One



Tuesday, April 18, 1786

Four acts. Fourteen arias-twelve complete, two more to write. I waited as a cart laden with firewood trundled by, then I crossed the busy square. All six duets are finished. I turned the corner and began to pick my way down the dung-strewn street. Three long ensemble pieces, one for each act except for-

"Sir! Take care!"

I looked up. Two enormous black beasts hurtled toward me. My walking stick clattered to the ground as I threw myself against the wall of the nearest building. I clung to the cool, hard stone as the carriage raced by.

When the pounding of the horses' hooves had receded, I reached down and retrieved my stick. My cloak was splashed with dark stains. I raised the right sleeve to my nose and sniffed. At least it was only mud. Sighing, I calculated how much it would cost to have my cloak cleaned. There are days when I hate this city.

I've lived in Vienna for almost five years, but I've yet to become accustomed to the traffic. There seems to be a horse for every person in the city, and a vehicle for every two. The narrow streets are filled to overflowing with the gilded carriages of wealthy noblemen, the sturdier coaches used by bureaucrats and merchants, and the rickety wagons driven by laborers and peddlers. As a foot traveler, I put my life in jeopardy every time I leave my lodging house.

Lately, I've found myself longing for Venice more and more-for its dense maze of alleys and passageways; its serpentine canals; its broad, light-filled piazzas, where people from all walks of life mingle. The pace of life there is more civilized. But I could not go back. Vienna was my home now, and I was obliged to make the best of the opportunities Fortune had presented me.

It was with great relief that I turned into the small street where Johann Vogel had his barber establishment. When I reached the shop at the end of the street, though, the door was closed, the shutters drawn over the windows. I frowned. It was unlike Vogel to close on a weekday, especially when there was plenty of business to be had from the bureaucrats who toiled in the Hofburg offices a few blocks away. Vogel's establishment was popular among the Viennese. He was one of the new breed of men in the city who had left positions with the court or with noble houses in order to offer their services to the public in small shops and offices.

I knocked on the door with my walking stick. "Vogel!" There was no response. "Vogel! Are you there? It's Lorenzo Da Ponte." No response. Damn. I scratched my chin. I desperately needed a shave. The deathly quiet of the shop was unusual. On a normal day one could hear the barber singing in his loud bass all the way down the street. Vogel was a burly, jovial man who would do anything for his customers. If you desired a new wig and did not want to pay the prices charged by the friseurs, he could find you a cheap one; if you were ill and needed to be bled, he could provide leeches at a low cost, sparing you the expense of calling on a surgeon.

I knocked and called one last time, and when there was no answer, turned to leave. I had not taken but two steps when a low moan came from inside the shop. I stopped. A moment later, another moan, followed by what sounded like a loud sob. I returned to the door and pressed my ear against it, but all was quiet once more.

"Vogel! Are you in there? What is wrong?"

A loud shuffling sound came from behind the door. A moment later, the bolt was drawn back and the door opened a crack. I could not see anything within, for the interior of the shop was pitch-black, and the sun in the street too bright. I pushed the door open with my walking stick and entered. The one-room shop was quiet and cool. A loud thump came from the edge of the room, followed by a thud. As my eyes adjusted from the sunshine outside, I made out the heavy form of my barber slumped in a chair in the back corner. I dropped my stick and soiled cloak on the floor and hurried toward him.

"Vogel? What is it? What is wrong?"

His head sagged as he clutched his arms together over his chest and rocked back and forth, moaning loudly. I leaned over him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you ill? Shall I send for a physician?" I asked.

He ceased his rocking and looked up at me. Fat tears coursed down his cheeks. He drew a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "Oh, Signor Abbé. It is terrible." He took a deep breath and began to weep again. "I have lost my shop, signore."

"What do you mean?" I looked around me. The small room had been stripped almost bare. The shelves contained none of the customary gleaming bottles of tonics and lotions, and the barber's chair in the center of the room-the latest model, Vogel's pride and joy-sat lonely in the shop, draped with a large cloth.

"I don't understand," I said. "I thought business was good."

Vogel blew into the handkerchief again. "Yes, it is," he said. "But I am only making enough money to cover the rent and my living expenses, and to put a little bit by toward my wedding day."

"Then how have you lost the shop?" I asked.

He stretched his arms in front of him and looked down at his hands. Even in the dim light, I could see his face reddening. "I am going to prison, Signor Abbé," he whispered.

"Prison! What have you done?"

"Debtor's prison, signore." He looked up at me. "I borrowed some money from a lady in order to start up the shop. Now she wants full payment, and I cannot-" His voice broke. "I cannot pay her." He began to weep again. The handkerchief dropped to the floor.

