"Here! Don't you come botherin' my mistress!" Herr Messer, plucked the intruder’s sleeve. "He said he was an apothecary, Fraulein!" The cook was aggrieved. His broad, pock marked face went a shade darker, for he'd begun to imagine he'd been tricked by another of Klara's crazy admirers, the kind who would do anything in order to meet her.
"Ah, but here is the mixture which will begin the cure of your mistress.” Herr Almassy whisked a small cone of brown paper from his pocket. "Would you steep this, please?" It was framed as a request, but the tone of command was unmistakable. "The famous Madame Wranitzsky swears by this mixture."
Herr Messer slewed his eyes toward Klara. She nodded.
"Do as the gentleman asks, Messer. I'll try anything in the state I'm in." She paused to clear her throat, which was growing by the minute ever more painful and sore. "This is Herr Almassy, Concertmaster to Prince Vehnsky, so mind your manners.”
Messer grunted and tugged a scant forelock. He hated to be made a fool of, and he was devoted to Klara.
He went at once for the small tea pot, rinsed it with hot water from a black iron kettle, and then added the contents of the paper cone. As the infusion began, a spicy odor flooded the room.
"I'm sorry to intrude upon you like this, Singerin," Almassy said, "but the strain in your voice was unmistakable. I sometimes forget how precarious position is at the Viennese Court, even for a supremely talented lady such as you. I apologize for expressing my concern so carelessly."
"You are bold to appear at my door after the way we parted." In spite of a myriad aches, Klara smiled. "But you are correct. I'm not at all well, nor am I likely to be in good voice again any time soon."
"'Tis not boldness, but concern for a gifted lady, Fraulein Silber. What I have here is a sovereign remedy. I have too much concern for your talent not to dare bringing it to you."
"Ah, so you do know the game!" It was not easy to smile when she felt so wretched, sitting here in an old morning gown, but there he stood, the object of so much fantasy, standing right in her kitchen! "I, too, should apologize," she added. "I was very rude."
"You were defending yourself. I didn't mean to make you vulnerable to the ambitions of others, but I was – and am – concerned about you."
"Yes." Klara hurried to catch a sudden sneeze in her handkerchief. "I'm worse than I was earlier. I was angry because Signorina Amelli, that she-dog, pricked up her ears so brightly when she heard what you said. She will take every part I was to sing this season and nothing short of a knife in her back will ever get them back for me again."
"I pray to Saint Cecilia the Viennese have better ears than that."
"Sometimes it's not a matter of ears, but influence." Klara paused again, this time to cough.
"It will not come to that. If you will trust me, or rather trust my wise Grandfather, whose cure this is, I am certain that I can lessen the length and severity of your illness. My motive for that is absolutely selfish. Before I go back to Komarom, I must hear you in perfect voice again."
"Well, sir, come and sit beside me. Ever since we were introduced, I've been wishing for time in which to become better acquainted."
Herr Almassy had been such a firm commander at the rehearsal and so bold in making his way past Messer, but now, swinging a kitchen chair into place beside hers, he suddenly looked rather shy. Noting that, Klara experienced a happy flutter. Although she was dressed in a drab old morning gown, and in spite of the aches, it would be so much nicer to have chat here than at some hard-edged, swirling party.
"That was quite a feat this morning, to sing so well through the cold. You have had excellent teaching."
"Thank you. My maestro is a wonder."
"I have heard you study with Signor Manzoli."
"Yes. For several years now."
"Himself a legend."
"He is still a marvelous violinist. He studied with the great Padre Martini in Bologna."
"Indeed?"
Klara, suddenly a little nervous at the gentleman’s closeness, pressed on. It was good to have a neutral subject. "I count Signor Manzoli as one of my best friends. But I confess when I first met him, I stared as if he were the man in the moon. Being convent raised, well," Klara paused to shake her head, "to say I hadn't seen much of the world would be an understatement. Count Oettingen warned me that Signor Manzoli was eccentric, and so he was. Such a curious mix of masculine and feminine! He even affects it in his clothing."
