The Figaro Murders

by Laura Lebow

  “Now, sir, if this is not about Matti, what is it? You said you wanted to speak to me about my son.”

  “Yes, madame. About your other son. Johann.”

  She looked at me, confusion all over her face. “Johann? I don’t have a son named Johann.”

  My heart sank. Had I come this far to find Vogel’s mother only to have her deny ever giving birth to him? I reached into my cloak pocket and pulled out the medallion. “This belongs to you, I believe.”

  Her eyes widened as she turned the medallion in her hands. “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

  “It belongs to a friend of mine, a man named Johann Vogel. He found it among his adoptive mother’s things after she died.” I described the muff, the ring, and the book to her. “I found this medallion inside the muff, and used it to trace you.” I hesitated. She had bowed her head and was staring at the medallion. “I hope that you do not find my being here a terrible intrusion,” I said. “My friend is desperate to find his birth mother. He was unable to search himself, so I agreed to help him.”

  She looked up at me. “Oh, sir! Seeing this has brought back so many memories, both good and bad. My little boy! To think he is all grown-up. I thought I would never see him again. But—”

  “He is eager to meet you,” I said.

  “But you don’t understand, sir. You have made a mistake.”

  “Madame, I assure you, he only wants to meet you. He does not expect any money,” I lied. It was obvious there was no money here to save Vogel from his prison sentence.

  “He is not my son,” Katrin said.

  “But I don’t understand. The medallion—those are your initials, are they not?”

  She nodded. “Yes, the medallion is mine. Thirty years ago, I was a novice at the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin. I was fifteen years old. I had no desire to become a nun. I was in love with a local boy. We wanted to marry.” Her voice hardened. “My father hated Anton, I don’t know why. He would not let us get married. He knew that in a year I would be sixteen, that I would not need his permission. He wanted to lock me away, separate us forever. He went to the old priest at the church here. Together they arranged to have the abbess take me on as a novice in the convent.”

  She took a sip of water.

  “I worked in the infirmary as part of my training. The convent took in a lot of unwed mothers, as you probably have learned.” I nodded. “I loved nursing, especially taking care of the babies before their adoptions were arranged. One of them in particular touched my heart. A little boy. I remember he was not adopted right away. I took care of him for several months.” She smiled at a distant memory. “I remember his chubby hands and fat cheeks,” she said. “Whenever I had spare time, I would pick him up, rock him, and sing to him.” She lifted up the medallion. “He loved to grab at this. I used to take it off and swing it in front of his face, watching him follow its gleam and trying to catch it.”

  Disappointment washed over me.

  “After four months, the abbess was finally able to arrange an adoption for my little friend. On the day he was to leave, one of the nuns brought me a new suit in which to dress him, and a box. She told me it contained the few items his mother had left behind. I peeked inside it and saw the muff, the ring, and the book. I didn’t think these were things that would help him in his new life. He was a baby, he needed a plaything. So I pulled the medallion off my neck, and quickly sewed it into the lining of the muff. I guessed that his new parents would find it when they returned home with him, and it would be too late to bring it back to me. I hoped they would let him play with it.”

  I sighed. “I apologize for coming here like this, and for frightening you. May I ask you—did you ever meet the boy’s birth mother?”

  She shook her head. “A few months after the baby left, my father died in an accident. I knew by then that I wanted to be a wife and mother, not a nun. I left the convent, married Anton, and started a family of my own.”

  “When you took care of the child, did you ever hear any mention of his mother? Did the nuns say anything about her?”

  She shook her head once more. “No. No one told me anything. I never knew her name, or where she came from. I have no idea what happened to her.”

  Twenty-seven

  When I arrived at the theater Saturday morning, the main hall buzzed with the excitement and trepidation that only a full dress rehearsal can bring. The candelabras had already been lit, and the candles belched wispy smoke overhead. On the stage, a wardrobe mistress was hastily stitching the hem of Nancy Storace’s dress as the prima donna ran her voice through the scales. The orchestra members were subdued, concentrating on tuning their instruments instead of trading bawdy jokes back and forth, as they had done at previous rehearsals. Thorwart, the assistant theater manager, bobbed up and down, greeting and seating the privileged patrons and nobles who had been invited to get the first view of the opera.