My heart swelled with compassion for him. "What do you need?" I asked. "I have a bit of money set by. I could cover the loan for you and you could repay me at your leisure."

"Oh, Signor Abbé, you are truly a man of God," Vogel said, grasping my hands. "But it is too late. The lady has already received a judgment against me. I am to go to prison today."

"Surely if I paid her, she would petition the court to reverse the judgment. How much do you owe her?"

He reached to the floor and picked up the handkerchief. "Four hundred and ninety-two florins, signore," he muttered.

I winced. That was nearly my annual salary as poet to the Court Theater. "I'm sorry, Vogel," I said. "I'm afraid I can't handle that much. How long is your sentence?"

"One whole year," he said, shuddering. "Now I will not be able to marry my Marianne. While I am locked away, she will find another man." He buried his large face in his hands and sobbed.

I placed a hand on each of his wide shoulders. "Try to compose yourself. There must be something we can do to prevent this," I said.

Vogel pulled away from me and rooted through his pockets, drawing out another handkerchief. "There is nothing to be done, signore," he said, blowing his nose again. He sighed. "I thought I had found a way to get the money, but if I am in prison-"

"A business deal?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, nothing like that. You see, signore, my mother died last week."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Signor Abbé. In a way, it was a blessing that God took her. She had been suffering for a very long time," he said. He stood up and reached for a cloth that sat upon a nearby pile of boxes. "Oh, it is a long story, signore. I shouldn't keep you from your business."

"Do you have time to give me a shave?" I asked. "You could tell me about it while you worked."

He nodded, crossed to the front of the shop, and opened the shutters. The afternoon sun flooded the forlorn room. He pulled the cloth off the barber's chair and invited me to sit. "Give me a moment, signore, to heat some water."

As he headed out the back door of the shop, I moved my cloak and stick to the top of a pile of boxes and settled into the chair. "Who is the lady who lent you the money?" I asked as he returned with a bowl of water. He placed a cape around my neck and pushed the chair into a reclining position.

"She is called Rosa Hahn," he said. He dipped a cloth in the water and placed it over my face. The warmth seeped into my skin. "She is the housekeeper where I used to work, the Palais Gabler."

I nodded as he pressed the cloth around my face. After a few seconds, he removed it, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and covered my face with lather. "Hold still, signore." I relaxed as the rhythmic scraping of the razor plied my skin. "You may remember, I used to work as valet to Baron Gabler. My fiancée, Marianne, is lady's maid to the baroness. When I decided to open the shop, Miss Hahn was eager to lend me the money. She is an older woman, never married. I'll admit, I flirted with her a little to get the loan." He sighed. "I should never have taken the money from her, I know. But I told myself the loan would be a good investment for her."

A warm tear hit my cheek as he began to weep again. He leaned his head down to wipe his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "I had no idea the cost of running a business would be so high. I have not been able to pay Miss Hahn on schedule. Both Marianne and I pleaded for more time, but she refused."

"But I don't understand," I said. "How does all this concern the death of your mother?"

"Turn your head a bit, signore." He pressed my head against his burly bare arm. I studied a large purple birthmark just below his elbow. His forearm was covered with large freckles. Coarse hair tickled my nose, and I fought back the urge to sneeze.

"As my mother lay dying, she told me that I was not her natural son. She and my father had adopted me as a newborn, thirty years ago."

"What? They had told you nothing about it all that time?" I asked.

"Not a word. I was shocked, of course. I tried to ask about my real parents, but by then, she was too far gone to answer my questions. I doubt that she even heard me." His deep voice broke. I reached over and patted his free hand. "She passed away the next morning. When I was cleaning out her things, I found something odd." He replaced the damp cloth, now cool, on my face. I heard his heavy steps cross the room.

"You see, signore-this box." I pulled the cloth off my face and sat upright. Vogel was holding a plain carton the size of a lady's hat box. "I found this hidden deep in the cupboard where my mother kept her change of clothes." He thrust the box toward me. "I believe this belonged to my birth mother. The contents look valuable."

I reached for the box. A loud knock sounded at the door. Vogel started. The box fell onto my lap.

"Johann Vogel! Police! Open up!"

The barber began to tremble. "Oh no, Signor Abbé, they are here to take me to prison." He had picked up the cloth I had removed from my face, and now began to wring it between his large hands. "Please, signore, please. Help me."

I took the cloth from him and wiped the remaining lather off my face. "But what can I do?" I asked.

The pounding at the door resumed, this time much louder.

"You know so many important people, signore," he said quickly. "You are educated, cultured. I am sure my real parents were rich, perhaps even of noble birth. Could you find them for me?"

