I think I must have fallen asleep almost immediately. When I awoke, I found myself in the dark except for the glow of the fire in the stove. I was still tired, but the thought of what I had to do that evening soon made me leap out of bed. If all went according to plan, we would find Toby, expose my uncle’s treachery, and vindicate my father’s death. Soon after I finished dressing in the simple uniform of a musician, a plain black coat, black satin breeches, and white hose, I heard steps on the stairs to the apartment, and then the grinding of a key in a lock. Zoltán came in, accompanied by Alida carrying a wig box.
She took my presence there as a matter of course. I was heartily glad to see her, I must say. She had an air of serenity about her that was very reassuring. Perhaps it was her practical side that gave that impression. She always seemed to know what to do, no matter the circumstances.
“We must get your lovely hair out of the way,” Alida said. She had made me sit on a chair and stood behind me, brushing my hair and sweeping it back into a knot. But I was blessed with a long, thick mane, and no matter how she tried, she could not hide it beneath the bob wig she had brought with her. Eventually she had to send Zoltán out for a bag wig. It solved our difficulty, my hair tamed into a thick braid fitting neatly into the black taffeta bag that hung down at the back.
Before we left the apartment, Zoltán loaded and primed the pistol I was to carry and showed me how to aim it and fire. It was heavy. I was afraid I would not be able to manage it.
“Use two hands,” he said. He stood behind me and wrapped his arms around mine, his hands clasped over my fingers, completely covering them. I felt his breath on my ear as he explained how to look through the two prongs of the sight. The sensation of his closeness made my own breath quicken a little. I wished that if I ever had to fire the pistol, it could be like this, with Zoltán supporting me and holding me steady. “Aim for the middle of your target, and at least you’ll have a chance of hitting some part of it,” he said. “Although you will probably hardly be aiming at all, just away from us.” I noticed that he avoided referring to a “target” as a person. I didn’t really want to think about the remote possibility that I might have to use the pistol for something other than making noise, that it might just as easily be a means of defending myself from some unforeseen harm.
The concert was to start at seven of the clock. Musicians were therefore expected to arrive shortly after the vesper bells tolled from St. Stephen’s. I was glad of the early darkness as I strode along next to Zoltán toward the Graben, my hand gripping the brass handle on the top of the viola case. I felt naked without the weight of petticoats anchoring me to the earth, but it was an exhilarating nakedness, full of freedom and danger. Papa, forgive me, I thought, wondering if he could watch the coming events unfold from his vantage point in heaven. I tried not to think about what was to come, instead concentrating on the sight of Zoltán walking slightly ahead of me, admiring the way his confident step and upright bearing cut a path through the evening crowds in the center of the city.
My stomach was doing battle with itself by the time we reached my uncle’s house. I couldn’t find it in me to enjoy the spectacle of the guests arriving in their elegant carriages and being handed out by footmen, and then ushered in through the door by the same valet who had blithely shut me up in the sewer. Zoltán and I followed the other musicians around to the back of the house, to a door that led in through the kitchen. I wondered if Haydn would have to take that same route, or whether he would be accorded the respect due to him as an officer in the prince’s house hold and be allowed to mingle with the guests before taking his position with the orchestra.
We didn’t say a thing as we shed our coats and cloaks and lifted our instruments out of their cases. I wasn’t sure what everyone knew, or how many of the orchestra members would be familiar to me. I was acquainted with just about everyone in Prince Nicholas’s orchestra by sight, and friendly with many of them. I knew I had to be careful not to let them recognize me. Not only my boy’s clothing, but the press of the cold, hard pistol tucked into my waist beneath my coat made me feel especially conscious of myself. I thought all eyes must be staring at me as I followed the general movement of the players through to the dining room. A few of the musicians had already taken their places. Among these I noticed Schnabl, and turned my face away immediately. Seeing him reminded me that I had said nothing to my godfather or Zoltán about his unexplained presence near this same house two days before, carrying a folio of music.
The spacious chamber had been cleared of its table, a low platform erected on which we all took our places, and the remaining area filled with several rows of delicate wooden chairs for the audience. Some seats were already occupied by elderly ladies and gentlemen, whispering quietly to each other or sitting in silence with their eyes closed. The murmur of more lively guests reached me from another room.
When I finally worked up the courage to look around at the other members of the orchestra, I was surprised to find how few faces I recognized, apart from Zoltán and Schnabl. Many of them nonetheless seemed a bit familiar, but in that manner of people one knows from somewhere else appearing where you don’t expect them. A few smiled in my direction. I quickly looked at the music in front of me and pretended to be finding my cues. They must not suspect who I was.
It wasn’t until Haydn took his place at the harpsichord to direct us that I suddenly realized why the faces around me struck chords of recognition. Most of them had been in the Gypsy camp on the two occasions I had visited it. Yet there they had mainly dark hair and wore bright-colored clothes. Here all of them had on white bob wigs or bag wigs and wore simple, dark clothing. None of their gold jewelry was in evidence, either, although I noticed a hole in one fellow’s earlobe that had clearly been stretched out by a heavy hoop. Scattered among the Gypsy musicians were only one or two of the prince’s regular musicians. No one I knew well—except for Schnabl.
