She stopped playing, turned to face him, and he could see an inferno boiling like a volcano beneath the Sargasso green sea of her eyes.
“Is there something wrong, maestro?” she asked, with a coy upward turn of her lips.
“I, I don’t know…” was all that he could say.
She laughed with a suggestion of cruelty and stood up from the bench they shared. The rustle of her skirts seemed loud and exaggerated, almost like a melody in itself. He sat transfixed, as though under the influence of a powerful drug, and watched her unfasten her gown. With a smooth, graceful motion, she peeled off the pieces of clothing, which seemed to fall away from her like the layered dried husk of a butterfly’s cocoon.
Golden light of early afternoon entered the conservatory window, bathing her flesh with a warm, vibrant light. She seemed to surge with an inner energy, a sexual power that was unstoppable. Wolfgang became as rigid as a maypole, feeling as though he would burst from his britches, hurting himself from the wretched codpiece. He tore at his clothes with a feverish joy, laughing and smiling, on the edge of hysteria.
The countess joined him in his merriment as she climbed up on the bench, spreading her legs over him as she let the final piece of underwear slip away from her. He had never seen a woman so free in her nakedness, so bold and so proud. In the middle of the day, with no shame! It fired his passion to the point of confusing him as though made drunk. His fingers became clumsy imitations of themselves and he fumbled free of his clothes like an awkward child just learning the task.
Taking his head in her hands, she guided his face into the golden triangle of her pubic hair, which was fine and wispy and soft as the down on a newborn chick. Her lips seemed to part magically as he raised his tongue to her. When he touched her, a galvanized current passed through his body. She was like an electrolyte, the heedless fire of an animal in heat. Her body odor was sweet and heavy. He had never imagined a woman could be so clean.
Pulling her from the bench, he threw this madwoman, this sex-creature, across the top of the piano. She landed with such force that the strings and hammers gave forth a single discordant sound, but she responded with laughter that was most musical in itself.
And so she became the instrument of his pleasure, atop what had always been the instrument of his pleasure. It was a glorious, hedonistic coupling, the likes of which he had never known. Compared to this woman, his wife was a cold slab of stone.
When she was finally finished with him, there was a brief, silent rest, and suddenly they were at each other again. Wolfgang had never known himself to be so full of sexual energy but here he was, standing at attention, and ready to cavort once more…
… and it was after dark by the time he stumbled away from her house, feeling as though he had just run a race through the Alps. His head was surprisingly clear for such an experience, and upon introspection he found it odd that he had been able to draw upon such boundless sexual reservoirs. He never had known himself to be much of an animal when it came to lusty adventures, and yet this Countess Bellagio had totally enflamed him, torched his very soul.
If only he could write music that could have such an effect on people! Then his immortality would be guaranteed, he thought with a sad smile.
The lessons continued for the next month. And the things she taught him were wondrous and dark and full of magic. He often fancied that she might indeed be some kind of witch or sorceress, but in the final analysis, he didn’t give a damn what she might be.
His life was in a curious state of flux, and he was not sure how to deal with the strange brew of emotions and ideas which filled his mind and his soul. The countess had made him feel more alive than ever with her bedroom spells, but his health in general seemed to be on the decline. He had contracted the ague, and now it threatened to overtake him completely. His breath whistled in his lungs and he coughed up great gobbets of catarrh each morning, sometimes mixed with blood.
On the economic side, his finances seemed as if they might take a turn for the better. He was being paid a handsome fee by the countess for her “lessons,” and of course there were the plans of Herr Schikaneder, the owner and manager of the Theater auf der Wieder.
Wolfgang did not care for Schikaneder as a person, even though he belonged to the order of the Freemasons. There was something oily about him, something which suggested a foulness, a despicable aspect. But the small, thin man had come to him with an offer that seemed attractive, an opportunity which would be hard to resist.
Herr Schikaneder had written the libretto to an opera called The Magic Flute, which showed surprising merit. Schickaneder wanted Wolfgang to compose the musical score for the opera, and they would share the profits. In spite of the man’s horrible reputation, Wolfgang was attracted to the prospect of writing music for such a story: full of fairies and spirits and creatures of the night. It was a dark and magical tale that fitted his moods and his general outlook.
Even the countess encouraged him to embark upon The Magic Flute. She told him that it was a monumental project which would guarantee him a place in the pantheon of musical giants; she felt it would be a fitting use of his great mental energies.
Wolfgang was flattered by the words of Herr Schikaneder, but he was more inspired by the encouragement of Countess Bellagio. Before meeting her, he had been feeling so bereft of human feeling that he had been channeling all of his soul into his music. But now the woman was bringing him back to life! For the first time in many years, Mozart was beginning to feel happy again.
He began seeing her as often as time would permit, and gave her the nickname “Lyrica” because her presence in his life was the words to his music. Together, he felt, they captured the pure beauty of a Lied, a song.
He accepted Schikaneder’s offer and began work on the musical score of The Magic Flute. The oleaginous theater owner was so overjoyed at this decision that he had a small pavilion built on the grounds, where Mozart could work without distraction or pause. At first Wolfgang thought this gesture was a magnificent demonstration of the esteem and regard of Herr Schikaneder, but he soon realized that the pavilion was more like a prison.