My mouth dropped. Nobles? "But that seems like an impossible assignment," I said. "Do you know anything at all about them?"

"No, signore. I just have the things in this box."

"Vogel, open up! Now!"

"Please, Signor Da Ponte, take it and see what you can find." He hurried to the door and flung it open. Two constables entered.

"You are Johann Vogel?" one asked.

The barber stifled a sob. "Yes, I am."

"Take your things and come with us."

Vogel took a deep breath. "I am almost ready. Please, sirs, let me finish with my last customer." He returned to the chair and leaned over me, wiping my face with a dry cloth. "Please, Signor Abbé." He lowered his voice. "Please, you are a kind and generous man. Take the box. Go to the Palais Gabler and speak to my fiancée, Marianne Haiml. She will tell you everything we know."

"But I have no idea where to begin," I protested. "And the odds of finding your parents after all these years are slim."

"Please, signore. At least talk to Marianne. I feel in my heart that my parents are still alive, and that they are rich."

One of the constables grabbed Vogel's arm and pulled him toward the door.

"Wait, I need my bag," Vogel cried, pointing to a large gripsack sitting in the corner. The other constable heaved a sigh and lifted the bag. As the three reached the door, Vogel turned and looked back at me. "Please, signore. I will give you ten percent of any money I get from my parents, if you find them for me."

My heart surged with pity as I stared into his broad, decent face. Words came out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to advise caution. "All right, I will see what I can find. But do not get your hopes up too much. Your parents may both have died in the last thirty years."

"I know, I know. But I must try to find them," Vogel said. The constables pulled him outside. I grabbed my cloak and stick, hefted the box, and followed them out, closing the door behind me. Vogel nodded down at the pocket of his coat. I pulled out the key to the shop.

"Keep it for me, Signor Abbé," he said. "Please. Go tomorrow, talk to Marianne. Find out what you can. My life's happiness depends on you!"

"Come on already!" The constables pulled Vogel down the street to a waiting carriage.

"Wait, Vogel!" I called. "I did not pay you for the shave!"

He turned toward me. "It is an honor to shave you, signore," he shouted. "You can pay me by finding my real parents."

"But wait-are you sure your mother never told you anything-"

The constables pushed him into the carriage, threw his bag after him, and jumped in. The door slammed, and a moment later the carriage rolled away. The street was silent again. I placed the box on the ground and locked the door to the shop. A pang of anxiety shot through me. What had I gotten myself into? I did not have time to investigate this fantastic notion of Vogel's. I was up to my ears in work. I sighed. The poor man was desperate. I wanted to do anything I could to help him. I pocketed the key, picked up the box, and walked slowly down the street.

* * *

The Graben was busy as I headed toward my lodgings. Long and wide, lined with apartment buildings, the street was the gathering place for fashionable Vienna. I joined the throng, this time taking care to stay close to the buildings so as to avoid the fancy carriages taking the fine ladies out to the Prater, the popular park at the northeast edge of the city. The crowd was mixed: government workers heading back to their desks after dinner; lackeys in the liveries of the great houses running errands for their masters; and minor noblemen dressed à la mode, hoping to see and be seen by the rest of society. Around me I heard chattering not only in German and French, but also in Italian, Greek, Polish, and Magyar.

I passed the Trattnerhof, the most famous address in Vienna. It was a large apartment house, built by a wealthy businessman who had come to the city as an inconsequential printer thirty years before, earned the favor of Empress Maria Theresa, and become the official publisher of all of the schoolbooks in the Holy Roman Empire. Trattner's publishing empire now encompassed five printing plants, a paper factory, and eight bookshops. He entertained the cream of society in his personal apartment, which took up the entire second floor of the building. I gazed up at the façade, which was decorated with what to my eye seemed an excess of furbelows. Two huge telamones flanked the doorway, and high above the street, a row of tall statues on the balustrade watched to make certain that passersby bestowed upon the building the admiration to which it was entitled.

A few minutes later, I turned into the portal of my own, more modest building. After arranging with my landlord's wife to have my cloak and handkerchief cleaned, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. My salary at the Court Theater, where I was responsible for editing all the librettos-the texts-of the operas performed and for coordinating production details, was a decent amount, and I was able to embellish it by selling libretto booklets at performances and by taking on commissions to write operas myself. Nevertheless, Vienna was an expensive city-a pair of silk stockings cost five florins!-so I tried to cut my costs as much as possible. I would much have preferred to live on a more desirable floor lower in the building, but the rents were very high, so I did not allow myself to complain about the long climb of four flights of stairs I made several times a day.

