Sent to the Devil (14 page)

I peered into the cab, where Casanova was settling in too close to Marta for my taste. “Another mystery message, Giacomo?” I asked. “Don't you ever stop?”

He shrugged. “I know nothing about this, Lorenzo, I swear.”

I exchanged a few coins for the message, and the boy ran down the street. I unfolded the single sheet of paper, read it, gave instructions to the driver, and climbed into the cab.

“Would you mind if we make a brief stop before we go to the Redoutensaal?” I asked Marta. “I must see someone.”

“Of course not,” she replied.

The carriage rolled down the street, over the bridge, and through the Stuben gate into the city. I listened idly as Casanova entertained Marta with tales of his travels. The driver took the back streets, and it was not long before we arrived in the Freyung. As it turned to enter the courtyard of the Palais Albrechts, Marta craned her head out the window. I sighed inwardly. What a dolt I was. I had forgotten that von Gerl lived right next door.

As the cab pulled up at the front door of the palais, Benda emerged. I climbed out of the cab and turned back to my companions. “I'll just be a moment,” I said.

“Good evening, Da Ponte,” Benda said, shaking my hand. “Thank you for coming promptly.” He looked past me into the cab. “I see I've interrupted your plans.” He leaned forward and introduced himself to Marta and Casanova. “Please, there is no need to sit outside. Come in.” He reached in to help Marta down. Casanova followed. I asked the driver to wait, and followed the three of them into the palais.

A servant appeared and took Marta's cloak. Benda murmured an order to him, and then led us up to the first floor and into the salon, where Christiane sat in her armchair. She rose as we entered.

“Look who I've found, my love,” Benda said. “Signor Da Ponte and some friends.” I bowed and introduced Marta and Casanova to her.

Christiane smiled and beckoned to Marta. “Please, Miss Cavalli. Come sit by me,” she said. “I seldom see any gentlewomen my own age these days. Are you all going to the Redoutensaal?” Marta nodded and took a seat on the sofa near Christiane. The servant entered carrying a tray of glasses filled with champagne. Casanova took one and sat nearby.

Benda handed me a glass and pulled me aside. “Troger has found the name of the protester,” he said. “Michael Richter. He lives over in the Judenplatz.”

“When do you want to question him?” I asked. “Tomorrow morning? I am free—”

“I've already spoken to him,” Benda said. I struggled to keep annoyance from my face. I glanced over at Marta, who was chatting happily with Christiane. “He claims he was nowhere near the Am Hof that night.”

“But the baker seemed so sure the man he saw running was him,” I said. Christiane rose, took Marta's hand, and led her out of the room.

“Richter is lying,” Benda said. “That's a sure sign of guilt. We'll have to find a way to corroborate the baker's story.”

“How?” I asked.

“I've asked Troger to find out more about Richter's past. Meanwhile, I'm told he lives with his mother. She might know something. We should talk to her.”

I nodded. I sipped my champagne. After a few minutes, the two women returned.

Marta came to me, her face glowing with delight. “Look, Lorenzo,” she said. “Mademoiselle Albrechts has loaned me a pair of her earrings.” I glanced quickly at a pair of crystals hanging from her delicate ears. She returned to the sofa and sat by Casanova.

“They look wonderful with your dress,” Christiane said. She looked down at her mourning dress. “I won't have a chance to wear them anytime soon. Please keep them as long as you'd like.”

Casanova leaned over and fingered one of the stones. “They are beautiful, but mere stars to the moonlight of your eyes, my dear,” he said. Marta giggled.

I turned back to Benda. “Let me know when you are ready to proceed,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “I'll check my diary and send you a message.” I noticed Casanova regarding us, speculation in his eyes.

We stayed for a few more minutes, chatting and finishing the champagne, then gave our thanks to our hosts and walked downstairs. The servant brought Marta's cloak. I helped her into it, and the three of us walked into the warm moonlit night.

