The Musician's Daughter

by Susanne Dunlap

  It’s not really Papa.

  I clung to that thought. His spirit would never be buried. His body was only the useless shell of flesh and bone that descended into the earth.

  Yet when I thought about it, I had so little of him except insubstantial snatches of memory—memories, and the medallion Frau Morgen had found in my father’s pocket. I had put it on as soon as I had a private moment and worn it ever since. The medallion was not very large—barely as big as my thumbnail—and I had tucked it inside my bodice, thinking I might find an opportunity to ask Zoltán if he had ever seen my father with it before. I hadn’t shown it to Toby. Its unaccustomed weight around my neck, the tickling of it against my skin, kept reminding me of everything I didn’t know.

  When the gravediggers had finished letting the different-sized parcels of the dead tumble from the cart and into the ground, everyone in the small, ragged group of mourners assembled outside the cemetery gates began to trudge off in different directions. The day before, Zoltán had told me that he wanted to bring more of the members of the orchestra to the burial, but I was ashamed. It was not right that Papa should be interred with so little ceremony. If my mother could have said anything, I believed she would not have wanted more witnesses than strictly necessary, either. On the other hand, if my mother were able to say anything, she might have been able to tell us where we could find money to pay for a better funeral. But the funeral was not the most important thing. Better to wait until everything was clearer; then I could pay for a special Mass for Papa. Perhaps Godfather Haydn would compose the music, and no one need ever know we had sent my father to a pauper’s grave.

  Toby, Zoltán, and I were by far the most respectable-looking people there. The others were little better than beggars. I was suddenly furious. How could this have happened? How could my father, who had promised he would teach me to play the viola no matter what Mama said and one day buy me a violin; who promised he would earn enough money so that I could have a silk gown and attend one of the public balls in a year or two, when I was old enough; who told us stories and laughed, who scooped us up in his arms with joy—how could he have been so careless as to go drinking and end up murdered, leaving me with so many unanswered questions?

  I knew it was unreasonable to be angry, but I turned away from the sight of that horrid burial and started walking back toward the city gate, not caring whether Zoltán and Tobias came along or not. They did, of course.

  It had been awful, telling Toby what had happened while he slept. He had never seemed smaller to me than when his impish face crumpled into confused tears at the sight of Papa stretched out on the table. Since then, he had not let me out of his sight. And Zoltán had been hovering like a great sheepdog, too, showing up at dawn on Christmas morning, the day after he had found my father, and staying as long as was decent, then helping me by finding two or three vagrants who would shoulder my father’s body to the burial cart for the price of a few Kreutzer.

  There were no formalities, no papers to sign for someone so poor.

  But we weren’t that poor! The skirts that caught between my legs and made it impossible for me to run were of fine, soft wool. And unlike a really poor girl, I could afford the pocket hoops and petticoats required to make them hang properly, even if they were of coarse linen and had no lace or ruffles. My feet were well shod in good leather boots. My hands, clenched in tight fists that made them colder instead of warmer, were hidden inside a muff of softest rabbit fur. The musical instruments in their cases at our apartment—which we owned, thanks to a rare moment of generosity on the part of my late grandfather—could be sold for enough money to support two families.

  I stopped so abruptly that Toby, who had practically been on my heels, crashed right into me.

  “Watch where you’re going!” I snapped.

  “It’s not my fault.”

  Those were the first words Toby had spoken since the morning before. He only came up to my shoulder, and had to lift his chin to look into my eyes. I noticed then that his best coat wasn’t buttoned correctly. I took off my muff and let it dangle on its cord while I unbuttoned and rebut-toned his coat and made sure his cloak was fastened at the neck. He continued to stare at my face, as if he was still waiting for me to explain myself.

