by Phil Swann
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Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,
Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona
www.hartwoodpublishing.com
The Mozart Conspiracy
Copyright © 2013 by Phil Swann
Hartwood Release: May 2016
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The Mozart Conspiracy by Phil Swann
David Webber is a man of prodigious musical talent—and prodigious alcohol consumption—who makes a meager living playing piano in a hotel bar. He's sure he's hit rock bottom. David doesn't realize, however, his boring, depressing life is about to get complicated—and dangerous. When David's college mentor is murdered and his music agent disappears, he becomes the prime suspect. David is hurled into a treacherous world of international assassins, underground crime, and shadowy figures in the US government. Could these events be linked to a few faded scribbles of music his mentor passed on to him years earlier? Two centuries after a chance meeting between Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Benjamin Franklin, a washed-up piano player uncovers what might be the most explosive musical discovery ever made. But if David can't put all the pieces together, he could end up like Mozart: a dead musical genius.
Dedication
For Amanda
Philadelphia, July 4th, 1776
And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
—The Declaration of Independence
Prologue
Paris, France—June, 1778
If sound could be a color, it would have been bright red. If an emotion, it would have been pure joy. If weather, this surely would have been a hurricane. One unison half note followed by two unison quarter notes exploded allegro double forte from the orchestra, thundering through the salle de Suisse and shaking the collective chest bone of the audience. A flurry of sixteenth notes flew from the string section with the winds and horns following in echo. Those present would later say their very breathing changed as they listened. Others would confess that what they heard was so new and unknown they actually became frightened. While still others would swear that on that summer evening in Paris, God had been revealed in the tension and release of a masterpiece.
The man moved like a ballet dancer as he conducted the orchestra through the lilting melody of the andante and into the third and final movement, yet another frantic allegro. With the precision of a surgeon, the maestro sliced the air with his baton as the violins raced up and down the scale like a flock of butterflies unable to find a place to land. Every second measure seemed to tease the audience with a false ending. Finally, many gave up on anticipating the finish and just stood up and began applauding. When it did come, it came suddenly and with no warning.
…and three, four!
Without hesitation or prompting from the king and queen, the entire assembly came to their feet.
With sweat pouring down his face, the conductor smiled to his orchestra and then turned to the audience and bowed. His smile was open-mouthed and broad. The angular, youthful face, only slightly painted and powdered, wore a smile easily and without apology. His wig was blue-white and sat high on his head with a braided ponytail that hung just to the top of his shirt collar. His arms swung without reserve. His eyes moved continuously as if never wanting to miss a moment of the world around him. His slender, almost frail body seemed to dance freely and wildly—even when completely still. To look upon Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was to look upon pure energy.
King Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, though much more sedate, stood and offered their praise. The old man beside them stood but simply gazed at the young composer. The queen, seeing the reaction, whispered in her husband's ear. The king turned with concern. “Doctor, did you not enjoy the program?”
The elderly gentleman wore a scarlet satin roguelaure, white silk stockings, and black buckled leather shoes, all topped off with a cocked, matching scarlet felt hat over powdered natural hair pulled back and braided. For a man of seventy-two who suffered from chronic gout, Benjamin Franklin was, by anyone’s standard, dapper. “No, Your Majesty, I apologize,” he said in perfect French. “Quite the opposite. I am just…awestruck.” Franklin began his applause. “That was the most amazing thing I have ever been privileged to hear.”
The king smiled. “It is now time to pay our respects. Will you join us, Doctor?”
“I would be honored, Your Majesty,” Franklin replied.
Louis, a mere twenty-four years old, stood self-assured in a lavishly adorned gold frock, ruffled at the neck and plumed at the sleeves with silver embroidery on the breast. His wig was white and larger than any man’s in the auditorium, and his face was heavily powdered, accenting his blue eyes.
But it was Marie-Antoinette who was the focus of everyone’s attention. Her floor-length, cream-colored gown spanned three feet at its base and was embroidered in gold and beaded in rhinestones. The pattern was designed to accentuate the low and revealing neckline, which not so modestly showed the tops of her breasts. The diamond and ruby necklace, which hugged her neck from below her chin to the top of her chest, was so dense with jewels it looked to be a piece of fabric. Her flawless face was heavily powdered and highlighted with a hint of rouge on each cheek. But it was her hair that was the focal point of all who would see the queen. It towered two feet in height. The many braids and folds were too numerous to follow. It was snow-white and accented with a silver comb inlaid with diamonds inserted three-quarters from its zenith.
The trio, flanked by numerous valets and maids, were ushered from the salle to a salon located in the eastern wing of the palace. The musicians were happily chattering among themselves when the royal couple and Franklin entered. At once, they fell silent and to one knee. The king and queen proceeded to the middle of the room. “We thank you for the gift of music you bestowed upon us tonight. The king’s blessing is upon you, and may God give you peace and health on this most blessed day. Adieu.”
