Nightingale (36 page)

He had existed comfortably, had kept some of his treasures and the memory of his talent green by the steady earnings of a much-sought after teacher. The ultimate dream, of a sunny, carefree retirement, had eluded him. Now, in one stroke, the Count had provided his heart’s dream!

"It seems," he said, speaking aloud into the seething moment, "that Primo Bellisimo Manzoli has been rewarded at last. Here is far better than a mere thirty pieces of silver."

Chapter
22

Final business was wrapped up in a time which painfully mingled tears and joy. Klara gave her weeping servants notice, notified to her landlord and obtained the all-important letter of credit from her banker. She knew that Liese and Herr Messer both would apply to the Count for work, and she honestly wished them well. She too wept at times, thinking of how drastically her life was about to change. She and Liese now sometimes sat together and talked over the long years they’d shared.

Trying to understand what she to do with Satz was another problem. He’d always lived in her apartment, and that was the safe and comfortable life he knew. There was no guarantee the next tenants would want him and Satz was no longer a tough free-ranging tomcat. Transporting him would be difficult for her and frightening for the cat, who was, like all his kind, a creature of habit. She was surprised when Manzoli came to her rescue, for he truly loved cats, and, as he wrote to Klara, “We castratos must look after for one another. And, my dear, if fate ever returns you to our musical city, he will still be here with me, waiting to see you again, as shall we all, your faithful devotees.”

She’d wept again, leaving her warm, furry friend behind in that big gloomy apartment.

***

“Ah, that’s a beautiful cat, Signor.” Manzoli’s dwarfish servant spoke. She’d entered from the kitchen with a welcoming dish of finely chopped
kidney and set it down beside the sofa under which Satz had gone to hide. “I’ve never seen one like him. So handsome, and such big boots!”

“Yes, he’s
from the far, far north.”

Together they watched until a fuzzy six-toed paw extended from beneath the sofa, hooked a piece of meat and then withdrew with it into the shadows.

“Soon he’ll be sitting with you at the table and helping you with your charts, Signor.”

“So I hope,” said Manzoli. “We know how to spoil them in this house, don’t we, Signora?”

“Indeed we do, Signor. Signorina Silber was crying dreadfully when she went down the stairs. She must truly love him very much.”

“She cries for the cat,” Manzoli said with a sigh, “but not so much for me.”

Chapter 23

Warm weather and flowers came suddenly. Klara and Akos left Vienna and journeyed down the Danube, past Bratislava, out of Osterreich. On the north side of the river lay the land of the Slovenes, and to the south, that of the Hungarians. Friends from Vehnsky’s service, a pair of soldiers as well as Akos’ friend, Ferenc, and his wife, both of whom were in the orchestra, made cheerful company. There was a sense of safety in numbers.

They had been married by a priest attached to the household the day after that remarkable performance of the Nightingale. The old Prince had done them the honor of witnessing the ceremony and then suggested that as Klara had already wound up her business in Vienna, they leave as soon as possible and travel to his estate near the ancient city of Komoron.

"No need to rub salt in a certain gentleman's wounds with your continued presence. I give you both leave to go and to take some of your friends with you, Akos. I do not think it would be wise for you to travel alone."

They’d journeyed quickly and warily until the talk in the inns changed from German into a language Klara heard at first as an unintelligible babble. Here, Akos told her, the colorfully dressed country folk were speaking the ancient Magyar tongue. They had entered Hungary, their promised refuge, and the relief felt by the party was palpable.

It was odd to hear her new friends switch languages too, in the markets or at the inns. Akos began to teach Klara phrases. Still, it was unlike any other language Klara knew. Just getting her tongue around the sounds could be difficult.

"Nosonmagyarova." She repeated the name of their latest stopping place. "Why, you can walk from one end of this town to the other quicker than you can say the name."

