Sent to the Devil (17 page)

“It is difficult for a young woman to lose her father,” I murmured.

“I know that,” he snapped. His voice softened. “Of course I do. Her peace of mind is the most important thing in the world to me.”

We approached the entrance to the Hofburg.

“I understand her grief. I feel it too. Watching her suffer wounds me to the center of my being. There will be no joy in my life until she gets over this sorrow, and is able to share a happy life with me.”

I nodded. At the arch that led into the main courtyard to the Hofburg, Benda told me that he would come by tomorrow and we would visit the protester Richter's mother. We parted, he going to direct Troger to question Hennen's neighbors about the delivery of a message last night, and I heading to my office and work.

 

Thirteen

Caterina Cavalieri bore down on me as I entered the theater lobby.

“Ah, Lorenzo, there you are,” she said.

I bowed.

“Antonio and I were discussing the opera last night,” she said. “We believe my character is a bit underdeveloped.”

I sighed inwardly. The bane of any theater poet is a soprano who is the inamorata of the company's music director.

“She just has that first aria, at the very beginning of the opera. The rest of the time I sing in ensembles.”

I opened my mouth to speak but she put up her hand to stop me.

“Yes, of course, the music in the ensembles is beautiful. But Antonio and I agree that Donna Elvira needs something more. She's a much more interesting woman than Donna Anna, don't you think? And Donna Anna has two long arias! Not to say that Lange is not divine in that role.” She sniffed. “But she is still young. She doesn't have the experience to play a complex character like Elvira. The depths of her passion for Giovanni, the range of emotions she feels—I love playing her. And of course, your writing for her—your words are so expressive.”

She batted her eyelashes at me.

“Antonio and I would love to see what you and Wolfgang can do to expand the role a bit,” she continued.

“Madame—”

“I've been thinking. That spot in the last act, where Morella is supposed to sing his aria—the poor man, coloratura doesn't come naturally to everyone. I am so appreciative to God for my own gift. Why not put something for me there?”

She stopped to breathe and I was able to get a word in.

“I'll talk with Wolfgang, madame. I'm sure we could fit a short aria for you in the second act.”

“Short? Oh, no. Antonio and I were thinking of a long scene. Elvira, alone on the stage. First a lengthy recitative, perhaps accompanied by one or two instruments. She will bare her soul to the audience, confessing that she still loves Giovanni. Then an aria. I'll need at least four stanzas to portray her raging emotions.”

She put a bejeweled hand on my arm. “Wolfgang once told someone I had a flexible throat. Had you heard that? A flexible throat! You men make our art sound so mechanical.”

“I will—”

“Well, you are the librettist. You know best. See what Wolfgang thinks. Tell him I'd like something similar to the arias he wrote for me when I was imprisoned by that awful pasha in the harem. He knows what I can do.” She smiled at me and bustled off toward the main room of the theater.

“Dear God,” I prayed as I headed downstairs. “Protect a poor poet from rivalrous sopranos!”

*   *   *

I picked my way down the cluttered hallway to my office. Once safely inside, I hung up my cloak and emptied my satchel onto the desk. I pulled out the new aria for Morella I had been working on. A wave of fatigue washed over me as I stared down at my jottings. I closed my eyes. The memory of Hennen's body sprawled at the base of the plague column, his blood mixing with the rain on the stones of the Graben, came unbidden to my mind.

I opened my eyes and pushed the paper away. Benda was right, we had to work faster on our investigation. But I was dismayed by the count's willingness to fit every fact to his theory. After the niggle of recognition I had felt while kneeling over Hennen's body, coupled with the Dante excerpts we had found in the baron's chamber, my own more terrifying theory was starting to form. I was certain that Benda would dismiss my inchoate musings. I wished I had someone to confide in, someone with experience in the world, who would listen to my speculations. I returned to the aria. Some moments later, an idea came to mind. I scribbled a note, folded it, and climbed upstairs to the lobby, where I gave a boy a coin to deliver it for me.