  “The question is, where is Papa’s violin?” I asked, not really expecting an answer from my brother, but suddenly realizing no one had even attempted to answer the same question the other night. I turned from the gaze of Toby’s round, brown eyes to face Zoltán. Even though I wasn’t in the mood to notice them at that moment, I had always found Zoltán’s eyes unsettling. They were that indistinct color that sometimes looks green and sometimes blue, but the color didn’t seem to matter. It was something deeper inside them that made them extraordinary. I could never look into them for long without beginning to feel warm.

  “I don’t know,” Zoltán said.

  What use was he if he knew so little? I found myself growing cross at him, too. “It must have been stolen.” Stolen, I prayed, not destroyed. That was something to think about later, when everything was clearer.

  “Yes, perhaps it was. It was a valuable instrument.”

  Zoltán was right, but it still felt wrong. But then, everything felt wrong. In one night I had become the only person in the house hold capable of making decisions. Mama was incoherent, attended every few hours by the apothecary whom we could not afford, and fussed over by Greta, who left her side only to ensure that Toby and I were still alive. Toby was seven years younger than I was, and that was too young to become the head of a house hold. He needed my father even more than I did. I stole another glance at him. He was still looking at me, and he reached out his hand to take hold of my arm, but I turned and continued tromping back toward the center of the city, which meant crossing the cold, sluggish Danube by the city bridge and passing through one of the gates that pierced the Bastei, the thick wall that ringed the city. There was no mother present to yell at me for taking strides that were too big. And it helped me think, to walk so fast.

  I kept going, not even noticing the cold or the fact that my shoes were wet through. But poor Toby! He was so small he had to run to keep up. Instead of entering the crowded streets, once the sentry had let us pass through the gate I mounted the stone steps to reach the top of the Bastei. It was cold and gray, so no one promenaded around it to take the air and enjoy the view over the city and the countryside. That suited me. I could stride as fast as I wanted to and not bump into a soul. I think we circled the city about five times. Only then did I calm down enough to realize that nothing would be accomplished by storming around in anger at our dead papa. When I finally stopped, Toby positively rattled with cold, and a light snow had begun to fall.

  “Let’s have something hot to drink,” Zoltán said. He held his arm out in the direction of the steps down, and led us to a nearby café. Its small windows were completely steamed up. It would be warm inside, and crowded. I looked up at the sign. It was Biber’s, a favorite place of the musicians in the prince’s orchestra. I shot a questioning look at Zoltán, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I wondered if somehow he had managed to steer us here, even though I was the one leading the way.

  We entered, and suddenly the normality of the world that no longer contained my father hit me hard. People were talking loudly and laughing. Smoke from the men’s pipes collected in a cloud near the ceiling. Someone plunked out a popular melody on the spinet in the corner. It was the day after Christmas, and everyone looked happy. A few heads turned as we entered, but mostly no one paid us any heed. Zoltán moved me gently aside and led the way to a table at the back.

  “Drei Schokoladen,” he said to the fellow hovering nearby, and I realized I had no money in my purse to pay for tea, let alone hot chocolate. I didn’t remove my cloak or my gloves.

  None of us said a thing until the three steaming glasses were set on the table that was barely big enough to hold them. Toby was first to break the silence, with “Thank you” as he wrapped h
is hands around his glass and brought it to his lips. I had knitted the mitts he wore and given them to him for Christmas. What a strange Christmas it was, with no ceremony. The stockings we had carefully arranged at the ends of our beds on Christmas Eve were not filled with sweets when we awoke on Christmas morning to a world that would never be the same for us.

  I watched Toby drink his chocolate with deep concentration, as if it were the most important thing in the world to him right then. I knew I should thank Zoltán as well and drink my own cup of cocoa, but I was still so full of bitterness and anger that I didn’t think I would ever be thankful for anything again.

  “I spoke to Kapellmeister Haydn,” said Zoltan. “He would have come, you know.”

  I twisted my gloves in my hands. Zoltán knew my reasons for keeping our group of mourners small. “Later. When Mama has recovered …” I couldn’t summon the strength to finish the thought.

  “Well, in any case he still wishes to see you,” Zoltán said.