Akos only laughed. "It will only get worse. After you have arrived at Komoron, my Grandfather Almassy will not be satisfied until you have also mastered Czech. Your education in difficult, unfashionable languages has only just begun."

The rush in which they'd traveled at first had wearied them all. Though the town was small, it occupied a pleasant overlook, and, unexpectedly, they found a comfortable inn. Klara's Magyar companions rejoiced at the spicy hot odors issuing from the kitchen.

When asked, "What's cooking?" the innkeeper waved breezily and proudly declared, "
Gulyas, hal paprikas, tokany, turoscsuszal, baratfule….
"

Ferenc and their two other companions, soldiers of Vehnsky’s guard called Karoly and Sandor, linked arms and executed a series of stamping, heel clicking steps. As they danced and sang, the innkeeper beamed, and, with gestures as well as words, made them all welcome.

"With that kind of supper, we are certainly in Hungary, and our friends are rejoicing with a few steps from the hajdutanc." Akos interpreted the scene for Klara. Seeing everyone else so happy made Klara happy, too.

"The innkeeper says that he and his wife are cooking goulash, which is a meat stew with lots of paprika, fish soup thickened with paprika sauce, peppered mutton, noodles and curds, and jam pastries."

"Paprika sauce in a fish soup? Paprika … in everything?"

"Except in the baratfule. That is the pastry."

"Oh dear!"

"Hungarians are great cooks. And if it takes you time to grow accustomed to spices, you can live on noodles and baratfule in the meantime."

Klara wasn't entirely certain about this. She'd always had a delicate stomach, but perhaps now that she was away from Max, it would react in a different way. The joyful anticipation of these men for familiar cooking filled her with an unaccustomed optimism. They were staying, she learned, at a Csardas, or country inn. As they strolled through the town the next day, she saw Hungarian dress, the women's patterned skirts covered by heavily embroidered aprons. Some of the men, those in from the highlands, wore the Szur, a long cloak of ornamented white wool.

The newlyweds were given a room under the eaves which would have been miserable during the high summer. Now, however, with the chilly nights of spring and a view out dormer windows to the broad-backed Danube and the cliffs opposite, it was the best room in the house.

Akos' friends teased, but the couple retired early, leaving the men of their party attempting to erase the homesick time in Vienna by drinking the innkeeper's entire supply of Bikaver, a strong red wine whose name meant ‘bull's blood’. At first, in the luxurious privacy of their own room, they couldn't get enough of each other, although Klara felt suddenly shy. It seemed wrong to possess such explicit desires, wrong to know how to satisfy them, wrong to want to do things with Akos that she'd first done with Max. She was fearful that he might lose respect for her.

Akos, however, sensing her moods, gradually drew out the truth. Then, with a particularly masculine shine in his eyes, he soothed.

"There is no sin in us. No matter what experiences we have had, when we are together our love renders us innocent. When we give ourselves to each other, it is done not only in sanctity, but in perfect freedom."

"But, my dear, the priests say that even in marriage, pleasure is not…
."

"As you know by now," he traced slow fingers down her smooth naked side, "I have no patience for such nonsense. What can a man who has never lain in a woman's arms have to say about the matter?
We looked into each other's eyes that day in Vehnsky's rehearsal room and saw the rest of our lives. Now we belong to each other till Death. What kind of poor creature would I be if I destroyed the joy you give me by dwelling on things past?"

"Well, I'm afraid I still am green with jealousy when I think of you with Iveta Wranitzsky. And sometimes when we are making love, like now, I can't help but feel as if, as if
….”

He was exploring as she spoke, opening door after door of pleasure with delicious refinement. But how easy it was, this all over tasting, this suckling delight, when the body of the other was a longed-for-divinity, when every sense was ecstatic
….

"As if…
." He prompted, coming to kiss her soft, parted lips.

"As if
… oh, God, my darling, it makes me so ashamed. As if they were somehow here, with us." She hid her face against his shoulder, tried to rub the thought away against his taut youthful skin.