Back at my desk, I stared at the Morella aria for a few moments, then crumpled the page and threw it aside. I reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

On her peace of mind depends mine,

That which pleases her brings me life,

That which sorrows her gives me death.

Soon I was lost in my work, trying out phrases, crossing out words, slowly writing the plea of a man who loves a woman so desperately that he would do anything for her, but finds in the end that he cannot.

And I have no happiness if she has none.

When I finally lifted my head from the aria, satisfied with it, I was surprised to see that two hours had passed. I tucked the new work in my satchel, took my cloak from the cupboard, and left the theater.

*   *   *

“Three victims already!” Casanova's voice boomed across the table. I hushed him and looked around the busy beer hall. Our fellow patrons were laughing and chatting. No one seemed to have heard his outburst.

I had arrived at the establishment before Casanova, hoping that he would respond to the note I had sent earlier asking him to meet me here. As he had entered the room and threaded his way among the tables toward me, I noted that he looked tired and unhappy. After he had settled into a seat and ordered a beer, I asked him how his retirement in Dux was really proceeding.

He looked at me, his eyes lacking their usual enthusiasm. “I'll be honest with you, Lorenzo. It is not what I hoped for when I accepted the position. The count is often away, and I am left alone with the idiots the man has hired to serve him. The cook resents my presence and gives me tough meat. The steward does nothing I ask of him. The count keeps many dogs. They bark all night long.”

“But surely, when the count is in residence, there are salons, parties,” I said.

Casanova sighed. “Yes. He often invites guests to dine or for dancing parties, but they are provincial folk. They laugh at me, Lorenzo. They laugh at my poetry, at my writings. They laugh at my dancing. They even laugh about my clothes.”

“The work in the library must be interesting, though,” I said.

“The task the count has assigned me has proven impossible. The man is of no help to me as I try to organize his collection. He loans books to friends and never tells me. How can I properly catalog the volumes?”

When there was a break in the litany of complaints, I told him about the murders.

“What kind of monster kills a man and mutilates his body?” Casanova asked, shaking his head. “You mentioned you recognized the symbol that the killer had carved on Alois's and Hennen's foreheads. What was it?”

“The cuts were very crude, most likely made with the tip of the dagger the police believe the man is using,” I said. “But when I saw the baron's forehead, I began to think that the killer is cutting the letter
P
. And after Benda and I found those excerpts from Dante in Hennen's chamber, I was certain.”

Casanova took a sip of beer. “You think the killings are somehow related to Dante?” he asked. “I don't understand. I've read
Inferno.
I don't remember anything about a letter
P
.”

“It's in the second book,
Purgatory.
You should read all three volumes. Everyone is interested in Dante's depiction of Hell, but the work should be read as a whole. It is about a man's journey toward redemption and salvation—”

“I'll try the other two volumes sometime,” Casanova said, waving away my lecture. “Tell me about the
P
.”

“In the second volume, Dante and his guide, the poet Virgil, have climbed out of Hell and stand before the gate of Purgatory. They must travel up a steep, terraced mountain in order to meet Dante's love, Beatrice, in Paradise.”

Casanova nodded.

“They must stop at seven terraces, where sinners committed to Purgatory are atoning for each of the seven deadly sins. Before they leave for the first terrace, an angel marks seven letter
P
s on Dante's forehead. As Dante passes through each terrace, one mark is erased from his brow. By the time he reaches Paradise, his brow is clean.”

“Why the letter
P
?” Casanova asked.

“For the Latin
peccatum
—sin,” I said.

“You think someone is committing these murders for some twisted reason linked to Dante's
Purgatory
?” my friend asked.

“Yes, although I don't understand it all quite yet. Only two of the victims had marked foreheads. I don't see how the general's murder fits into my theory. If I—”

“Lorenzo!” I looked up to see Mozart crossing the hall toward us. I shook my head slightly at Casanova, to signal that he was not to mention the murders to the composer.