  Mozart was already there, dressed in the rich red suit and gold-laced hat he usually saved for performances. I had put on my best suit, also, worn as it was, for it is often said that a man’s clothing can be a suit of armor. I had told Mozart of my plan to thwart Rosenberg’s edict against the ballet in the third act. His eyes had widened, then he had laughed and hurried to give instructions to the singers.

  Now I sat in a seat a few rows in front of the stage, off to the side, where I could observe both the rehearsal and the reactions of the guests who had come to watch. Rosenberg and Casti had arrived shortly after we had begun; Salieri had hurried in ten minutes later. Within two hours, Mozart had led the singers through the first two acts with only a few missed cues and forgotten lines.

  As the opening to the third act sounded, I looked over to the side door of the theater. I hoped that the recipient of my invitation to the rehearsal had agreed to come, and that he would arrive in time. We were only at the beginning of the act; there were plenty of scenes before his presence was required.

  The singers moved easily through the act. Mozart had made Kelly see reason, and the impudent tenor sang his role as the judge without a stutter. A few scenes later, the cast exited the stage, leaving it to the two female leads, Nancy Storace and Luisa Laschi. As Beaumarchais’s Countess Almaviva and her maid, Susanna, the two sopranos looked beautiful in their costumes, Laschi clad in a lavish, jeweled white gown and Storace, although the bigger star of the two, wearing the simple costume of the lady’s maid. Their voices soared in a duet, in which they plotted a tryst for the maid in the count’s garden.

  “What a gentle breeze there’ll be this evening,” Laschi sang.

  “A breeze … this evening,” Storace echoed.

  “Beneath the whispering pines,” they both sang.

  “He’ll understand the rest,” they agreed.

  The women were composing a note to trap the count in an act of infidelity with the maid. I smiled at the irony—my beautiful poetry and Mozart’s lush music portraying two scheming women. I had to admit to myself that it was a stroke of genius on both our parts.

  As the scene concluded and the ladies received their bravas from the guests in the audience, I glanced over at the theater door. Still no one. My stomach began to churn. The end of the act was now only a few moments away. I turned my attention back to the stage. A group of peasant girls, one obviously a gauche boy dressed to appear as a girl, presented flowers to the countess. The count and his nosy gardener arrived onstage, and the gauche peasant girl was revealed to be the amorous page the count had banished from court in the first act.

  I looked over at the door again, straining to hear any indication of an arrival outside, but the noise from the stage drowned out all other sounds. I glanced to my right, at my trio of enemies. Rosenberg frowned at something on the stage. Salieri sat quietly, his usual bored expression on his face. Casti, however, was laughing along with the action. I smiled to myself. If he knew I was watching him, he would be sneering instead, just to spite me.

  By now the budding soprano A
nna Gottlieb, playing the young daughter of the gardener, had convinced the count to allow the page to marry her. Francesco Benucci, singing the title role of the valet, Figaro, entered, and launched into a musical battle of wits with the count. I looked over at the door. Still no one. My hands grew cold.

  Suddenly the music and singing stopped. The time for the act’s finale had come. My heart sank. I had been so sure my plan would work, I had not concocted a second strategy. Mozart turned to me from his seat at the pianoforte, his eyebrows raised in question. I gestured for him to stall for a few minutes. He turned to the stage.

  “Let’s take a five-minute break. Everyone stay onstage, please.”

  Rosenberg stood and loudly cleared his throat. “Herr Mozart, continue with the rehearsal, please. Your opera is very long, and my time is short this morning.” Casti shot me a grin.

  Mozart looked over at me. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest I could swear everyone in the theater heard it. I froze, unsure of what to do.

  “Herr Mozart?”

