Sent to the Devil (7 page)

We nodded our sympathy.

“How may I help you, sirs?”

Benda introduced himself and then me, and explained that we had some questions about the general's death.

“Ah, yes. The constable told me to expect someone,” Vetter said. He sighed. “The poor general. My father served with him in the war. To think that I might have been one of the last to see him before he died.” He frowned. “Funny, though. He didn't look ill when I saw him.”

“What time was this?” Benda asked.

“It was one o'clock Wednesday morning, sir. I know because I was on my way here to the shop, to start work.”

“You don't live upstairs?” I asked.

“No, sir. I know it's odd. And to be honest, it isn't easy for me. I live with my wife's family around the corner in the Tiefer Graben. Her mother refused to leave her own house to come live here with us when my father-in-law died. My Johanna wants to be close by, to keep an eye on the old lady. So I must come here every night.”

“Tell us where you saw the general,” Benda said.

“I was coming down the Tiefer Graben. I had almost reached the corner when I saw a man hurry by. It was the general.”

“Are you sure of that?” Benda asked.

“Oh yes, sir. I'd seen him once or twice before, so I recognized him. And it was a clear night. The moon wasn't full, but there was still plenty of light to make out faces.”

“Which direction did he come from?”

“From the Freyung. His palace is right down the street from here.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. He nodded at me, and then hurried toward the Am Hof.”

“Was there anyone else in the street?” Benda asked. “Did you see or hear anything else?”

“No, sir. No one else was about. I was unlocking the shop when I heard voices coming from around the corner, in the Am Hof.”

“How many voices?”

“Two. Two men shouting.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No, sir. Their voices sounded angry, as though they were arguing. But I couldn't make out what they were saying. A moment later, I heard footsteps—a man running. I turned to look. A man ran out of the Am Hof, toward the corner right here.”

“The general?”

“No, another man, younger. He stopped for a moment and saw me, then ran down the street toward the Freyung.”

“Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him?” Benda's voice was eager. “Was he tall? Heavy? What color hair did he have? What was he wearing?”

The baker held up his hand to stop Benda. “I can tell you more than all that, sir. You see, I recognized him. It was that protester—the young ragged one who is always standing on that crate yelling about the war.”

“Did you hear any screams?” Benda asked.

Vetter shook his head. “No, sir, just the argument. As soon as the protester ran off, I came inside and went downstairs to check on my leaven. I was down there the rest of the night, doing my baking. I was shocked when I heard from my customers that afternoon that the general had died.”

He peered at Benda. “Why are you asking me these questions, sir? I heard the general had a seizure, at home in bed. What is going on?”

“None of your concern,” Benda said.

We thanked the man and left.

“Let's look at the spot where the general was found,” Benda said. We walked around the corner to the Am Hof. The largest square in the city, the plaza was busy as fruit sellers and bake stands were discounting their wares at the end of the morning. We made our way to the center of the plaza, to the Marian Column, a monument dedicated to the Virgin Mary, who legend says aided the Viennese in resisting invasion by Sweden a hundred years ago. The lady stood atop a tall bronze pillar that rose from a large stone plinth. The entire structure was surrounded by a low balustrade wall, below which sat three short, shallow stone steps. At all four corners of the plinth, pudgy bronze cherubs, clad in armor, trampled upon creatures that represented the four scourges of humanity—war, heresy, famine, and plague.

“The general was found lying here.” Benda pointed to the right-hand corner of the monument. “His body was draped across the steps, his right arm propped against the wall here. His left arm was limp against his side.”

I leaned in to examine the wall. Although the light-colored stone had been scrubbed, faint specks of blood remained. “Alois's body was in the same position,” I murmured. I looked up at the cherub who guarded this corner of the statue. He held a sword in his right arm, and his body was twisted, ready to deal the death blow to the large serpent under his foot. He stared down at me with scornful eyes. I moved to the right a bit to avoid his gaze.

