Nightingale

by Juliet Waldron

  Klara stifled a surprised laugh. "Oh, my dear Anna! Is that true?"

  "I predict that sharing like this will be quite the newest aristocratic fashion, especially now that the Elector of Mannheim has so publicly taken up both the older and younger Prima Donnas Wendling," said Lange.

  "But this is stale news," Caroline said. "Let us find out all about our new companion." She sent a coquettish look at Akos. "Since you have come in company with our darling Nightingale Silber, everyone wants to gossip about you, sir."

  "Yes." Lange flashed a wink at Klara.

  "Herr Almassy and I met at Baron von Sweiten's English tea. Herr Almassy accompanied my performance. He plays wonderfully." Seeing the look on her friends’ faces, she decided to omit the part about his other talent, as her physician. That news would just add fuel to the fire.

  "My master, Prince Vehnsky, who has long admired Fraulein Silber's talent, requested that she sing at his Lenten Eve ball." Akos took up the tale. "As Concertmaster, I begged His Highness to go a little further and commission a one act opera for the end of Lent."

  "Yes," Klara said. "We are working with Herr Wolfgang Mozart of Salzburg."

  "Young Mozart? I heard him play, of course, some years ago. Such astonishing talent in a child, but how old is he now? Twelve? Thirteen? Is he up to doing a piece for a man like Vehnsky?"

  "No question about it," Klara and Akos spoke at once.

  "And not only in music," Akos added, for Klara had nodded, indicating he should be the one to continue. "He's been making expert suggestions about changes to the libretto as well."

  "Interesting…." Caroline waved her fan slowly.

  "I held a conversation with young Mozart some years ago," Lange said. "It was like talking with an ancient and learned Kapellmeister trapped in the body of a child."

  "Josef will be at Vehnsky's doing a dramatic scene for that very same party," Anna said. "We shall be looking forward to your part in the entertainment.” Caroline reached to tap Akos on the knee with her folded fan, "Tell me if it is true as I have heard, that you serve Apollo both as musician and as a physician."

  "Yes. If the story I have heard is true, why, the entire Viennese theatrical world owes you a debt of thanks for preserving our dear Klara's voice."

  "Nature is, in the end, the party most responsible for all cures. I was honored to assist her."

  "Don't be so modest, Herr Almassy," Klara said. "If you hadn't come to my aid, I wouldn't have been able to croak until May, much less sing for Prince Josef a few days ago."

  "Ah, congratulations! Already to Court!"

  "Indeed, thanks to Herr Almassy, I was able to oblige His Highness’ caprice. He sent a valet de chamber to request my presence."

  "Well, of course, I'm certain Count Oettingen was a witness, but who else was there?" Anna loved to hear about these journeys to the palace.

  As Klara began an answer, Lange turned and asked the servant standing behind them to open a bottle of champagne. From a hamper, a tin of biscuits was lifted, then opened and passed. A basket of pears sat on a small central table where it could be easily reached. Lange tossed a couple of these down with a jovial wave to admirers who had saluted him from the cheaper seats below.

  Klara felt giddy almost at the first sip. Perhaps it was simply because Akos was beside her. Even though their time together would be brief, even though it would be an evening engaged in theatrical small talk, every moment of closeness was precious. It was bliss to be in his company, to listen to his voice, to watch the expressions flow across his mobile face, his graceful movements!

  Tonight, partly because Prince Josef was absent, the atmosphere inside the opera house was noisy. People roamed and chatted all through the first act. Lange's man, who had gone to stand in the corridor outside, parted the curtains and returned with a card which he presented to his master.

  "Oh, of course, send them in," Lange said.

  "Very gracious of you, Herr Lange." Through the parted curtains came a handsome graying man in a severe black suit and equally severe white wig. At his side came a blonde, blue-eyed youth, not unlike one of the cherubs decorating the ceiling of the theater, dressed in azure satin. It was, of course, the Mozarts, Wolfgang and his stern father. As the business of greeting began, Lange waved his hand happily and said, "Ah, now my box contains the rarest talent in the Empire."

  "Did Manzoli not wish to come?" Klara asked Wolfgang.