His meals were brought to him there, and he was not allowed to leave the premises until his daily work had been inspected by the theater owner each evening. The pavilion was hastily constructed and was therefore full of drafts—on rain-filled afternoons, Wolfgang would sit in the small confines of his musical jail wracked by a terrible chill. His illness progressed unchecked, and the coughing spasms became worse. He complained to his wife and his employer that his strength seemed to be leaving him and he began again to revel in thoughts of death.
At one point he told Schikaneder that “death is the only worthwhile goal in life. It is our only real and devoted friend.”
Schikaneder smiled and agreed with him, saying only that he should stay away from his friends until the opera had been completed.
Mozart managed to do this only because he had become obsessed with finishing the musical score. Lyrica would come to him in his tiny pavilion in early evening, and they would steal a few precious minutes of lovemaking from his work, and their encounters left him in a most curious state. During their bouts of love, he felt as vigorous and strong and full of life as he had ever in all his days… but when she had left him, he felt more drained and pale and weak than ever before.
The day finally arrived when the completion of the opera was in sight. Wolfgang had finished all but a few parts for a few instruments, and he could already hear the entire orchestra roaring in his mind. It was not good music, it was great music—even by his own high standards. He knew this in the depths of his soul, and he was pleased beyond measure.
He sat in the pavilion that evening, putting the finishing touches on the vellum sheets, when there was a soft knock on the door behind him. Turning and throwing up the latch, he watched a familiar figure enter. It was Lyrica wearing a black gown that made her seem thin and waspish.
Moving to him, she straddled his legs wh
ere he sat on the tiny stool, and lifted her skirts. He could smell the essence of her loins rise up and intoxicate him, and he was instantly ready for her. Lowering herself, she seemed to draw him up into her more deeply than ever before, and he felt as though he could not bear the sensation. But just as he was about to explode into her, she grabbed him with her secret muscles and shut him down, preserving the pleasure and the moment of final release. As she rode him wildly, he felt that she could play him like that indefinitely, and the pleasure crashed over him in ever-heightening waves, until the pleasure became a pain, a torturous thing from which he cried out for release.
Afterward, as she kissed him and prepared to leave, she paused and looked deeply into his eyes. “I have a surprise for you,” she said in a soft whisper.
“Any more surprises from you, I don’t think I can bear,” he said only half in jest.
Reaching into her cloak, Lyrica produced a sealed envelope, which she handed to him. “Open it.”
“What is it?”
“A commission.”
His heart leaped wildly, and his hands began trembling. “What? From whom?”
“Please, open it.”
Breaking the wax seal, Wolfgang tore away the parchment paper and began to read the document. It was indeed a commission naming a handsome sum of money to write a Requiem, a mass for the dead.
But it was unsigned…
Mozart looked up from the parchment to Lyrica. “Is this a joke?”
“No, of course not.”
“But there is no signature. It is invalid.”
Lyrica tilted her head, and her lip curled up in a slight, impish grin. “No, it is valid. The person who commissioned this piece wishes to remain anonymous, that is all. The commission will be paid through me, as I have been named the executor of the transaction. Everything is perfectly legal, maestro.”
“But… he wants to be anonymous? I’ve never heard of such nonsense! I thought the nobility wanted it to be known that they were patrons of the arts?”
Lyrica smiled. “Some of the true nobility do not need such gratification.”
Wolfgang sighed and slipped the commission and the promissory note into his blouse. “Very well, I shall begin it directly. The music for The Magic Flute will be completed on this very day, and I am already thinking of the dominant themes I might employ in this new Requiem.”
“That is wonderful news, my Wolfgang.” Lyrica turned to leave the pavilion.
“One more thing…” said Wolfgang. “For whom is this Requiem being written? Do you not think I should know this?”
For an instant, she looked grim and serious, but she banished the expression with a sultry smile. “No. Your patron would like that to be also a secret…”
Wolfgang grinned. “Oh, he does, does he? Well, you tell him that I shall most likely discover his secrets, despite his silly wishes!”
Again she appeared serious as she took her leave. “Perhaps you will, Wolfgang… perhaps you will.”
The Magic Flute was an incredible success. The opera played to full houses for more than two hundred successive performances. It was a record unequaled in the history of Viennese theater. Unfortunately, because of the wording of their contract, Wolfgang received very little of the profits, and Herr Schikaneder became impossibly wealthy at his expense.
The oily bastard was having a statue of himself erected while Mozart struggled to pay the rent on his small dwelling!
But this injustice was slight compared to the other slaps of Fate he had received. Constanze was again confined to her bed with the ague, and Wolfgang himself had been deteriorating badly, losing strength to the point that he could barely cut his meat at the table. His work on the great Requiem slowed because of his ebbing strength and spiritual energy. Despite his great musical achievements, he lived like a pauper, and he simply did not care any longer.
Even his noble wench, Lyrica, had been giving signs of deserting him.