 

Ten

The cab dropped us near the front entrance to the Redoutensaal. The windows of the long, elegant wing of the imperial palace blazed with light. The plaza in front was jammed with gilded private carriages egesting members of high society dressed in the latest fashions. Behind them, more modestly dressed members of the public climbed from hansom cabs and carts and joined the throng heading toward the door. As the three of us climbed from our cab, Casanova discovered he had left his purse behind in his room. I dug into my pocket to pay the fare.

We followed the crowd into the lobby and up the wide staircase to the ballrooms. The building contained several large connecting rooms, and thus could be used either for small, intimate concerts or for large dances like the one tonight.

At the landing, Marta excused herself to refresh her powder. “I'll check your cloak and get us a drink,” I said. “More champagne?” She nodded and disappeared into a large group of chattering ladies moving down the hallway.

“She is a lovely young lady,” Casanova murmured in my ear. “I believe there is a chance for you there, my friend.” I shook my head. We checked Marta's cloak and entered the first ballroom. The light, airy space was filled with dancers, their jewels glittering as they reflected the candlelight from the chandeliers that hung from every part of the expansive ceiling. At the far end of the room, a band of musicians struck up a minuet. The dancers formed two long lines, the ladies facing their partners, and began the graceful movements forward and backward, never touching one another.

“Da Ponte!” Valentin von Gerl, dressed in an elegant satin suit the color of plums, approached and pumped my hand. “We meet again so soon! I'm sorry I had to run off the other day.”

“No apologies are necessary,” I said. “It is good to see you again, sir.”

Von Gerl turned to Casanova. “Excuse me, have we met before? You look very familiar to me,” he said.

“Von Gerl, this is my good friend Giacomo Casanova,” I said. “Giacomo, Baron von Gerl.” The two men bowed to one another.

“Casanova!” von Gerl exclaimed. “It's an honor to meet you, sir. I've read your translation of the
Iliad.
”

Casanova beamed at him.

“And of course I've heard the story of your escape from Venice. You must tell me all about it—”

I glanced around the room as they chatted, hoping that Marta would not appear too soon.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” von Gerl said. “I see someone I must speak to—a book dealer, for my collections.” He bowed to Casanova. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. You must come have dinner while you are here and tour my collections.” We watched as he hurried into the next room.

“A very interesting man,” Casanova said. “Excuse me, Lorenzo. I too see someone I must greet. I will see you later.”

I wandered through the crowd, searching for the bar. A voice called my name. I turned to see Salieri. I bowed to his wife and shook his hand.

“You are not dancing?” I asked.

“No, we are on our way out,” he replied. “Theresa has a headache.” He looked around. “It is so crowded—one would never imagine the country is at war.”

“Have you seen the bar?” I asked him.

He gestured toward the door leading to the next ballroom. “The champagne is in there,” he said. “I haven't seen the punch tables.” He nodded to me and led his wife away.

I looked around the room for Marta, but did not see her, so I wandered into the next room to get the champagne. The band in here was playing a contredanse. The dancers lined up in the middle of the room, each dancing around his or her partner, the petty merchants and workers energetically to the beat of the music, the nobles more sedately, to their own rhythm.

I saw a punch table at the side of the room, but no champagne, so I went into the last room, where I found the bar. As I stood in line, watching couples move in a large circle to the lively music, Mozart and Constanze twirled by, his hand around her waist. They stopped to greet me.

“This is one of my dances,” Mozart said. “What do you think?”

“It's very sprightly,” I said.

“Sprightly, sprightly. I like that,” Mozart said. He clasped Constanze's arm. “Come, my love, let us dance to the sprightly music your husband has composed.” Constanze laughed as he pulled her away. “If he didn't write music, he would be a dancer,” she said. “We'll talk later, Lorenzo.” I waved as they rejoined the large circle.

The line for the champagne was not moving. I looked around and saw another one across the room. Sophie Lamm stood alone at the end of the table. I worked my way through the crowd to greet her. When I was a few feet away from her, I passed a pair of well-dressed women. One of them glanced over at Sophie.

“I don't know what the emperor was thinking, opening this place to the public,” she sniffed to her friend, her loud voice aimed toward my landlady's daughter. “Look, the peasants are taking over.” Sophie's cheeks flushed. I hurried toward her, but before I could reach her, von Gerl swooped in and took her hand. He leaned his head close to hers and murmured in her ear. She smiled.

