The Musician's Daughter

by Susanne Dunlap

  This wouldn’t be the first time I had been entrusted with Toby and lost sight of him, I thought with a guilty stab. I had begged to be allowed to take him to a puppet show when he was about four and I was eleven. Once we were there, I became so caught up in the action, the excitement of the puppet knights riding their wooden horses into battle, with the sparks and smoke and other tricks of the puppeteers, that I completely forgot where I was. When it was over, I looked down and Toby had vanished. My first thought had been that I would get a beating, but I soon realized I should be concerned more about my brother than myself. I found him quickly, though, huddled in a corner because he was frightened. By the time we returned home, I had managed to dry his tears and persuade him to say that he had had a wonderful time, and not tell anyone that I had nearly lost him. My final, desperate hope was that he was playing a joke on me now, getting back at me for that time years ago, and was safe at home.

  As time passed and I remained where I was, my hopes for release faded. My anger began to give way to fear. If my uncle was capable of locking me in an empty cellar, what else might he do? He had been so angry when Alida had taken me away in the ballroom, and perhaps he suspected that I had been involved in the general’s abduction. Whatever it was, I soon realized that simply waiting for him to come back and let me out of the cellar might be the most dangerous thing to do.

  I forced myself to think and focus on saving myself. The dark had become less obscure to my vision by then, and I could see that the flight of stone steps led right down into the filthy water. I could also see that at the base of the steps a small skiff was tied up and ready to use. I had heard that servants were sometimes called upon to navigate the sewers looking for some lost item—a ring or a letter tossed away in haste—and that thieves occasionally used them to escape capture.

  That skiff was my only hope. I would have to take my chances and paddle around the sewer until I found another way out. It would mean braving the rats, a small price to pay for losing Toby. What if he had been abducted to be sold to the Turks as a slave—the fate with which mothers threatened their wandering children sometimes? What irony that would be. Toby was the least adventuring boy I knew, the most cautious. He had never questioned the life my parents planned for him, always did his chores, and since my father died had followed me around willingly wherever I chose to lead him.

  And now, what ever had happened to him would be my fault and no one else’s. I did not deserve to be alive. And I did not deserve to sit like a spoiled child myself and expect someone to rescue me from a situation I had created through my own actions, what ever other forces had led me to it.

  Stifling the urge to cry like a baby, I lifted my petticoats and tucked them into my belt so they would not trail in the mucky water when I reached the bottom, then picked my way down the stairs.

  The damp had coated the lower steps with a thin film of ice, and I nearly slipped off and dunked myself in the sewer water. Once I’d regained my balance by sheer force of will, I pulled the skiff close to the stairs—it seemed dry and sound, from what I could tell of it in the dark. Although it was no doubt full of spiders and beetles, I stepped into it quickly, rocking it back and forth and sending a ripple splashing against distant walls and steps. A paddle had been secured beneath the seats. I pulled it out, then untied the rope that held the skiff to the stairs.

  After using the paddle against the stairs to push myself out into the middle of the sewer, I had to decide exactly where to go. Which way would take me to an opening? I did not care where I emerged. The most dangerous neighborhood of Vienna would be preferable to remaining where I was. I sat for a time and thought, listening intently for any sound that would lead me to the surface again.

  I don’t know how long I sat, but it was long enough to notice that I had drifted a considerable distance. There was a current in the sewers, and it must, I reasoned, lead to the place where the water and muck spilled out. I knew that to be the Danube, a river known for its own dangerous currents, but the idea of release from this maze of underground drains overcame any fears I had for my safety in this tiny boat on the roiling river. Once there, I could yell and shout and call out, and someone would be certain to help me.

  I was right about the current. All I had to do was keep the boat in the middle of the stream and it drew me quite quickly along. Once or twice I reached places I feared would not be wide enough to fit through and where the arch of the sewer came so close to my head that I had to crouch low in my vessel, but clearly the boat itself had been designed for the purpose of getting out of the sewers.

  Unfortunately, I was also right about what to expect from the river. I could hear it long before I noticed the light—not daylight yet, certainly, but perhaps the light of the moon reflecting off the snow on the riverbanks. I heard a rushing sound. I crossed myself and prayed to St. Christopher to preserve me as a traveler of sorts, and to St. Cecilia to keep me alive so that I could make music again. I confess I did not spare a thought for my brother at that time. What good was worrying about him if I was to die soon anyway? At least I hadn’t done anything evil enough to send me to hell, I thought, and I had been to confession on Christmas Eve. It was not yet Epiphany. So much had happened to change me in so short a space of time. Would my father even recognize me if we met in heaven?

  As I approached the mouth of the sewer, I saw that the water flowed down a gentle slope into the river, becoming a small waterfall at the end. Through the mouth of the tunnel the wide river looked like a huge, living snake, undulating in the moonlight, floats of ice dotting it like widely spaced scales. I saw no boats upon it. Dawn was still many hours off.

  I placed the paddle beneath the seats and gripped the gunwales of the skiff with both hands, steadying myself in between. Thankfully, the small craft had indeed proved sound. Not a drop of water leaked up from beneath my feet. I began to think I had a chance of surviving, of not being tumbled into the icy Danube to drown and become a Lorelei to lure sailors to their deaths.