"Well, castrati are like men in the moon, especially nowadays when the Italians don’t make as many as they used to. There was a castrati at Prince Esterhaza's when I visited there, Signor Del Prato. Such a curious muscular quality in a very high soprano voice."
Klara caught a sneeze in her handkerchief and followed with a dry cough. She was enjoying his company, but talking was hard. When she looked up, she found Akos gazing at her as if she were Venus rising from the foam instead of a sick woman in her kitchen wearing shabby undress.
"Do you know, Fraulein Silber, you are the second wonderful singer I've had the pleasure to hear who was raised at Saint Cecilia's? Did you know Johannes Kreisler?"
"He was on his way to fame and fortune when I was a little girl. I remember imagining that I was in love and blushing whenever I was near him, silly child that I was."
Akos flashed a quicksilver smile. His thick raven hair reminded her distantly of the traitorous Giovanni, but, mercifully, otherwise this man was nothing much like her fallen idol.
"Not so silly! I've always liked baritones better than tenors and Kreisler's voice is so sensuous. When he sings the villain, there is hardly a woman in the audience who can understand why the heroine bothers to resist."
Klara wanted to giggle, for his assessment was correct. Instead, the endless tickle in her throat forced her to make do with a nod and a cough.
"Saint Cecilia's should be as famous a nursery for young singers as any Italian Nightingale Cage."
"Our teachers were good." Klara gathered her shawl closer. "Still, without the excellent training that I got here in Vienna….” She stopped and shivered, for the unpleasant inevitable in the narrative of her rise to fame was Count Maximilian von Oettingen.
Oh, yes, the last years had brought her fame and fortune, more than she'd ever dreamed, but she'd paid a dear price. Let no one think otherwise!
Those days at Max's splendid Italian villa, bright days filled with plays, music and strange games, all ending in the black rain of autumnal Vienna, the sour end of that fatal, fiery summer – rain, and so many tears!
Max's country house had held old masters, French china and antique sculpture, as well as equally beautiful young actors, dancers and musicians who came for his parties, who stayed to keep her company while he ‘went back and forth on business’. She remembered Hermione's false bright smile, Giovanni's dark eyes flooded with desire, the touch of his hands, his lips … and now a handsome, considerate, and obviously intelligent man sat beside her, his eyes shimmering gold, like an October leaf.
As much as she longed for what he seemed to offer….
To this day Maximilian maintained that all he had done was to show Klara "the ugly truth of the pretty word, Love.” He claimed he had taught her a useful lesson.
Well, perhaps he had, but how hard it was to distrust every man who found her attractive! She was young, beautiful, the object of desire for so many, but her heart was frozen now, ice to the core….
The admiration of this sympathetic and ever so musical Concertmaster seemed to her genuine. He was a foreigner in town for only a few weeks a year, a servant of Prince Vehnsky's. It did not seem possible that he could be yet another puppet delivered by Max. Nevertheless, even if he was not, what could she expect from her attraction to him?
Love was not the joy of her arias, but a ruinous madness! Love promised bliss, but delivered only searing disillusion. Klara wanted no more of it, especially right now, when she was so weak, so afraid and so very, very sick!
"No more chat, Herr Concertmaster. What about my cure?"<
br />
"Of course." Herr Almassy rose. "Herr Messer," he said, turning to the cook, now busily cutting the noodles, "if you will bring a cup, I will see if the tisane is ready for your mistress."
Messer laid down his knife and dutifully brought the cup. Dark liquid emerged from the teapot's fanciful green spout into a matching china cup. A dark, sharp odor filled the room.
"Ginger?" Klara took the cup from Akos' well proportioned hand, the same hand which yesterday had moved with such agility upon the double-rowed harpsichord.
"Yes, but there is also mullein, horehound, nasturtium, valerian and pleurisy root. Sip slowly, for it is very hot. You will sweat and then you will feel sleepy. It will help you most if you obey that impulse."
Klara sipped. Immediately, her mouth and lips were on fire.
"Now, while you are drinking, there's another part of the remedy, if you will permit me."
Klara cocked a dark eyebrow.