  "Oh, he thinks Broschi is a bore." Wolfgang spoke offhandedly. "And I agree. But here we are anyway."

  "We are here," Leopold declared, accepting the glass of wine the Lange's servant had produced, "because we had heard that Count Sarkozy would be here tonight. I am hoping to finalize an offer that he made to Wolfgang about a serenade."

  "Sarkozy's got taste, but he's a tough one to pin down. Here may be as good a place as any to catch him in the right mood to put down cash."

  "Yes, he'll certainly be here, showing off his young wife," Anna put in. "But they never arrive until the second act, so you may as well wait with us."

  Below, the opera continued, but hardly anyone was paying any attention. It was clear this performance was simply somewhere to go, to gossip, to see and to be seen.

  Supper was brought up to the box. Napkins were distributed and everyone shared from the meat plate. There were cold spiced sausages, cheeses and chicken, all crisp and fragrant from the spit at a nearby tavern. Rolls were torn apart and dipped into the drippings.

  When the food was gone, Leopold Mozart brought out a beautifully decorated box from his jacket pocket and offered snuff. Lange took some, but Klara was happy to see Akos decline. She loathed the habit.

  Another bottle, white and sparkling and sweet, was opened by the valet.In the shadowy venue of the box, Klara slipped her hand into the folds of her voluminous skirt, where her sweetheart’s hand could discreetly join it. The smallest touch was a glowing treasure. Strong fingers held hers, the same ones that had played for her last night, supporting her voice like a glittering staircase, inviting her to rise to the heavens. Those same fingers had played her in the cabinet, bringing pleasure's blinding, golden rush, but with a sense of purity she'd never before experienced.

  Oh, if only they could be together again like that….

  "Signora Graziani is on key tonight," Mozart said. Casting a blue glance at Klara, he said, "But she'd feel better if she went to see Manzoli. I'm sure he could teach her some tricks to keep that instrument of hers going."

  "I pray she does not," Klara sighed. "Then, perhaps Signor Broschi will have to consider using a German soprano every now and then."

  "Signora Graziani still has range, but none of it is too pretty anymore." At the same time, hidden within the folds of her skirts, Akos’ warm fingers tenderly stroked hers.

  "She is straining." Papa Mozart was not only a formidable musician, but, during his travels, he'd heard the greatest voices of Europe. "If she goes on pushing as she did in that last aria, there will soon be consequences."

  There was a pause in which they all considered the sound of the older singer’s voice. She sounded well-exercised and there was still some of her old richness in the mid-range, but her control of vibrato, never good at the best of times, was distractingly poor.

  "Please excuse me, Herr Lange," Leopold suddenly said. "I believe Count Sarkozy has arrived."

  Sure enough, the debonair Count and his party could be seen around the curve of the house, settling into a hitherto empty box.

  "Certainly, Kapellmeister," Lange said.

  "Shall I come with you, Papa?"

  "No. Please stay here. It won't hurt for the Count to see in whose company you sit."

  "We will wave," said Lange, smiling, "and so shall Klara. I will take it personally if the old rogue is not suitably impressed."

  "We are much obliged." Leopold stood and bowed to Lange and his wife.

  "Good luck to you, Kapellmeister Mozart." Akos rose to hold back the curtain for the older man. Leopold thanked him and then
was gone.

  A few minutes later, Herr Lange threw an arm around Wolfgang and began waving. Klara, understanding that the moment for impressing Count Sarkozy's party was upon them, flourished her fan and smiled and nodded graciously in their direction. After a spell of bowing across the intervening space, everyone grew still again.

  "Thank you, Herr Lange, and thank you, kind Fraulein Silber! Your attention to our cause is most charitable."

  "Never mind, Herr Mozart. Our pleasure."

  "Yes. Talent is talent, even when contained in such a youthful body," said Klara.

  "And just look at the stratagems Signor Broschi employs to gain success! Why after weeks of this, look there. He's still laying out money for claquers." Akos pointed them out, a group of Italians close to the front of the stage. The job of a claque was to lead the applause after big arias. To be done correctly and bring the whole house along, their burst of clapping must not only appear spontaneous, but start at precisely the correct beat.