  Mozart shrugged at me and turned back to the orchestra. He raised his hand and waited a long moment. As his hand lowered, the flutes, cornets, and strings began to play the first measures of the lilting march that opened the finale. Just then, the door to my left opened. I exhaled loudly. The orchestra members who faced the door stopped playing. Mozart, his back to the door, continued to wave his hand.

  Rosenberg leaped to his feet. “Herr Mozart, stop, please!”

  By now everyone in the theater had risen. Mozart and I both stood and bowed as the emperor, accompanied by a few courtiers, entered the room. Rosenberg rushed to greet him, and led him to a seat in front of his own. Casti approached the emperor and kissed his hands. “Please continue, Mozart,” the emperor said.

  The orchestra began the scene again. The chorus entered, the men dressed as huntsmen, the girls in long, flowing gowns. Two of the maidens sang a song praising Count Almaviva. The rest of the chorus joined in. When they had finished, Mozart put down his hands. The orchestra fell silent. Onstage, a wedding ceremony took place. Nancy Storace gesticulated wildly as she passed the amorous note to the count, Stefano Mandini. He waved his hands over his head. They looked ridiculous, like giant puppets on a children’s theater stage.

  The emperor snorted. He began to stand. Rosenberg jumped up. “Stop, everyone!” The emperor turned to Casti. “What is this?” he asked.

  Casti rose and gave a fawning bow. “I do not know, Your Majesty. Perhaps if you asked the theater poet—”

  “Da Ponte? Where are you?” the emperor called. I got to my feet, grabbed my libretto, and hurried to him.

  “What is this?” he asked, gesturing toward the singers on the stage. I said nothing, just handed him the pages from the libretto. It was my other copy, which still contained the scene Rosenberg had thrown into the fire.

  The emperor scanned the pages. “This calls for dancers,” he said. “Where are they?”

  I shrugged and looked over at Rosenberg.

  “Where are the dancers, Theater Director?” the emperor asked.

  Rosenberg’s face whitened. “Your Majesty, I considered it best to remove the ballet,” he sputtered. “As you know, the opera company has no dancers.”

  “Can’t they be borrowed from one of the other theaters?” my wise Caesar asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, but I thought you—”

  The emperor waved his hand. “Then get Da Ponte as many as he needs,” he said. He called over to Mozart, who had been standing at the pianoforte. “Mozart, skip this scene and continue. Dancers will be here later, you can rehearse the finale then.”

  Mozart bowed, stole a glance at me, sat down on the bench, shuffled through his score, and gave instructions to the singers and orchestra. The emperor settled back into his seat. The music began. Rosenberg summoned Thorwart and whispered in his ear. The assistant theater manager hurried out the door.

  I smiled.

  Twenty-eight

  The emperor stayed another hour, during which I entertained myself by glancing every so often at my adversaries. When the emperor applauded a scene, their faces fell in unison, and when he stood to shout “Bravo!” at the end of a difficult aria, three sets of lips tightened into thin, pinched lines. When the emperor left for the Hofburg, all three scurried after him.

  Six dancers from the imperial ballet arrived by one o’clock, and we skipped dinner to work with them. By three, the long day was blessedly over. The singers and orchestra dispersed. Mozart and I left Thorwart to close up the theater and walked into the late-afternoon sun.

  “Did you see Rosenberg’s face?” Mozart clapped me on the shoulder. “I thought he was going to lose his breakfast then and there.”

  I laughed.

  “You are a genius, Lorenzo! What made you think to just invite the emperor to the rehearsal and see the butchered scene for himself? I would have stormed over to the Hofburg, demanded an audience, and tried to make my case.”

  I smiled. “It was a risk, but I know him well,” I said. “I knew that he would think the scene was ridiculous without the ballet. Besides”—I grinned wickedly—“why go behind Rosenberg’s back to embarrass him when you can do it to his face, with the emperor and the entire cast present?”

  Mozart laughed. “I feel good about this opera, Lorenzo. I think we’ll have a hit on our hands in a few weeks!”

  A sudden weariness swept over me. “I hope so.” I sighed.