Not that he could blame her. She was so young and full of flame and breath! And he already seemed like such an old man. Their lovemaking was a pale and hollow shell of what it had once been, and he now felt so weak, so sickly, that he feared it would be impossible for him to perform.
As he lay in bed with a raging fever, his thoughts ripped about in his mind like sails in a storm. He shifted his concentration between the unfinished Requiem and his sweet Lyrica. He could not remember at what point the realization struck him, but he suddenly knew he would never recover from the terrible fever which consumed him.
He knew at that moment he was going to die.
Goddamn it all! Fuck them all! Nothing matters now …
But he knew that was not true. There was much that mattered to him. He became angry and frustrated because his power and his life were slipping away.
He drifted off into a hazy dreamlike state, opening his eyes to discover that he was standing at the conductor’s post in a large concert hall, which was filled to capacity. It was dark beyond the proscenium, but he could sense the presence of the audience—a large, tenebrous mass behind him. With a flourish, he guided the orchestra through the finale of his final composition, and listened to the building thunder of applause at his back. But there was something about the sound of their clapping that was wrong—it was too harsh, too sharp. It was a ratcheting sound like sticks of wood being struck together. Slowly, Wolfgang turned to face his audience and he saw the sea of bone white faces, the eyeless sockets and eternal grins. They called out to him with ghostly whispers of “Bravo!” and “Encore,” and he finally understood for whom he had been composing his mighty Requiem …
Arles 1899
There is a small antiquarian shop in the center of this French town of twenty thousand people. Situated close to the Rhône River and Port St. Louis on the Mediterranean, Aries caters to a fair share of international tourists and vacationers from the surrounding provinces. The antiquarian shop has become, therefore, something of a souvenir shop as well as a repository of things old and, most times, forgotten.
Its owner, an old man in his eighties, died two summers ago, and since there were no known heirs, the place and all its contents were put up for public auction. The shop seemed like the perfect diversion for a widow in her early forties who had inherited her husband’s vast wealth after a boating accident. The sums from the insurance policies alone would allow her to live out her days in comfort, but she wished to have an idler’s profession, and the purchase of the curiosity shop was just the ticket.
It was a small shop, but its interior seemed to defy the laws of physics, seemingly holding more in its numerous shelves and nooks and alcoves than would seem possible. The shop was truly a gestalt experience: a case of the sum of the parts being far greater than the whole. It was so jammed with junk and memorabilia of earlier times that no one could accurately detail all that was contained in it.
The prior owner had long ago stopped keeping track of his inventory, and the acquisition of old junk had merely become a part of his life as natural as eating and sleeping. The junk would come in, and some of it would go out. It was the natural order of things.
The new owner, the youngish widow, was not altogether interested in what might be found in her shop. She simply needed a profession, a place to go each day where she might have the chance to meet interesting people, to talk, and generally to enjoy herself with little pressure or insistence.
And so it was that she did not know of the thick leather-bound journal that rested in a far corner of the shop, buried halfway down a stack of old photograph albums and bound ledgers.
The book had been stolen by a housekeeper after its owner had committed suicide. In the confusion and shock that followed the man’s death, no one missed the journal. The housekeeper had mistakenly thought it might be worth some money someday, but she died without making a franc. The journal was bound up with a stack of other old books, sold to a junk man, and eventually reached the dusty confines of the shop.
If anyone ever bought it,
he would be in possession of one of the great artifacts of the art world—an additional look into the disturbed mind of a man who signed his tormented paintings with only his first name: Vincent.
December 12, 1888 — I have finally done it! I have left the drab cold landscapes of the north for the hot suns and bright days of the south of France. My friend, Paul Gauguin, has urged me to leave Paris and I have now believed him. He promises to meet me here and says we will share a studio together. That I will believe when it happens. Gauguin is such a bombastic, impulsive ass! And yet I admire him, as he admires me. We shall see if he is good to his word.
January 4, 1889 — I have just received another letter from Theo, wrapped about 150 francs. What a wonderful brother I have in Theo! No man could ever want a better sibling, that is for certain. His “allowance” to me keeps me alive. It is not crazy to imagine that once I begged him to quit his lucrative position at Goupil’s Gallerie to become an artist with me!
Then the family would have had two starving wretches to worry about! At least Theo makes my father proud… while I, at the age of thirty-five, am still a problem child, still a crazy dreamer.
Speaking of dreamers, I am still waiting for Paul, yet a letter says that he is on the way as I write these lines. Somehow, I must confess to believing him. He claims to have a great need to be in the south for the colder months. He claims it is good for the soul, and I believe him. Aries is truly a beautiful place, where even in the winter there are flower gardens of crocus and daffodil, and greenhouses where there are blooms and flowers all year through!
It is the color—the vibrant living color of this place—that will set me free, that will save me!
January 17, 1889 — He is here at last! Paul arrived by coach with a brace of baggage the likes of which I have never seen. He claims that he sold a painting in Paris just before he left, and had to wait for payment—thus his delay in arriving. We will work well together, of this I am sure. We will fight well together, of this I am also sure!
Love in Vein Page 18