  "He really is determined to whip a few more days out of this near dead horse." Lange nodded as his gaze followed the gesture.

  "And to think, this is same musical idiot is the one who went around Court last winter telling everyone that my last opera was clever enough for the work of twelve year old." Wolfgang glared down at the stage.

  "Truly?" Akos turned, surprised.

  "Truly," Klara said. "Young Herr Mozart and his good father were treated most shamefully by the officers of the Court theater. Those arrogant Italian Maestros wage war upon us all the time."

  "Well, then, let's give this piece a death blow.” Almassy got up. "Come along, Herr Mozart."

  Wolfgang’s face shone, for Herr Lange, with a laugh, groped in his pocket and produced a small, jingling purse. "Here, Herr Concertmaster," he said, shaking it and then tossing it to Akos. "That should help your cause."

  "Discretion, gentlemen!" Klara called as they jumped up and started out.

  "Do you think young Mozart should be involved?" Anna asked, laid a hand upon her husband's arm.

  "Why not? I’m certain Herr Almassy can model prudence for him. Besides, this will be a mercy killing, plain and simple. It’s been a waste of time and money to sit here, present company excepted."

  As Lange leaned upon the edge of the box, now curiously watching the audience instead of the stage, Anna took Klara's hand. Leaning her fiery head close, she whispered, "Good Lord, Fraulein Silber! What an extremely handsome gentleman."

  When Klara smiled and lowered her eyes. She was embarrassed at what Frau Lange was so obviously thinking, and even more so because it was true. Anna whispered, "What does Count von Oettingen think?"

  "He thinks exactly what you might imagine."

  "So what will you do? What can you do? You do not wish, I'm certain, to put the handsome fellow in danger."

  "No, of course not! The Count knows that he will be gone from Vienna after Easter with his Prince. And, as I am innocent of all but friendship, I trust his removal will be the end of that.”

  "There is rarely an end to any matter in which an aristocrat chooses to take offence." Anna’s big brown eyes studied Klara, and Klara wondered if she'd carried off her lie. It was particularly hard to do because what she wanted more than anything was to tell the world about this dizzying new love!

  "And what if he is so angry that he won’t wait for him to be gone?" Anna broke in upon her thoughts.

  "He will have injured the very man to whom I owe the restoration of my voice. Even Max ought to manage sufficient gratitude to allow me the company of my gracious and talented new friend for a few weeks."

  "I did not mean to pry." Anna gently patted the younger woman's hand.

  "I know, but even if you were, there is nothing to find out. The Concertmaster is pleasant company, a fine musician and a kind friend. I was beyond fortunate to have had his help."

  On stage, with a chorus of trumpets, a Deus ex Machina, a young man dressed in white robes and wings, singing in a high falsetto, was lowered from the ceiling, singing a reprieve for the lovers. The chorus crowded onto stage while drums rolled and trumpets shouted a happy ending. A frantic clapping began at the back of the house. After a short hesitation, the audience generally took it up. It was wrong though, just a hair too early.

  "I hate being caught in the middle of these wretched claquer vendettas," said Klara, but she and Anna hid their smiles behind fans, then leaned forward to better see the reaction below.

  The claque at the front turned and angrily began their own applause, but the mischief was done. Clapping at the front and back of the house clashed, lost rhythm and died away.

  "It’s good Prince Josef isn't here. He's always been so fond of Broschi, he'd probably take it personally."

  "Which was the reason I didn't grab young Mozart by the scruff of his neck," Lange said softly.

  "Well, Herr Lange, it seems that the little Kapellmeister, is, with your kind patronage, avenged."

  They shared a smile. Across the way, Klara caught sight of Leopold bowing to Count Sarkozy. For an instant she pondered the older man’s peculiar fate. Leopold Mozart was a clever and able musician in charge of a child genius; he was beset by insecurity and lack of funds, by the jealousy of the less talented, and by plain bad luck. She thought his must be a difficult road to walk.

  When the curtain fell, there were a few strained “Bravo!”s from the claque, but other applause was scattered. The singers didn’t bother to reappear.

  "The death blow has been dealt." Lange was cheerfully emphatic.