“We have to find that protester,” Benda was saying. “If he's not our killer, he might have seen something the baker did not.”

“He's often over in the Graben or the Stephansplatz,” I said as I stepped away from the monument. The back of my neck tingled as the cherub's contemptuous eyes followed me.

“I'll send a message to Troger,” Benda said. “He should be able to find the man's name and address.” He drew his watch from his coat pocket. “I have an appointment at the chancery,” he said. “Why don't we meet tomorrow morning, Da Ponte? Come by Christiane's house around ten. I stay there when I am in town. Her steward saw the general leave the house early Wednesday morning. I've questioned him, but maybe another telling of his story might elicit new details. Do you know the house?”

“The Palais Albrechts?” I asked.

“Yes. It's in the Freyung, the second to last palace on the left, right across from the Scottish Church. You cannot miss it.”

We said our good-byes and Benda hurried through the arch on the northeast side of the square, toward the Bohemian Chancery. I started toward the other end of the plaza. After I had taken a few steps, I looked back at the site of the general's murder. The cherub gazed down at me with disdain. I shuddered. He seemed almost alive.

I turned and hastened out of the square toward the Kohlmarkt.

 

Five

I picked at my dinner in a catering shop in the Graben, and spent a few hours in my office preparing libretto booklets for upcoming performances at the theater. As theater poet, I was responsible for editing and printing all of the librettos. This part of my job was tedious, yet had its pecuniary rewards, for I collected a percentage of each booklet sold. And today, the detailed work brought with it an extra blessing—it distracted my thoughts from my meeting this morning with Pergen, Troger, and Benda.

I finished correcting errors in
La modesta raggiratrice,
a libretto by Lorenzi, which would premiere next week. I went out to the small cupboard in the hallway to check that there were still copies of my own work,
Axur,
and of Petrosellini's
Il barbiere di Siviglia
to last the rest of the month. I frowned. A large black scythe, which was carried by the figure of Death in my opera
Axur,
had joined the other props in the narrow hallway. I must speak to Thorwart. His workmen could not continue leaving the props here.

Back in the office, I drew the notes I had been making for the
Don Giovanni
burlesque scene from my satchel. As I stared at my scratchings, my respite from the horror of Alois's murder came to an end. I could not prevent the vision of the gash in his throat and the surprised expression on his face from filling my eyes. I wished that Pergen had not told me that my friend's body had been mutilated in such a grotesque manner.

A knock on the door stirred me from my dark thoughts.

“Come in,” I called.

Felix Urbanek, the priest from the Stephansdom, entered. “Ah, Da Ponte, I've finally found you. This place has more hallways and crannies than the cathedral!”

I stood to greet him and motioned him to the chair I keep for visitors.

“I am here to offer my condolences on the death of Father Bayer,” Urbanek said. “I know that you and he were close friends.”

“He was like a father to me,” I said.

“The body has been taken to the cemetery in St. Marx. The burial will be tomorrow. I told the mortuary director that I thought Father Bayer would want a simple, modern burial—in the common grave without any coffin or marker.”

I nodded. “Yes, I agree with you. He was a humble man, but modern in his outlook. I'm sure that is what he would have chosen.”

“I am organizing a memorial service for him,” the priest continued. “Father Krause has agreed to lead it. We have a slight problem, though.”

“What sort of problem?”

“It seems we don't know all that much about Father Bayer, even though he spent most of his life at the cathedral. He came here before we instituted the new system of recordkeeping. Would you know if he has any family?”

“He has—had—a sister in Innsbruck. They hadn't seen each other for years, but she should be notified. I doubt she would be able to make the trip, but I'm certain Alois would want her to be told of his death.” I paused, thinking. “Anna, her name is. Her married name is Wex. Yes, Anna Wex.”

Urbanek took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down the name. “I'll send a message to her right away.” He sighed. “I don't enjoy being the bearer of such sad news. The way he died—” He shivered. “Perhaps I should just tell her he died suddenly. There's no need for her to know the horrific details.”