  As I picked up speed and approached the frothing, dirty water that would shoot me into the river, I closed my eyes and muttered “Ave Marias” and “Pater nosters” as fast as I could.

  The sensation of whooshing that last stretch and emerging into the air was terrifying but exhilarating. Water splashed up and soaked me. It was so icy I gasped. But I did not overturn. I took some deep gulps of the clear air, still faintly tinged with the odor of human waste, and waited for my little boat to stop rocking. The strong river current began to pull me downstream. I reclaimed my paddle to try to steer toward what looked like a pier ahead. I was out! I would survive.

  Now, though, the enormity of all that still lay ahead engulfed me. I had solved only one tiny part of my difficulty. I still had no idea where Toby might be found.

  There was no time to reflect at that moment. The pier, which gave onto a sandy, sloped bank, approached me very quickly. If I could grab onto it, I could pull the skiff in and easily climb out there.

  I caught hold of the first jutting pile. It was cold and slimy, and I yelped as a large splinter pierced my left hand—my playing hand—but I did not let go. I fought against the current, pulling myself from one leg of the rotting structure to another, until the bottom of the boat caught on the sandy bottom of the river. I stood and leapt out of the skiff onto the shore. Over to one side, stone steps were set into the bank so that I could climb up.

  Stone steps. A rotted pier. Could it be?

  When I clambered exhausted over the edge of the bank, I found myself in a sleepy encampment of Gypsies, very like the one I had visited the other afternoon. I prayed that Mirela, or Maya, or Danior would come and find me. Surely it must be the same place. I knew of no other Gypsy camp near the city at this time of year. The huts were not arranged in the same way, but they had had to break them all down and reassemble them, so that needn’t signify anything. I could hardly move. I lay stretched on the ground, heedless of the rough surface and the cold, and closed my eyes.

 
; The sound of crunching snow made me open them again. A pair of men’s boots stopped just by my nose.

  “I—I beg your pardon,” I chattered.

  Without saying a word, the man leaned down, lifted me by the shoulders, and set me on my feet. He started walking away, a glance back toward me the only hint that I should follow him.

  He led me into a large hut—not Maya’s—where a woman nudged and fed a fire to life. Someone had already placed a pot of something that looked like gruel over it. The woman stared at me in silence for a moment, then poured some tea out of a samovar and gave the cup to me. As I sat there, one by one five small children uncurled from sleeping mats scattered around the room and came to stare at me with their round, brown eyes.

  The family’s quiet courtesy, their calm acceptance that a young girl could wash up on their shore wearing a tattered ball gown and smelling of a sewer, made me vow that I would never judge anyone by my assumptions again. This was the second time I had been generously treated by people my mother had told me to fear, while my uncle, the one person upon whom she had pinned all her hopes for our family’s prosperity, was turning out not to deserve our trust.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, once the hot liquid had washed down my throat and I felt that I could speak again. “I need to get back to Vienna. I’m trying to find my brother. Is anyone going that way this morning?”

  “Stefan,” the man said. He said nothing more. I assumed that when the time came, he would take me to the fellow.

  They shared their gruel with me, and the woman would not let me depart without wrapping me in a warm wool shawl. I had no money in my pocket and had dropped my reticule somewhere the previous night, but I told them that I would find a way to return their kindness.

  I was glad of the wrap when I emerged into the pale dawn light.

  “Theresa!” I heard Mirela call my name as I was about to climb into the back of Stefan’s cart. She approached me so fast I barely had time to turn before she had flung her arms around me and started covering my face with kisses.

  “You look terrible! What has happened?” Mirela asked, smoothing my hair away from my face and shaking her head.

  “I was stuck in a sewer,” I said.

  “I thought you were going to the assembly rooms last evening!”

  I could not help laughing. “It seems my uncle may have had his own plans for me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t say right now. But I’ll explain everything sometime, I promise. In the meantime, I have to find Toby.”

  “Thank the gods you are safe. But who is Toby?”

  “My brother. He’s only eight, and he disappeared from the ball last night.” By now we had made our way to Stefan’s wagon. “I must leave.”

  “I shall go with you.”

  Without giving me a chance to protest, Mirela took my hand, and soon we were both huddled in the back of the wagon. Apparently Stefan delivered his obliging nanny goat’s milk to some of the grand houses in Vienna every morning just after dawn. As we rattled through the woods and onto the sleepy roads that would lead us to the city, Mirela kept up a more or less constant stream of chatter. I didn’t mind. Her voice had a melodious quality that reminded me of church bells pealing on Easter morning.

  “Danior has been teaching me to play the fiddle. You are a musician, too, no? Like your poor papa. Everyone has been talking about it. So sad that he is gone.” Her round, brown eyes softened with sympathy.

  “What do you know about what happened to him?” I asked.

  She sighed. “No more than you, I imagine. Danior said they found him by the river. He was a very kind man, of course. When I was very small he made me a wooden whistle.”