  “What’s wrong, my friend?” Mozart peered into my face.

  “I’m tired, that’s all,” I lied.

  “Whatever happened with your barber? Did you find his mother?”

  “No. I’ve followed lots of leads, all of which have gotten me nowhere. I think I’m ready to give up trying.”

  “You did your best. That’s all he can ask of you,” Mozart said. “Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?”

  “Too much work, not enough time,” I said.

  He hesitated. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Lorenzo—you should find yourself a nice wife. Stop running from this lady’s maid to that singer. Find someone to make a life with. Things become much simpler with a wife. You know what I always say—a bachelor is only half alive!”

  I laughed as he slapped me on the back.

  “You know, I think we have achieved the near impossible, Lorenzo.” Mozart chortled. “That rare moment when a good composer, one who understands what great theater is, meets an able poet.”

  “Able?” I teased. “Is that all I am?”

  “No!” He laughed. “You are that true phoenix—the perfect partner! A brilliant librettist and a brilliant conniver!”

  My cheeks grew warm with pleasure at his praise. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. “I had better get home. I promised Carl a ride on Horse this afternoon.”

  We embraced briefly, then I stood watching as he walked, whistling, down the Kohlmarkt, his hands in his pockets.

  * * *

  I turned and trudged down the Herrengasse to the palais. The relief and excitement I had felt when the emperor ordered Rosenberg to bring in the dancers had dissipated, and a strong sense of disappointment and melancholy overcame me. I had been so sure that Katrin Aigen was Vogel’s mother! Now I was back where I started, with no other leads to follow. I did not look forward to visiting Vogel in prison and telling him I had failed him. And I had yet to decide whether to tell Troger that I suspected the baron had killed Florian Auerstein and Caroline.

  The street was crowded this late sunny Saturday afternoon. It seemed all of Vienna, at least those without carriages to take them out to the Prater, had decided to stroll. I stayed as far to the right as I could, close to the buildings. I knew in my current mental state I would not be alert to a carriage rushing at me suddenly.

  “Signor Da Ponte?”

  I looked up from my thoughts to find a man, a stranger, had come from behind me and was matching my step on my right.

  “Yes?” As I turned to him, I felt a sharp o
bject push against my left side. A strong arm grabbed my left elbow. The man on the right pushed closer to me.

  “Keep quiet, Signor Poet. Just keep walking.”

  My heart raced as I recognized the voice and guttural accent.

  “What do you want with me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “Just keep walking, signore, and don’t call attention to yourself. You will regret it if you do.”

  We veered sharply into a long alley. They pulled me several feet around a corner. The tall walls of two noble palaces pressed in on the narrow alleyway. The ground was strewn with garbage, dumped from the kitchen of the great houses. I gagged at the stench. The noise of the street could not be heard back here. All was quiet except for the sound of someone playing a pianoforte high above in one of the homes.

  “What do you want?” I cried. “I have just a little money.” I drew out my coin purse and threw it on the ground. “Take it and let me be!”

  The man with the accent pushed me against the wall. His companion reached down and pocketed my purse.

  “Go keep watch,” my assailant told him. He turned his attention back to me.

  “Weren’t you warned to keep out of business that doesn’t concern you?” he asked me. He shook his head. “But you Jews can’t help yourselves, can you?” He punched me in the stomach.

  Pain shot through me. I groaned. “Who sent you?”

  He laughed. “You know who did.” He punched me again. I fell onto the muddy ground. My hands clutched at something slimy. I shuddered and let go.

  “Goddamn Jew!” He kicked me in the side.

  I tried to curl into a ball to protect myself, but I could not move. The pianoforte tinkled from above. He kicked me again, then again. I recognized the tune, a sprightly aria from Mozart’s last opera. My attacker leaned over and turned me facedown, pressing my mouth into the nearest pile of garbage. I gagged. He twisted me back around to face him. I tried to open my mouth to cry for help, but I could not move my lips. The music stopped. He mounted me and sat on my aching stomach. He pummeled my face with his fists.