The musicians remained kneeling as the royal couple turned to depart. Franklin, standing off to the side, continued smiling at the musicians, shaking his clasped hands in front of him in a gesture of triumphant congratulations.
A small man stood wringing his hands three feet from the king. With his head down, he stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I am Jean Le Gros, director of the Concert Spirituel. Thank you for honoring us with your presence on this opening of the concert series.”
Louis stopped and turned. “Monsieur Le Gros, we thank you for the gift of music you bestowed upon us tonight. The king’s blessing is upon you, and may God give you peace and health on this most blessed day. Adieu.”
Le Gros smiled awkwardly and stammered as the king and queen once again began to move away. “Tha-tha-thank you, most gracious Majesty. As always you are too kind. But if I may, Your Majesty and You
r Highness, before you depart, be allowed to present to you the composer of the work you heard tonight.” Le Gros turned and motioned quickly for Mozart to approach. Mozart walked slowly from the corner of the room where he’d been standing. Le Gros, irritated with Mozart’s casualness, gritted his teeth and as covertly as possible motioned for him to kneel. Mozart reluctantly complied. “I might add, most modestly of course, it was I who commissioned the piece you heard tonight. I felt the king and queen would enjoy something new for this opening.”
The king sighed heavily, approached the young composer, and said once again, but this time with waning enthusiasm, “Monsieur Mozart, we thank you for the gift of music you bestowed upon us tonight. The king’s blessing is upon you, and may God give you peace and health on this most blessed day. Adieu.”
As the king and queen began to leave, Mozart, still kneeling, spoke. “What exactly pleased you?”
An audible gasp echoed through the salon. The king looked back at the composer and raised one heavily stenciled eyebrow. “You spoke, monsieur?”
“Yes,” Mozart said, looking up. “What exactly pleased Your Majesty about my work?”
A mortified Le Gros jumped in. “Your Majesty, please excuse the impudence of Monsieur Mozart, he does not wish to—”
“Yes I do, Le Gros!” Mozart interrupted. “I want to know what the king enjoyed. He said the same thing to me as he did to you and the rest of the orchestra. I am left wondering if he slept through—”
“Your Excellency,” Le Gros begged, “I ask for your forgiveness for—”
The King shot up his hand for silence. He stepped close to Mozart’s bowed head and glared down at him. Never taking his eyes from Mozart’s skull, the king removed a pewter snuff tin from his vest, retrieved a pinch with his thumb and index finger, delicately placed it beneath his nostrils, and inhaled. The room was silent, anticipating the wrath of the notoriously quick-tempered king. The king closed his eyes, enjoying the rush of the stimulant. When he opened them, it was with a broad smile, which blossomed into a yellow toothy grin that erupted into a shrill, almost effeminate laugh. At first no one was sure if the king's amusement was genuine, so only an uneasy smattering of laughter pecked through the room. But as it became clear that it was genuine, all roared, all except for Mozart, who remained motionless before Louis. “Monsieur Mozart, I shall excuse your rudeness because you are not from France,” Louis stuttered over his laughter. “But please be aware that for displaying such disrespect to the king, I, with a mere word, could have you shot!” Louis continued, “When the King of France praises you, you are to accept that praise with joy and humility, not with an interrogation.” Louis looked back at his queen, who was daintily holding her hand in front of her mouth. "Oh, you Austrians! You are such a headstrong people." Marie-Antoinette threw her hand forward toward Louis in a gesture of coquettish denial.
Mozart, still kneeling with his head down, replied calmly, “Yes, Your Majesty. Please accept my sincere apology. It was not my intent to show disrespect. I thank you for your kind words and your kind forgiveness of my…” Mozart swallowed hard as if he was about to choke, “stupidity.”
Louis continued his belly laugh, only half hearing Mozart. “Very well, adieu.” The king and queen turned and once again began their departure, laughing and whispering to each other as if sharing a private joke. Mozart, keeping his head down, stood, turned around, and walked back to the corner of the salon.
Throughout the bizarre exchange between Mozart and the king, Franklin’s eyes never wavered from the brash young composer. In his two years in France he had never witnessed such open face-to-face hostility toward the king and queen.
“Your Majesty and Your Highness?” Franklin said. “With your permission, I would very much love to stay for a while and tour some of this beautiful palace. That is, of course, if it meets with your approval.”
“The Louvre is yours, Doctor. And I’m sure Monsieur Le Gros would be honored to show you around. Is that not correct, Le Gros?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Le Gros responded.
“Good. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Doctor. I know we still have great matters of importance to discuss between our two lands. But for now, enjoy the rest of your evening. And for the last time, I trust, we wish you all adieu.” And with that, King Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, with maids steadying her hair, left the salon.