  It struck me as odd to have this girl I barely knew tell me things about my own father. Papa had been well-liked among the Gypsies, apparently. Yet none of them had been able to tell me anything. And here was Mirela, clearly implying that my father’s visits to the camp had been going on for several years. There was so much I wanted to ask, but suddenly I was afraid. What if I found out things about Papa that made him seem different from the way I remembered him? What if I found that he cared for people I had never known, spread his affections out far and wide so that there hadn’t been so much for us? Once I started thinking, I found I had too many questions, and so I settled on only one small thing.

  I grasped the chain around my neck to pull the medallion out from its hiding place. “You have to tell me,” I said, “what does this mean?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Mirela took the medallion in her hand and gazed at it as if she were trying to read the future in her palm. “It is a curious thing,” she murmured at last, “to touch history. Looking into the past is very much like seeing the ages to come.” She looked up, keeping hold of the medallion. “Your papa said it belonged to a great Hungarian general who had protected the poor people on an estate from an evil lord, more than a hundred years ago.”

  “How did my father come to possess it?”

  “He said it was given to him,” Mirela answered, “in thanks for something he had done. He never said what. He has so many good deeds in his Book of Life.”

  “Book of Life?”

  “The Book of Life is very important. At least, to me it is. Every time something big happens, or I make a decision to do something that I know will change who I am from that time on, it is written in a book that the angels keep. At the end of my life, I will be made to read my book before I am allowed to rest forever. Of course, I can’t really read it now, but when I die, it will be a miracle and the words will speak to me. Depending on what I have done while I lived, my book will make me happy or sad.”

  “What about the ending?” I asked, my mind up in the clouds somewhere, imagining St. Cecilia holding my book, which when I thought about it was probably full of instances where I had acted in my own interest. Until now, perhaps.

  “You see, that is the most frightening part! When I come to the end of the book, I will find out if I shall spend eternity in heaven with the gods, or in hell with all the evil people who have ever lived.”

  We sat in silence for a while. The milk buckets clanged together with every bump. The thin ice that had sealed yesterday’s puddles cracked beneath the wagon’s wheels. Somewhere a cock cleared its throat into the cold morning, and crows cawed bitterly.

  Mirela let go of the medallion and placed her hand over mine. Her fingers were very delicate, which surprised me since I imagined she had to work hard around the camp. “I am afraid that when I stole the necklace from you, a bad mark was written in my book. But it was only a little one. Danior had spoken of the medallion and said he longed to have it returned to our people, so that it would not fall into unfriendly hands. We thought it was in Zoltán’s possession, not knowing that he had given it into your father’s keeping. When I saw you wearing it, I thought I was doing a great favor to my people to take it from you. You see, it became a symbol for all those who are oppressed, the serfs and the Gypsies. It’s only a small disc of gold, not of great value—Maya wears more gold on her wrists when she dances—but it gives hope, so long as we have it to remind ourselves that we have powerful friends.”

  “I forgive you,” I said. “I knew nothing about it, except that my father had it when he died.”

  “Then we are friends?” she said, her face lit up by a broad smile.

  I nodded. She threw her arms around my neck. By now we had reached the farms on the edge of the city, and a few laborers were trudging through the snow to cowsheds for the milking. They looked up at us curiously as we passed. Mirela’s passionate gestures were a little embarrassing to me, but despite our differences, I truly liked her. She released my neck and held my hand from then on, pointing out silly things along the way. She saw signs in everything: the shape of the clouds, the timing of a bird’s cry, how often the horse that drew the wagon shook his head, and where the bits of foam from his mouth landed. She made me feel as if I went through life not noticing anything at all
. She taught me a simple Gypsy song, a lullaby, in that strange language I had heard the Romany people speaking. She said she knew hundreds of songs and would teach them all to me if I wanted.

  “I don’t sing very well, but when I have a violin or a viola again, I would like to play your songs,” I said.

  “Ah, that is what your papa did. And sometimes he brought that older man, the one who works for the prince.”

  “My godfather? Kapellmeister Haydn?”

  “Yes, that is him. I liked him.”

  I noticed that we had reached the Marienhilferstrasse. Suddenly the thought of Toby and of the danger I had faced the night before broke afresh into my mind. Mirela’s stories had lulled me, but now it was time to act again. “I must leave you here,” I said, turning to ask the milkman to stop his horse.

  “Take care, Theresa,” Mirela said, her face clouding over. “Do not take so many risks. We are friends forever, and forever can be a long time—or a short one.”

  I kissed her on the cheek before hopping down from the wagon, and watched her waving at me as the Gypsy milkman drove on toward his deliveries in the city center.

  Although I would have preferred to speak with Zoltán and get his help in finding Toby, it was probably for the best that the cart’s path took me to Haydn’s apartment on Marienhilferstrasse. The maid almost shut the door in my face thinking I was a beggar, until I spoke and assured her that I was Theresa Schurman, the maestro’s goddaughter.

  Haydn took one look at me and ordered me to go to his wife’s dressing room to bathe. “She’s not there anyway. Stayed the night with her cousin.”