“Well, who have we here?” Mozart said with a grin. He shook Casanova's hand. “Giacomo, it's good to see you again.”

I patted the space on the bench next to me and beckoned the waiter.

After Mozart had ordered, he turned to Casanova. “I didn't see you after the premiere in Prague,” he said. “What did you think of
Don Giovanni
?”

Last fall, I had traveled to Prague to work on
Don Giovanni
with Mozart. Casanova had been visiting the city, and had attended several rehearsals. I had missed the premiere myself, however, because Salieri had demanded that I return to Vienna to work on the libretto I was writing for him.

“I enjoyed it immensely,” Casanova replied. “Although I was a bit disappointed that you didn't use my scene.”

“What scene?” I asked.

Mozart and Casanova exchanged a glance.

“After you left Prague, I realized that something more was needed in the scene after the sextet,” Mozart explained. “Giacomo was kind enough to sketch out an additional aria for the manservant character and a short piece for the ensemble.”

“Why didn't you write to me—”

Mozart held up his hand to silence my protests. “In the end, though, I changed my mind and didn't use them. The cast performed the libretto the way you left it.”

“I couldn't match your great literary talents,” Casanova said to me. He winked at Mozart.

I took a sip of my beer. I had to confess that I was a bit annoyed that Mozart hadn't told me about this before.

“Look, Wolfgang,” Casanova teased. “The great theater poet is sulking.”

“Now you know how a composer feels when a singer insists on performing an aria written by someone else in the middle of his opera,” Mozart said. The three of us laughed. Mozart had written plenty of such arias for insertion into the work of other composers.

“Oh, by the way, about changes,” I said. “Madame Cavalieri cornered me this morning at the theater. She and her darling Antonio would like a solo scene for Elvira—a long recitative and a long aria, featuring as many vocal acrobatics as she can muster. So you had better go home and start writing, maestro!”

Mozart thought for a moment. “That's actually not such a bad idea. The character of Elvira is so ambiguous. Who is she? A crazy, spurned woman? One of the Furies, or a victim who truly loves her seducer? She's obsessed with Giovanni. She has an image of him in her mind—she makes him into what she wants him to be.”

“I know that type of woman,” Casanova murmured.

“Yes,” Mozart said. “I like the idea. See what you can come up with, Lorenzo.”

I nodded and reached for my satchel. “Since we are discussing the opera, I've written the new aria for Morella,” I said, passing the page to Mozart.

He studied it and hummed a few bars of music. “This is good,” he said. He tucked the paper in his coat pocket and turned back to Casanova.

“So how are things in Dux?” he asked.

“Great,” Casanova said. “Just wonderful. The count treats me as an honored guest, and is very involved in my work in his library. I'm enjoying it very much. It's a perfect place for my retirement. Of course, Dux is not Vienna, or Paris—”

“I hate Paris,” Mozart muttered. “Italy, now that's a different matter. If I ever retire, I'd like to live there. I haven't been since I was fifteen. I'd love to go back someday.”

“Oh, you must go back,” Casanova said. “Tell me, were you in Venice as a boy?”

“Just for a few days,” Mozart said. “I don't remember much about it, just that it rained the whole time we were there.”

“You must go,” Casanova said. A gleam came to his eye. “The ladies in Venice are in a class by themselves. Ah, I remember one from years ago, a dark-haired beauty who lived on the Campo San Barnaba. I spent many evenings in a gondola on the canal outside her window, attempting to woo her.”

I winced. I had spent a lot of time in the campo myself as a young man in Venice. It was the heart of an area of the city the doge had set aside for young nobles who had lost their wealth through gambling. I had made love to such a man's sister. She had almost been the ruin of me.

“Alas, the young lady was one of my few failures,” Casanova said. “She fell in love with a visiting merchant. I never saw her again.”

“I already have a dark-haired beauty here in Vienna,” Mozart said, winking at me.

“Where else in Italy did you visit on your tour?” Casanova asked.