“Yes, I think that would be wise,” I said.

Urbanek stood. “Well then. That is all I needed. I'll let you know when the date of the service is set.”

I gathered my papers and put them in my satchel. “I'm ready to head home. Are you going back to the cathedral? I'll walk with you.”

We climbed the stairs to the lobby and went out into the Michaelerplatz. We strolled down the Kohlmarkt and into the Graben, sharing our memories of Alois. I told Urbanek how I had met Alois the first time, when both of us had reached for the same copy of Petrarch's epistles in a bookshop in the Jewish quarter. “He was a great companion,” I told Urbanek. “We both loved the same things—books, poetry, fine wine.”

“He was a good priest,” Urbanek said. “I was sorry to see him retire to his little room, to bury himself in his studies.” We passed by the Baroque plague column. The young protester was nowhere to be seen.

“You are a priest yourself, Da Ponte, are you not?” Urbanek asked.

I did not answer.

“I hope you don't think I am intruding. I am merely curious. Why do you no longer practice?”

I sighed. “It's a long story, Father. I took minor orders when I was young. My father was a leatherworker with three young sons. When he remarried, the local monsignor took our family under his protection, and sent me to the seminary to be educated. It was there that I discovered my love of poetry.” I did not add that my family was Jewish, and that the monsignor had converted us to Christianity.

Urbanek nodded. We continued into the Stock-im-Eisen-Platz, the small square between the Graben and the Stephansplatz.

“Our patron died suddenly when I was sixteen, and the seminary informed my father that if I were to continue there, I must train for the priesthood. I knew that I was not suited for the profession, but my father insisted. He had remarried, and no longer had the means to support me.”

“Yet I've heard you served the church when you lived in Venice,” Urbanek said.

“Yes, I did. I must confess I found serving as a parish priest an easy way to earn some money. But I knew the church was not my calling.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't change your mind?” Urbanek asked. “The church needs intelligent priests like you.”

I laughed. “Now you sound just like Alois, Father!”

As we entered the Stephansplatz and approached the great front portal of the cathedral, an angry voice greeted us.

“No, you listen to me, you goddamn Turk-lover!” The crippled nobleman I had seen arguing with the war protester earlier in the week stood in front of the doors. “Don't tell me you love this country!”

My fellow lodger, Erich Strasser, put up his hands to shield himself from Hennen's anger. “I merely said—”

“If you were a true patriot, you wouldn't be sitting in your comfortable office over at the university, feeding propaganda and outright lies to those young boys you teach!”

“I am not lying to my students,” Strasser replied. “I am teaching them to look at this war from both sides.”

Hennen waved his stick in front of Strasser's face, and then lifted it over his head. “If you truly loved Austria, you'd be in Semlin with the emperor and his brave men. You are just a coward, posing as an intellectual!” As he brought the stick down, Strasser ducked to avoid the blow.

Urbanek rushed forward and took the nobleman's arm. “Baron Hennen,” he said. “Please, no violence. This is holy ground.” Strasser glanced at me, turned, and hurried away.

The baron shoved the priest's hand off his arm. “I am sorry, Father. I just hate cowards. He has a lot of nerve, always talking about how Austria is the aggressor in this war. I am tired of hearing it.” He gestured toward Strasser's back. “See, there he goes, slinking off. He doesn't even have the courage to stay here and argue with me.”

“Come inside, my son,” Urbanek said. “Come in and sit with me a while. We will pray together. You will find some peace.”

“No, thank you, Father. There is nothing in there for me,” Hennen said. “Excuse me. I must get home.” He turned and clumped toward the Stock-im-Eisen-Platz.

Urbanek shook his head as we watched him go. “That man is always angry,” he said.

“He seems to pick a fight with anyone who doesn't agree with him about the war,” I said.

Urbanek thought for a moment. “No. He's angry at God, I think—because he is a cripple.”