His beautiful hands moved, gently stroking her loosened, shining hair. "They are ghosts, Klara, our ghosts, but they will fade." He comforted her, nuzzling against her cheek, "I know one sure way to vanquish them. Like all exorcism, though, it is not without terrible dangers of its own."

In the next moment, he had pushed her back into the featherbed. Gasping, Klara locked her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. In the lusty tumult of man to woman, there was nothing calculated, nothing jaded, only joy undiluted.

"You were right." She murmured afterwards, stroking his face, basking in the adoring gaze of his mysterious lion's eyes. "That was just us."

"That kind of bliss has made us three."

"I am proud to carry your baby."

"This will change your life, Klara."

"Yes. And yours, too, Concertmaster."

"Indeed." He smiled. "A change I welcome."

There was no reason anymore to hold back the sweet, hot spending. Just as he knew, nothing seemed to banish Max’s memory so entirely. The sunset that flooded their room was dazzling.

***

The inn sat high up on the bank, looking down upon a red roofed fisherman's village below. Although big trees came down the slope behind and draped their shade across the roof, she thought she had never been in a town with so much light. In Vienna, the houses hung their gabled heads over the streets; they leaned into shadow. In a ground floor apartment, the sun was a miracle that appeared only for a few minutes during the long winter days.

In this small town, sunlight seemed everywhere. At first it made Klara feel sleepy, overwhelmed by light. From the gray streets and gray walls of Vienna, the only refuge had been the Prater or the Augarten, both parks so tamed, sometimes dirty, and always filled with bustling throngs. The greasy smell of roasting chops and chicken rose on every side. Corks and abandoned bottles could be seen discarded in the flowerbeds.

Strolling in the woods here, above the great river with her new friends, Klara saw only wildflowers, birds, and scampering rabbits. Once, a sudden crashing shook the underbrush, but when Klara startled, ready to jump out of her skin, Akos pointed out two young black-tailed does taking flight.

The following day, they climbed to a rocky prominence above the town. There, over Klara's head, stretched a bowl of blue sky and clouds, a magnificent vista across the water to the tamer, vine-cultivated bank on the Slovene side. The first time she looked down, she felt dizzy. She sat upon the high rock, trying to master a sense of freedom that was so immense that she could almost believe that somehow she might fall upward and spin away into that wide blue sky!

From the spot, the men pointed out boat traffic. They had all often traveled the river and discussed destinations and possible cargoes. Overhead birds of prey soared, from one side of the gulf to the other. Sunlight grazed Klara's fair face and hands, wind lifted fine tendrils of escaping, auburn hair. Below, an orchard past full flower rained white petals on the ground.

"I feel so strange. All my life I've been surrounded by walls. First I was locked into Saint Cecilia's cloister at Verona, then into Viennese apartments and opera houses, but the sky here is so wide."

"All for you fly in, sweet bird." His eyes were full of delight. Because they were in company with the others, he merely lifted her fingers for a kiss.

"Have you never been to the country before?" Ferenc’s wife, Amalie, turned to ask.

"Count Oettingen has several summer places," Klara replied, realizing she did not want to remember any of them. Last summer, Max had taken her to an estate in the countryside west of Gratz, just inside the boundaries of mountainous Carinthia. That retreat was closest to the town of Bad Leonhard, a spa where they and their companions had gone to bathe in the hot mineral waters.

Although there had been sky above and forest around, it had been simply another dimension of Max's cage. He usually took his music-loving friends along, and music, in the form of a small band and Klara's voice, went on until late every night. In fact, although the birds sang prettily and the garden was green and elegant, Max's estate was to Klara a mostly nighttime world, a place where they arose around noon, exactly as in town. There, as in Vienna, the formalities of dress and toilette were maintained, and Liese and a hairdresser would spend hours attiring Klara, curling her hair, lacing her into stays and pinning her into dresses and painting her face.