Le Gros leaped before Franklin. “Doctor, ’tis my privilege to show you the Louvre.”
“Monsieur Le Gros, you are too kind. But I was wondering if I might wander around on my own? I just love experiencing the grandeur of such a magical place like this in solitude. ’Tis one of my many little peccadilloes.”
“As you wish, monsieur. I shall be available if you need me.”
“Actually, Monsieur Le Gros,” Franklin begged, “there is one thing you can do for me. I would very much like to speak to Monsieur Mozart.”
“Mozart, monsieur?” The request noticeably petrified Le Gros.
“Yes,” Franklin answered with a smile.
“As you wish, monsieur.” Le Gros walked over to the corner of the salon where Mozart was gathering his music. Franklin watched as Le Gros shook his finger in the composer’s face, obviously chastising him for the incident with the king and warning him to behave himself with this next encounter.
Mozart nodded dutifully, approached Franklin, and kneeled.
Franklin looked down, let out a chuckle, and then spoke in German, “Herr Mozart, please rise. I am no one's royalty.”
Mozart looked up, surprised. “Monsieur, you speak my language.”
“I do. A very beautiful language it is too. Now please stand up. My hearing is not what it used to be and conversing with the top of a man’s head is…well…just odd.”
Mozart stood. The two were eye level, though Mozart seemed taller due to his lanky build. Franklin continued in German, “Your composition was extraordinary. May I inquire as to its name?”
Mozart's eyes widened, and he grinned as he spoke. “I call it ‘Sinfonia ’a 10 instrumenti’. Did you really enjoy it, monsieur?”
Franklin laughed, “Yes, I surely did. Why do you seem so surprised?”
Mozart licked his lips nervously. “You see, monsieur, this was the first time it has ever been performed. I just created it last week.”
“Ah, I see. So that’s why you were inquiring to the king what he especially enjoyed about the piece?”
“No, monsieur,” Mozart replied. “I was being intentionally rude to the king. I should not have been, and I apologize to you as well.”
Franklin grinned. “No need, I’m not French,” Franklin said, changing effortlessly back to speaking French. “But if I were, I would accept your apology.” Back to German, “There now, your…what was the word…ah, yes, stupidity is internationally forgiven.”
Mozart, feeling as if he was being mocked by yet another of the pompous French aristocracy, could not hold his tongue. This time he spoke in French. “Monsieur, you said my composition was…what was your word…ah, yes, extraordinary. May I ask what you enjoyed so much about it…specifically?”
Franklin never blinked. “Specifically?”
“Yes,” Mozart replied, “specifically.”
“Well, specifically, first I would have to say that the expansion of the principal movements and the complete deletion of the minuet was a very interesting choice. I realize that this is France and the minuet is often overlooked, however, you are Austrian, and being Austrian, I thought sure a minuet would be offered—it was not. That was very crafty of you, young man. Secondly, I liked the way you took into account your audience's preference for the…how shall I say it…the ‘Premier coup d’archet’ with that magnificent introductory D-major unison in the strings. And, if I might add, the heavy participation of the winds in the first movement lends it a highly contrasted, almost concerto-like character. Now, as for the second movement…lovely as it was…I think I would prefer a shorter andante. But alas,
you may choose to take that as the personal taste of a silly old man. The final movement, ah, now that was a glorious surprise. The way you fooled us by preceding the expected unison forte with a piano introduction by the violins, that, my young friend, was simple genius.”
Franklin smiled.
Mozart’s mouth hung open.
“Herr Mozart, are you quite all right?” Franklin asked, tilting his head.
Mozart stuttered, “Uh, well—uh, yes. Did you really think the andante was too long?”
“Maybe just a shade, but please do not change it on my account.”
“No, I shall consider it. I felt that also,” a bewildered Mozart said. “Monsieur, may I ask your name? Are you a composer yourself?”
Franklin let out a robust laugh. “Oh, if only Tom Jefferson could hear you ask me that. He fancies himself a violinist and the best musician in the Continental Congress. He just loves to tell me how my musical ear is akin to that of a gnat—they are quite deaf, you see.” Franklin laughed again. “No, young man, I am not a composer. My name is Benjamin Franklin. I am from the American Colonies, and I just recognize brilliance when I hear it.”
Mozart raised his chin and assumed a more respectful posture. He began to speak, but this time in broken English, “Mister Franklin, my English not as good as your German, for that I apologize. I also very sorry for rudeness. Please forgive, sir. Thank you for complimenting my music. It is great honor I have for you to hear it. I know some little about your America. You desire freedom and independence. These are words good. I would love to hear more about your America. Also, you not deaf as gnat.”
Franklin broke with laughter. After a moment, Mozart joined him.
Franklin removed his eyeglasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Oh thank you, young man, and I would love to hear more of your music sometime.”
“I would love to play more of my music for you. I can now, if you wish?”