  "Yes, it was high time they put on something else. What did I hear would be next, Klara? Gassmann's Alexander & Roxanne?"

  "I believe so."

  "Are you not to sing Roxanne?"

  "Frau Bonicke has the part."

  "Bonicke? Good God! How did that miscarriage of justice happen?"

  "I didn't know how long I would be sick. I was very bad for several days, and during that time I relinquished Roxanne. I had no wish to injure Herr Gassmann, or even Frau Bonicke, by playing dog in the manger. Gassmann has always been kind to me."

  They were out of their seats and moving slowly down the corridor which led to the stairs, amid a babbling, gesticulating crowd. Klara leaned close to Anna. "Our gentlemen don’t seem to have particularly angered anyone. Everyone's talking about the next opera."

  After slow inching forward, they at last found themselves face to face with Wolfgang and Akos, who were arm in arm, wearing gay, innocent smiles. Papa Mozart appeared behind them and clapped a proprietary hand upon his son's shoulder. He didn't seem upset, but in a good humor, so Klara concluded that he'd secured the commission from Count Sarkozy and had probably not seen Wolfgang among the rival claque. After many bows and an invitation to dine from the Lange's, the Mozart father and son departed.

  "Most agreeable to have met you, Herr Almassy." The gentlemen politely bowed to each other.

  "My pleasure, sir."

  "Please call any time." Anna added as Almassy bowed over her hand.

  "When you are free of your duties for Prince Vehnsky, perhaps you can come to see my new play.There will be seats for you."

  "I would be delighted." Almassy smiled. "Your Hamlet was brilliant. I count it a great stroke of luck that I was in Vienna to witness it."

  "Well, this is another by the same Englishman, bloody and true as that Hamlet was. ‘Tis Julius Caesar, a pure marvel to play."

  The Langes were left behind, swept up by a throng of admirers. Almassy and Klara found blockage at the door, as people needed room to toss cloaks about their shoulders. The ladies were being helped into calashes, structures of wicker and fabric which sheltered their expensive wigs. Small black servants wearing Turkish turbans, laboring under boxes of confectionery and arms filled with lap dogs, followed their owners out.

  Klara put her hand on Almassy's arm and they began to work toward the door. The sooner they got outside, the sooner they could be alone together. One glance of his expressive eyes told her that
he was anticipating this as much as she was.

  ***

  Outside the wind was bitter. Torches along the path sent a fitful, garish light. Klara hugged her cloak tightly, but in her great skirts, she was like a ship in a gale. Although she had covered her wig with a furred hood, wind still managed to thrust icy fingers down her neck. They hastened through slush along a side street where their carriage was supposed to be waiting.

  "I hope you were discreet, sir," Klara said, by way of making conversation, although her teeth were starting to chatter.

  "To the best of my ability, although it was difficult to restrain the exuberance of our young genius. How do you hide a child Lucifer in a beautiful Italian suit?"

  "It seems you found helpers."

  "Well, we came upon partisans of Herr Gassmann and so it was easy. Signor Broschi was up front, you know, and he was angry as a wet hen. Still, it was more than time for such mediocrity to be disposed of."

  "Oh, where can the carriage have gone?" Klara squinted into flying snow. Vehicles were passing them now, and with carriage traffic and other walkers blundering along, she and Herr Almassy found themselves pushed toward the street's icy gutter.

  When a huge gust of wind blasted them, it caught her hood like a sail. "Ah!" Klara tried to hang on, but the wind had purchase, and in an instant her wig was ripped away. Akos both made a laughing grab to save it.

  "Thank you for saving that!" She pulled the hood of her cloak up close over her head. "Now, where do you suppose Hermann has got to? It's not like him to fail me."

  "Perhaps here." Akos indicated the door of a full-to-bursting tavern. "Come," he said, taking her hand. "Surely we'll find him here."

  Just as they reached the overhang of the roof, there was a crack and a splash. Over their heads, an ice clogged gutter let go, sending a cascade of icy, leaf-filled water down onto their heads.

  Klara screamed and ran. Almassy cursed in Hungarian and ran with her, but they were both drenched. The very next gust of wind that came down the street took the bite of winter directly against their wet skin.