"Madame Wranitzsky swears that it doesn't work half so well without this part." He smiled wryly, and she saw him hesitate. "Fraulein Silber," he finally said, "this may seem odd, but with Herr Messer with us, I'm sure you will agree there can be no impropriety."
"Exactly what do you intend?" At once her guard went up. The heat of the tea coursed through her, magically soothing her throat, warming the cold stone lodged so heavily in her chest.
"To complete the treatment, I must rub your feet." Klara was so surprised that she didn't say a word as he, not waiting, knelt beside her and reached beneath the heavy folds of her morning gown to remove a slipper.
"Oh, ah, Herr Almassy…." She began a protest, but her small foot in a thick knit gray woolen stocking was already in his hand.
"A far prettier object than some to which I have applied this cure." Akos smiled up at her.
"Rubbing the feet of singers is part of a concertmaster's job at Komarom?" Klara hardly knew what to think, but he had already begun, his strong fingers probing through the sock into the stiff, cold flesh beneath.
Messer now stirred a pot of broth in which spaetzle cooked, occasionally looking over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. He was relaxed about sharing the kitchen with his employer, who frequently took her cures here. He had seen many odd remedies in the last few years, but nothing quite like this one.
"Oh, heavens!" Klara exclaimed. She stared down in surprise at the man who had so completely taken possession of her foot.
"You will begin to experience some tingling in the mask of your face and then in your chest," said Akos. As he spoke, he increased the pressure. "Just put your head back, close your eyes and relax. For some reason, this causes draining. You will feel worse for a few hours after I am done and I promise that you will do a lot of coughing and spitting, but tomorrow you will begin to feel better."
"That doesn’t sound completely encouraging."
Still, what he was doing felt good, even the occasional stabs that went shooting from her toes into some far off part of her body. After some minutes her anxiety subsided. It was succeeded by a warm all over glow which felt suspiciously voluptuous.
As Akos worked, Klara had a sudden memory of Max, stroking her loosened hair as they sat by the fire in his townhouse, just the same absent way she sometimes stroked Satz. To the Count's chagrin, she had begun to weep. On that night her heart had felt empty. So empty!
Now, as if this had just happened, tears welled. Stunned by the despair the memory carried, Klara covered her face.
"Mistress Klara! Are you all right?"
"Don't worry, sir. It's part of the cure," Akos answered for her. "It will move what's in her chest."
Then he simply went on rubbing, while her tears came in torrents. Messer, responding to the calm and command in Akos' voice, went back to stirring, although from now on he would watch the proceedings with the alert perplexity of a dog.
The flood of coughs and tears quickly saturated Klara's handkerchief and then Herr Almassy's. Herr Messer presented Klara with a fresh kitchen towel, which she, wordlessly grateful, accepted.
Now worried, Herr Messer pushed his noodles to the back of the little stove. It wasn't just his mistress' tears or this invasion by an imperious stranger that was troubling him.
"Fraulein, I beg your pardon, but the wood has not yet come. I have supper to finish and we have none for the parlor. We must not run out, especially when it is so cold and you are so sick."
"Then see to it, Herr Messer," Akos said, not looking up from Klara's foot. She seemed beyond speech, leaning back in the cat-clawed stuffed chair, the towel pressed to her face, her shoulders rising and falling with distress.
"But neither Frau Liese nor Marie is here," Messer protested. "I cannot leave my mistress alone."
"Liese will be home soon." Klara gathered herself sufficiently to reply. "Get the wood! Concertmaster Almassy is a gentleman."
Messer was still unsure, but he moved to where his cloak was hanging. "I will be back in three shakes of a lamb’s tail, sir." He aimed his warning sternly at Almassy and then went quickly out, closing the door behind him. Akos got up and went to pour another cup of the infusion.
"Do I really have to drink more?"
"Yes. All of it."
"I feel sick to my stomach."
"That is not the tea. It is emotion. Please finish it."
"Emotion?" Klara looked up as he handed her the steaming cup.
"Yes. All those tears, Fraulein."
"Naturally I'm upset. I am too sick to sing for your Prince. Perhaps even-so-sick-I-shall-miss-Carnival!"