  I nodded to let him know that I had heard what he said. I had been dreading this. We lived on Papa’s stipend from the prince. No Papa, no income. Herr Haydn was my godfather, so he probably just wanted to tell me this grim news himself.

  “He is here.” Zoltán turned in his chair, and only then did I notice the familiar, wiry figure of Kapellmeister Haydn. He did not wear the blue-and-gold livery he was normally required to wear as a house hold officer of the prince. Instead he was dressed just like the other men in the tavern: a brown, cutaway coat with lace ruffles sticking out from the shirt underneath at the wrists and the neck. He had on black silk breeches with buckles, and white hose. As soon as he turned our way, though, I recognized his profile, and the kind light in his blue eyes.

  “I was sorry to hear about Antonius,” he said. “He was a fine violinist.” Herr Haydn reached out and took my hand. His was warm and large. He placed something in my palm when he did so, and at first I thought he was playing one of his jokes on me. When we were little, he often made bits of paper appear from behind our ears, or pretended to find his pocket watch in our bowls of soup. But this was no joke. I could feel the coins through the soft leather of a bag. I looked up at him, puzzled.

  “Your papa forgot to take his bonus away with him. I don’t know why. He was in such good spirits after the concert.”

  I could not look at Godfather Haydn’s face, or I knew all my efforts to be strong would be destroyed.

  “If there is anything you need—anything at all—you must come to me. We stay in Vienna until Easter. Although without your father …” His tone made me raise my eyes. A shadow had passed across his face, but it vanished in a moment. He stood and patted Toby on the head. “Anything at all. Remember.”

  I watched him thread his way through the revelers and noticed then that his shoulders sagged and his chin sank down toward his chest. I had never seen him sad before. He must be thinking about my father, I thought.

  “Finish your chocolate. You should be home,” Zoltán said.

  I had hardly tasted my treat, and in truth I didn’t want it. But Zoltán stared at me. Perhaps I should pay, with the money Kapellmeister Haydn had given me? I started to open the pouch. Before I could tease apart the first knot in the cord, Zoltán’s hand clamped down around mine. “Not here,” he whispered. He reached into the pouch dangling from his own belt and tossed a copper Kreutzer on the table. I sipped the cocoa. It was bitter and sweet, and although I didn’t think I would be able to finish it, I drank until the last drop was gone. “That’s better,” he said, and smiled. We all stood and left the café.

  The gnawing anger I felt had abated somewhat, and I began to emerge from the fog that had prevented me from noticing my surroundings very much. “Was that why you brought us here? To meet with Kapellmeister Haydn?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Zoltán said. I expected him to elaborate, but he said nothing more.

  “Do you rehearse tomorrow?” I asked again.

  “Yes,” he again replied.

  Now that Papa was buried and Haydn had discharged more than his duty to us, I expected Zoltán, too, would return to his own life and not come around anymore. There was really nothing to bind us to anyone in the prince’s court. Yet the idea of being so completely alone with my very pregnant mother and Toby, with only morose Greta as company, suddenly filled me with panic. I wanted to see Zoltán again, I wanted to keep some tie with my father’s life, and thought quickly for what I could say that would allow that to happen without making an outright request. Besides, how else was I to find out any more information about the thief who had attacked my father?

  “I want to go to the place where you found him.” The words just leapt out of my mouth before I understood what I was asking. I immediately wished them unsaid.

  “Tomorrow then, after rehearsal.”

  I was a little surprised that Zoltán didn’t argue, or even refuse. Perhaps he had wanted me to ask. The last two days he had certainly seemed at times on the verge of telling me something, and then stopped himself. Perhaps he didn’t know how much to say.

  We continued in silence until we arrived at our apartment. Zoltán left us at the street. I watched him walk away. He was not bowed like Haydn, but straight, and there was music in his gait. “Come, Toby,” I said, and pulled my brother upstairs. I hoped Greta had thought about dinner. If not, it would be up to me to see what we had.

