickly moved toward me. He grabbed my shoulders, spinning me around. Pain shot through my right elbow as he pulled both of my arms back. His partner pulled a length of cord from his uniform pocket, and together they bound my hands behind my back.

“You are under arrest,” the heavy officer said. He clutched my arm and dragged me to the door. My legs shook violently and my bladder began to fail me. I feared my heart would explode from its pounding.

“Under arrest? That's not possible! For what?” My voice squeaked. The heavy officer pushed me forward as the other closed the door. They flanked my sides and each took one of my arms. I winced in pain as they pulled me down the hall toward the stairs.

“I demand to know what this is all about!” I cried. “You can't do this! Under arrest? For what crime?”

We stopped at the top of the stairwell. The tall officer leaned into my face and smiled. My stomach heaved as his foul breath washed over me. I bit my lip to avoid crying out as he squeezed my arm tightly. He laughed and spat the words into my face.

“For murder.”

 

Four

I stumbled several times as I was pushed down the stairs and into the street. The Graben was dark and deserted. The street lamps had been extinguished hours before; no lights shone from the windows of the apartment buildings. The only sound was the whimpering of a prostitute in an alcove nearby. The wind bit through my thin shirt. I shivered as the officers dragged me to a waiting carriage.

“My cloak—” I said hoarsely.

“Shut up and get in,” the heavy officer said. He opened the door of the carriage and shoved me inside. Pain shot through my shoulder as I fell onto the floor. The carriage sagged as he climbed in after me. He pulled me up and pushed me onto the hard seat. His companion followed and slammed the door. The carriage rolled down the dark street.

“I demand to know what this is about!” I said. My voice shook. “Who is it you think I murdered?” Neither officer answered. I turned my head and looked out the window. The streets were dark, but I knew this route well. We were headed toward the Hofburg Palace.

I hunched my shoulders in an effort to stay warm. A few minutes later we reached the Michaelerplatz. The carriage veered to the right, drove past the theater, and headed around the corner toward the labyrinth of buildings occupied by the empire's ministerial offices. The carriage entered a courtyard and stopped. The taller officer opened the door and climbed out. His partner pushed me after him. I fell out of the carriage, crying out as my right knee hit a jagged stone on the ground.

“Come on,” the taller officer snarled. My eyes filled with tears as he grabbed me by my injured shoulder and pulled me up. I took a deep breath, willing myself to keep control in front of these brutes. Rows of darkened windows stared blankly from the tall buildings that framed the small courtyard. It was empty of carriages and horses, and lit by a single lamp that flickered next to an austere doorway. I did not recognize the place. I had never had any reason to come to this side of the Hofburg.

The two men dragged me through the door and up a set of stairs. My shoulder throbbed with pain every time they lifted me onto another step. The knee of my breeches felt wet where I had hit the stone.

We climbed another set of stairs. The officers stopped at the head of a long hallway lined with silent, closed doors. Candles in sconces on the barren walls created sporadic pools of light on the corridor floor; the rest of the lengthy passage lay in darkness. I shivered, this time from fear instead of cold. My imagination ran wild. I could easily disappear into one of these dark rooms, never to see daylight again.

“Which one?” the taller officer asked his companion.

“Two twenty, he said,” the heavy officer answered. He grunted as he grabbed me again and dragged me down the hall. My right arm throbbed. We turned a corner and continued down another long, dark passage. Just when I believed that I could no longer keep from screaming from the pain, my captors stopped before a door. One of them fumbled with the cord that bound my arms, and a moment later I was free. I groaned as I pulled my arms forward. They were both numb. The taller man rapped on the door, opened it, and pushed me in.

“The poet, sir,” he said. I grabbed at the knob of the door to avoid falling. I regained my balance and looked up. The room was dark except for a single candle set on a desk directly in front of me. A man sat behind the desk, a sheaf of documents piled in front of him. He looked me up and down and nodded to the officers. “You may go,” he said. The heavy one gave me a final shove and closed the door.

The man rose from the desk, crossed to the door, and turned the lock. He gestured toward a wooden chair a few feet in front of me. I fell into the chair. I leaned over to examine my trouser knee, but I could see nothing. The light was too dim. The man returned to his seat behind the desk.

“You are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.

I studied him through the candlelight. His features were sharp, his nose large and hawklike. Even in the dimness I could see that his eyes were dark and cold.

“Answer the question!” he snapped.

I had had enough. “You know who I am!” I shouted. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why have I been roused from my bed and treated like a criminal? The emperor will hear about this!”

He stared at me coolly and gave a small, bemused smile. He picked up a sheet of paper from the pile on the desk. “You were ordained as a priest in 1773?” he asked.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

He studied the paper for a long moment, then put it aside and took up another one. “After your ordination, you taught at the seminary in Ceneda and moved to Venice six months later?”

I nodded, confused. How did he know all this about me? A wave of exhaustion swept over me, as if my outburst had drained the rest of my energy and anger. “Why are you asking me these questions?” I said. “Your officers accused me of murder—”

“While in Venice, you took a lover, a married woman named—” He scrutinized the document. “Angela Tiepolo?”

A cold vise closed around my heart. I had hoped I had left all that behind me thirteen years ago.

He banged his palm on the tabletop. I jumped. “Answer the question!”

“Yes,” I said. “But what—”

“She gave birth to your child? A child you abandoned to an orphanage?”

I rubbed my temples as my head began to throb. After my ordination, I had been restless in my vocation, and on a trip to Venice, I had met Angela. She was the orphaned daughter of a minor aristocrat, and when she turned her dark, indolent eyes my way I had forgotten about God, my vows, my duty to my family, and the existence of her husband. She had quickly drawn me into the raucous party life of the city. We had spent our evenings at the opera or theater, and had drunk and gambled into the early morning. The days we spent in bed.

I hadn't been certain the child had been mine, but Angela's husband had left her and had disavowed the newborn. We had no money, and so had had no choice but to give the baby to the orphanage. Soon after that, my younger brother had rescued me from my life of debauchery. He had taken me to Treviso, where he had found teaching positions for both of us at the seminary there. Girolamo—my beloved brother! Lost to me forever.

I started at a soft rustling sound, the kind a rat would make, coming from somewhere behind me. I imagined myself thrown into a cell somewhere in this maze, with only rodents for company. My hands began to shake. I moved them onto my lap. I did not want this man to see my fear.

My interlocutor coughed loudly. “You taught literature at Treviso?” he asked.

I was so tired, I no longer cared who he was and why he was asking me these questions. I nodded. “Italian literature,” I said softly. The job at Treviso had been a deliverance for me. I had discovered that I was a natural teacher, and I had been able to buy books and to write poetry in my spare time.