I was brought back to the present when Zoltán gave the A, there being no wind players engaged for the evening. I put the viola to my shoulder. Its shape was comfortingly familiar. I cradled the neck in the V of my thumb and first finger, stretching my hand farther along so I could reach the tuning pins. It was a lovely instrument, I thought perhaps Italian. And the bow I drew across to test the pitch of each string was well balanced. I winced every now and again as I accidentally hit the tender spot on my hand where the splinter had been.
A short serenade began the concert. I played the simple viola part quietly, not daring to open up the sound in case I made a mistake. But despite my anxiety I was able to enjoy the sensation of sitting amid the players for once, not outside of them. The music sounded so different here. From my position, the cello parts sang out loudly, and I realized how carefully everything must be balanced to make the music blend into a harmonious wash of sound for the enjoyment of those who sat out in front. I had never really thought about it before, and wished I could be in two places at once: where I was in the orchestra and out in the audience, just to hear the difference.
There were three violists, and we all shared one score. I tried hard not to look at my deskmates, instead concentrating on the notes. I smiled to myself as I recognized what we were playing—only a few days ago I had heard Haydn sing that very line to me so that I could write it down. And then my smile broadened when I realized it was similar to something I had heard Danior play in the Gypsy camp. Here was evidence of how music could find its own way through the world.
The audience applauded without much enthusiasm after the serenade. They were not the usual collection of music lovers who attended the gatherings at the prince’s palace. Haydn stood and bowed to them, but rather than seat himself at the harpsichord again for the next selection, he remained standing until the applause died away—which wasn’t long.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Your Excellency, distinguished guests,” he began.
I looked up toward the audience when he said “Your Excellency.” I assumed he must be referring to the
Hungarian ambassador. I saw a gentleman in a gold lace-trimmed coat wearing many honors and sashes. Perhaps that was him. If so, he did not respond to the greeting in a very gallant manner, only nodding and then turning back to the lady he was conversing with. I still saw no sign of my uncle, dreading that he would appear at any moment and see me in the orchestra. I hoped Zoltán was right, that he would never think to notice the musicians.
“We have several unique compositions to perform for you this evening,” the maestro said once the crowd settled. “The next requires only a small number of the players, as do the selections to follow, so please bear with us while certain of our performers are dismissed. They will return to take their places for the final work, a symphony whose extraordinary form will, I believe, prove surprising to you.”
I caught Zoltán’s eye. He raised one eyebrow and I stood up, laying the viola carefully on the floor by my stool before following about eight other players out through the door that had admitted us to the dining room. Among them were Danior and two other violinists, the percussionist, and the second cellist. I knew that Zoltán would not come with us. He had explained that he could not risk jeopardizing his sister’s position. Trust Danior, he had said. I hoped he was right. So far, everything was going smoothly.
I made the mistake of glancing around me just before I disappeared into the anteroom with the others. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the obnoxious maid, Hildegard. Her eyes met mine and opened wide. I saw her nearly stumble as she presented an elderly lady with a cordial. What should I do? I thought. It was too late to change anything. The plan was already under way. Perhaps I had mistaken her expression. But no. I knew that at any moment, Hildegard would seek out my uncle, and that he would send someone back to get me. The only thing to do was to accomplish our task as quickly as possible.
“This crowd just wants to get in to dinner,” grumbled the cellist who had left the orchestra with us, a new fellow whose name I didn’t know. He flopped onto the only chair in the anteroom. The percussionist—a man I recognized from the Gypsy camp—sat on the floor.
I’d better warn Danior, I thought, trying to catch his eye. But he refused to look up at me, only lounging against the wall nonchalantly with the others, who I guessed were all Gypsies. I did my best to behave as they did despite my pounding heart and the certainty that soon we would be stopped from doing what we had come here to do.
I heard the beginning of a divertimento from the other room.
“I must excuse myself,” Danior said.
“Breath of air,” said another of the Roma, signaling to a violinist who sauntered after him.
They passed through into the kitchen. Danior gave a quick jerk of his head as he walked by me. Altogether four of us entered my uncle’s large, busy kitchen, where the cook and her helpers scurried around through clouds of steam, orders flying from one end to another. No sign of Hildegard or my uncle there. A scullery maid nearly crashed into me with a bucket of boiling water in her hands, which I could see were so chapped and cracked they bled. “Get out of the way!” she hissed.
We huddled toward the pantry end of the kitchen. A prayer circled through my mind over and over: Please, God, don’t let her find my uncle; please, God, don’t let her find my uncle … Then I noticed Maya, her arms deep in a vat of dough. She hardly looked up, only subtly turning her head in the direction of the pantry. I saw that the door stood slightly ajar. The cook yelled at us, “Don’t think you’ll get any food by standing there!” But soon all the kitchen staff were once again so absorbed getting the many dishes prepared to serve when the concert ended that I think they forgot us.
We made our way to the pantry door. Without actually looking at him, only noticing from the corner of my eye, I saw Danior reach out his hand and grasp the latch. At the moment of greatest confusion, he opened it and slipped inside. The next violinist did the same. The third fellow elbowed me over toward the door, and I waited for my chance to follow the other two. Before long all four of us were in the cool darkness of the pantry.