I moved to the other side of the bar, where the line seemed shorter. Ahead of me, two noblemen were prognosticating the effects of the war. “Taxes will go up, mark my word,” one said. Behind me, a young man with a high-pitched voice complained to his companion. “I never thought I would miss Hungarian wine,” he said. “The bilgewater they sell here now isn't fit to feed the hogs on my father's estate.”

I glanced over to the end of the long table, where Stefan had joined Sophie and von Gerl. He said a few words to Sophie. She shook her head. He glanced at von Gerl, who still held Sophie's hand, then reached for her other arm, as if to lead her away. She shook her head again. Von Gerl put out his hand to stop Stefan from grabbing the girl. The young stonemason flushed with anger, said a few words to Sophie, and then stomped away. The baron laughed and took Sophie's other hand.

Across the room I saw Marta dancing with Casanova. I looked at the line of people ahead of me. I could be here all evening and my old friend would have persuaded Marta to elope to Paris with him. I quit the line and walked toward them. The music had stopped and people were milling about, chatting.

“This war is going to last years…”

“Have you seen the prices at the market?”

“Our cook just heard that her son died in the field hospital in Semlin.”

“It's time for us to approach the emperor and urge him to end this war. I don't know about you, but I have a warehouse full of fine porcelain that no one is interested in buying.”

“Kaunitz must be replaced. This war is his idea.”

“Shhh … careful … the walls have ears.”

I passed my fellow lodger, Strasser, who was deep in conversation with two other professors from the university. He nodded a greeting at me.

“There you are, Lorenzo,” Marta said. She looked at my empty hands.

“The lines for the champagne are too long,” I said, coloring with embarrassment.

“It's all right,” she said. “I doubt it was French champagne, anyway. Will you dance with me?” I led her onto the floor and put my arm around her waist. We joined the circle of dancers, stepping back and forth briskly. My heart pounded—more from my enjoyment of holding her than from the strenuousness of the dance steps—as we whirled around the room to Mozart's music.

As we passed along the longer side of the room, Marta stiffened. I followed her gaze to the end of the champagne bar, where von Gerl stood laughing with Sophie. I turned her away from the sight and hurried her around the room, but it was too late. She had grown quiet, and her feet no longer matched my steps.

We danced by Strasser and his colleagues. Baron Hennen had joined them, and was arguing loudly with two of the professors. A third man took his arm and led him away. “You are drunk, sir,” I heard him say to Hennen.

“Can we stop, please, Lorenzo?” Marta asked. “I'm very tired.” She looked over to the spot where von Gerl had stood with Sophie. They had disappeared.

I led her to a chair across the room. “Sit and rest for a while,” I said. “Would you like a cold punch?”

She nodded.

I gestured back to the middle room. “I have to go in there to get it. Stay right here. I'll be back soon.”

As I entered the adjoining ballroom, a wave of heat passed over me, and a hammer began to pound in my head. I walked out of the room into the wide hallway that ran the combined length of the ballrooms. I felt a breeze coming from the left, so I walked down the hall toward an open window to get a breath of fresh air. As I approached, I heard a familiar voice.

“Brrr…” my landlady's daughter said. “There's a draft. Can't we move away from these windows?”

“Put your arms around me. I'll warm you,” a man's voice said. I heard a giggle, then a loud sigh. A moment later, the man groaned.

I peeked around the corner. Sophie stood in a small vestibule, her slim arms clasped above her head, pinned against the wall by a male hand. The bodice of her dress had been untied and her chemise pulled down. Valentin von Gerl's face was buried in her downy breast. His left hand moved expertly to lift her pink skirt.

I stepped back into the hallway, coughed loudly, waited a moment, and then entered the vestibule. “Oh, there you are, Sophie,” I said, trying to keep my eyes away from her breasts. She started, and then, seeing me, reddened and clutched at her chemise. Von Gerl released her, pulled down her skirt, and smiled at me.