Akos didn't reply. Instead, he knelt and then took up her foot again, pressing those strong fingers into the base of her toes.
"Your tears are from the heart, Fraulein Silber."
"What do you mean?"
He did not reply, simply pressed harder. A vicious stab raced upward to terminate in the center of her forehead.
"Ow!" Klara cried. "Now my head aches! Stop! I can't bear it."
The cup dropped. It struck her lap and rolled over her knees, splashing the dregs upon the thick material of her morning gown and finally coming to rest with a bell-like clink against a table leg.
Suddenly she was afraid that he would take advantage, embrace her, but the strong fingers simply went on with their task. Her feet, this winter always cold and stiff, felt as if they were turning to well-kneaded dough. A dizzying barrage issued from those exploring fingertips and raced to explode all through her body. He kept up the pressure, and Klara began to wail.
"That's right. Cry. It will help."
"Nothing can help. Nothing can help!" It was impossible now, impossible to hold back. "I am the Count's slave. I shall die if I have to go on living like this."
His eyes locked with hers, but she saw no judgment, no revulsion, nothing but – love!
***
Maria Klara Silber had been born somewhere in Germany, but she didn't know where or remember her parents. As a very small child she had been left in the Church of St. Cecelia, in the Bishopric of Passau. For about fifty years, ever since a music-loving Italian Hapsburg Prince had ruled there, it had been ordered that the nuns of Saint Cecelia keep an orphanage of a most particular kind. The abandoned children accepted at this church dedicated to the patron saint of music were to be the unwanted children of musicians and actors. The children were educated, and, according to their talents, dispatched into the orchestras of the electorates and princedoms of which Germany consisted. Some were apprenticed to organists, some to instrument makers. Some of the more gifted singers, especially the prettiest girls, found their way into the world in less conventional ways.
Aged twelve, Klara, already acknowledged as the finest female singer the convent had had in twenty years, sang a solo in a high holy Mass attended by the Prince Archbishop and some members of his family, among them, his cousin, Count Oettingen, Councilor of War to the Empress Maria Theresa. The story had begun like a fairy tale, when the tall elegant Count had taken her the very next day into his entourage.
<
br /> At first, their relationship had been entirely proper. The Count had kept Klara in a house he owned in Vienna where she was tended by an army of servants, among them the motherly and attentive Liese. There was no more of the sewing and cookery which, among other things, had filled Klara's days at the convent. Everything came to her, for now she was to study music and languages full time. She had music masters for her voice and to instruct her upon the harpsichord and violin. There were teachers who taught her to write a graceful letter and dancing masters. She learned a smattering of history and geography, and a great deal of French and Italian, in short, the education routinely given to any privileged female. When she was fifteen, she also began to spend days at the opera, singing in the chorus and seeing a little of the theater life.
At seventeen, the Count had obtained for her a small trouser role in a court opera. At once, her creamy mezzo voice made a tremendous success.
"Hereafter," he'd said one night soon after her debut, "you shall be able to make your way as a singer upon your merits alone. So many young talents never enjoy the good fortune which a good patron may bestow."
"Yes, My Lord." Klara's made a dutiful reply and dropped a graceful curtsy. The strict upbringing in the nunnery had not, even in four pampered years in a Viennese townhouse, worn off. To her Oettingen was a demanding, kindly god, someone high above her, whose wishes were enforced by teachers and, of course, by the attentive Liese. Sometimes, now that she knew a little more about the ways of the world, Klara fantasized that this rich, graying aristocrat might actually be her father, that she was an illegitimate child he'd chosen to claim because of the talent she'd displayed at the Convent.
As if he'd suddenly decided to acknowledge her inner musings, the Count's next words were "Have you never wondered, Maria Klara, why I chose you from among all the others?"
"I thought, Herr Count, ah….” She had begun her reply with hesitation, blushing and wondering if her imaginings were about to be confirmed. She sensed a disturbing purpose in tonight’s inquiry. "Ah, sir, I thought it was because I was the best singer at Saint Cecelia’s, but I, um, wouldn't presume….”
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