“The door to the cellar is at that end,” I whispered. One of the men fumbled around for a candle and a match bottle. I heard him strike the flint, and the tiny flame pooled over his hands as he touched the match to the candle’s wick. Without a word, he took the light to the low door, which had been somewhat disguised by the clever placement of a shelf above it. The door was not locked. He pushed it open, illuminating the stairs so we could descend.
The first rooms of the cellar were much as I remembered them from my frenzied exploration the night before. Some of the wine bottles had been taken out of their racks and placed on a simple table, ready to be served to the guests.
“How did you get out?” Danior whispered to me.
“Through here,” I answered.
I led them through the room where the beer and root vegetables were stored and was about to make my way toward the door to the last, long chamber, when Danior grabbed hold of me and pulled me back.
Ahead of us a guard sat slumped on the floor, his musket loosely cradled in his arms. His head lolled forward and nodded rhythmically in time to his breathy snores.
“There was no guard the other night,” I whispered into Danior’s ear.
I wanted to tell him about Hildegard then, to warn him that we had no time, but his hand tightened on my arm. “We’ll need to take care of him. You must not look.”
What would they do? The fellow seemed as innocent as the greengrocer, his face all slack and his body limp. But if he gave the alarm, it would be impossible for us to continue. And now it was clear that someone—or something—was being kept hidden in that cellar room, the one that had been so unaccountably empty before. I could still see the valet’s smug smile as he showed me the space and then let me walk unsuspectingly into the sewer.
I turned my eyes away obediently. Danior and the other violinist crept toward the sleeping sentry. I wondered what they could do that would be silent and still ensure our safety. I peeked and saw the other fellow slip a long, thin dagger out of a sheath. Danior reached into his sleeve and pulled out a length of rope. Would they stab him, as someone had stabbed my father? Or would they wrap the rope around his neck and squeeze the life out of him? I could not move. My eyes were drawn to them.
They acted so quickly and smoothly I hardly understood what happened. The guard opened his eyes wide in sleepy surprise just as Danior landed a punch in the center of his face that knocked him over and sent blood gushing from his nose. Quickly, they used the dagger to cut the rope into two lengths, one to bind his hands and one his feet. Then they wadded a rag and stuffed it into his mouth.
They moved the trussed-up guard away from the door that led to the long room beneath the dining room. We entered that chamber in the same order we had entered the pantry and the cellar. Danior’s and the other violinists’ eyes were already as round as dark chocolate bon-bons by the time I was able to look around the room at the sight illuminated by our single candle.
CHAPTER 22
Lined up with their backs against the wall and their legs out straight, hands tied behind them, feet bound together, and mouths gagged so tightly the skin was stretched over their cheeks, were about a dozen young boys. The oldest looked to be a year or two younger than I was, the youngest about five or six. Some looked as though they had been beaten. All of them were frightened.
And right in the middle, one side of his face swollen as though he had been hit with a hard object, was Toby, still in the Esterhazy livery, which was now dirty and torn.
I ran to him as if in a dream, feeling as though my legs would not push against the ground fast enough to close the distance between us. When I reached him, I fumbled with the ropes tied around his ankles. Making no progress, I tried to untie his gag, but I had no strength in my fingers. All the while the faint strains of a string quartet, the beautiful adagio I had written down for my godfather only days before, filtered through the ceiling of the room.
I hardly noticed that Danior had
come over and crouched beside me, using his thin dagger to slice through the ropes and the gag in an instant. Toby fell into my arms, weeping.
“I’m so sorry, Toby! He won’t get away with it,” I murmured into his matted and dirty hair.
Danior gripped my arm again. I looked around in annoyance, but he put his finger to his lips and glared at me. I held my breath, and heard what he had heard. The crunch of boots on stone. Someone was coming.
As quietly as the wild cats that slunk around the alleys at night, the three men withdrew into positions in the dark corners of the room. Danior motioned me to do the same, but I did not want to let go of Toby. I tried to get him to stand up. Either they had hurt his legs, or fear and fatigue had made him weak, because he could not support his own weight. “Come, Toby, lean on me!” I whispered. The violinist doused his candle with the palm of his hand, and we were instantly wrapped in darkness. I felt Toby’s quiet tears soak into my shoulder.
The next moments went by so fast, yet I have relived them many times since then as though they had happened under deep water, all movements slowed by the effort of struggling through liquid. First, I heard expressions of surprise and anger outside the door. They had found the unconscious guard.
“Must have been ten of them at least! I could not hold out.” Even as the guard spoke, the door was being opened.
Torchlight flooded into the room, fanning out from the door. A musket barrel advanced into the space, followed by three men in the black-and-white uniforms of the imperial guard, all of them with muskets out. The music from above flowed in with them—they had obviously left the doors to the pantry and the cellar open behind them. I heard the end of the string quartet followed by polite applause. The sound of my heart beating filled the silence in my ears, and I was certain they could all hear it.
The Musician's Daughter Page 16