  CHAPTER 4

  Cold ham and boiled potatoes. And a bit of blood sausage and cheese. That was all there was. Toby and I sat in the parlor eating with our hands. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting the food on the dining table just yet, even though Greta had scrubbed it thoroughly.

  “Who will teach me my letters?” Toby asked. A bit of food dropped out of his mouth onto his lap.

  I noticed that his knees looked bony through his breeches, and he had not buckled his shoes. His feet were already too big for his little body, just like Prince Nicholas’s wolfhound puppies. Toby was going to be tall, like Papa. “I will,” I answered. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and was too tired to scold him for being so messy.

  The corners of his mouth puckered slightly, as they did when he used to cry as a baby. “Will Mama get up tomorrow?”

  “She’ll get up when she’s well. Soon.” I knew I wasn’t doing a very good job of reassuring him. I truly did not want him to cry. Usually I could stop him by making a funny face or taking his attention away from what ever it was—a bee sting, once, in the country, or the time he had worked for weeks building a tiny, wooden table and chairs and Greta had stepped on them when he arranged them on the floor to show me.

  “I think I’ll go fix that sailboat,” he said.

  I nodded. It was our secret signal, or at least, his half of it. “I’m going to fix the sailboat” meant that he wanted to be alone for a while. If I said, “I’m going to write to cousin Regina,” then he knew not to disturb me. We had devised the system when he’d walked in on me nearly naked in the room we shared in Esterhaza, about a year before. I don’t know which of us had been more embarrassed. Toby wasn’t much like other boys I knew who were his age. The sons of the prince’s cooks were always sneaking around trying to pull the laces that held my skirts on. Toby played with the boys, but reluctantly. He usually ended up bruised and crying. Sometimes I wished he was a little more like them so that he would just run off and play and leave me to myself. But now, I was glad he was there, even when we didn’t say anything.

  Toby turned before he left the room, his small child’s hand on the doorjamb. “You’re going to try to find out what happened to Papa, aren’t you,” he said, a statement instead of a question.

  I didn’t say anything. How could I? He turned away and closed the door behind him.

  Right now, I had to make sure we could survive, at least until I figured out something else to do. I braced myself to go in to see my mother, who as far as I knew had not uttered a coherent sentence from the moment she had collapsed the night they brought my fath
er’s body home. Greta could do little else but tend to her. Mama was due to have the baby any day. I remembered her losing two other babies not long after calling us together to inform us that we would have a new sister or brother. Papa tried to tell us that we wouldn’t after all, but he couldn’t. Mama was stronger that way. She had wept and wept, but managed to squeeze out the words. It happened all the time, she said. God didn’t always want his little ones to suffer on earth, and took them directly to heaven instead.

  I didn’t really mind so much, and I think Toby cried mainly because Mama was crying. It was hard to imagine a baby before it was born, and our apartment is small and I could not see how we would all fit anyway. Now, the thought of a baby that might look more like my father than Toby does, to remind me of him—I wasn’t sure whether that made me happy or sad.

  I ate what I could, then knocked on Mama’s bedroom door.

  “Come,” Greta called.

  “I’ll sit with her,” I said, leaving the door open behind me. “See if you can persuade Toby to eat some more. He’s gone to his room.” Greta clearly didn’t want to leave Mama, but I was beginning to build up a mountain of questions, and some of them I wanted only my mother to hear. If she could hear them, that is.

  My mother’s face was pale, but her eyes were open and she stared at the ceiling. On the table by her bed Herr Morgen had left a beaker of greenish liquid and a packet of powder. The black-letter script on it said laudanum. I didn’t know much about doctoring, but I knew that laudanum made people sleepy. I was surprised she was not fast asleep. “Mutter,” I said, perching on a stool next to her and whispering close to her ear. “Have we got any money?”

  I know she heard me because she turned her head in my direction and smiled. I waited a bit, thinking she would answer, but she did not open her mouth.