I unlocked the door and crossed the small room to place Vogel's box on my writing desk. The girl who cleaned for me had already been in to make up the bed, sweep, and refill the water jug on my basin cabinet. I selected a few pages of the libretto I was writing and stuffed them into my satchel, then pulled Vogel's box toward me and took off the lid.

I gasped. Was this some sort of prank? Was my barber trying to make a fool of me, with his sad tale of missing parents? I stared into the box. A white, furry dead animal lay curled inside. I forced myself to lean down and sniff. There was no foul odor, so I took a deep breath and plunged my hands into the box, pulling out the unfortunate beast. To my surprise, it was very light. I quickly threw it onto my desk and examined it, then laughed in relief. It was not a dead animal at all, but a fancy lady's muff. I picked it up and turned the silky fur around in my hands. The muff, colored a pristine white, looked expensive.

I reached into the box and pulled out a small book. Its leather cover was soft and worn, mottled with dark spots. The book's spine was engraved with tiny golden fleurs-de-lis, but displayed no title. As I opened it and gently turned the pages, the familiar musty aroma wafted toward my nose. I sneezed. The book was a French grammar, of the type students use when learning the language at school. I had purchased one myself when I first came to Vienna, for everyone connected with the court and high society conversed in French instead of German. I turned to the frontispiece, then to the inside back cover, but could find no writing to indicate the owner of the book, nor even the date on which it had been published.

The remaining object in the box was a small ring, its band dull and discolored, but possibly solid gold. A pronged setting held a small, rosy gem in the shape of a heart. A diamond? A betrothal ring, perhaps? I studied the inside of the band for engraving, but could see nothing because of the discoloration. I ran my finger lightly around the inside, but felt nothing but smooth metal. I laid the ring on my desk and considered the three objects. Perhaps Vogel's idea about his parents was not as far-fetched as I had believed. A muff of fine fur, possibly white fox; a leather-bound book; and a gold and diamond ring: these had surely been the possessions of a wealthy lady, a countess perhaps, or even a princess.

Questions tumbled through my brain. What had led such a woman to give up her newborn son? Why had she chosen to give him to the Vogel couple, people of humble origins? And why had she sent these valuable items along with the babe? Had she hoped that someday he might try to find her?

I returned the muff to the box and ran my fingers over the worn leather cover of the book. I did not remember much about my own mother, who had died giving birth to my youngest brother thirty-two years ago, when I was only five years old. Yet even today, when I hear a certain lilt in a woman's voice or see her lips form a soft smile, I feel a stirring of recognition, an awakening of an inchoate, bittersweet emotion deep within me.

The bell in St. Peter's Church next door chimed the hour. I started. I had grown so intrigued by Vogel's mystery that I had lost track of the time. I had work to do at the theater. I laid the book and ring on top of the muff and replaced the lid on the box. I pulled my second cloak, a frayed one I usually saved for bad winter weather, from the cupboard, stuffed a clean handkerchief in its pocket, took up my satchel and stick, and descended to the street.

* * *

The street had quieted while I had been up in my room. The government workers had returned to their offices, the ladies had vacated the city for an afternoon of pastoral recreation, and the rest of Vienna was sleeping off their dinners. At four o'clock, the promenade would begin anew, but for now, I and a few stragglers were able to walk about in peace.

I quickly made my way down the Kohlmarkt to the Michaelerplatz, the heart of imperial Vienna. At this hour the large expanse was almost empty. To my left, the stately portico of St. Michael's Church was deserted, its tall wooden doors closed. In front of me, the monumental dome of the Spanish Riding School marked the threshold to the great halls, apartments, courtyards, and gardens of the Hofburg, the emperor's residence and home to the government of the empire. Nestled under the dome was my destination, my place of employment, the Court Theater.

Two men in their mid-sixties stood in front of the theater's doorway, deep in discussion. They had not seen me. I lowered my head and took a sharp right, hoping to skirt the edge of the plaza and duck down a side street until they had left.

"Signor Da Ponte! Signor Poet!" a high, nasal voice called.

I groaned. Damn. There was nothing I could do but turn back. I approached the pair and bowed to the taller of the two. This was Count Franz Xavier Rosenberg, high chamberlain to the emperor and also, more important to me, the director of the Court Theater, and thus my supervisor. His steely eyes took me in from head to toe. He grimaced slightly as his eyes alighted on my shabby cloak. He himself wore a deep purple court suit cut in the latest fashion, the coat made of fine satin. He graced me with a curt nod.

"Tell us, Signor Poet, how is your latest project proceeding?" the nasal voice asked. "The opera with Mozart?"

I struggled to keep dislike from showing on my face as I turned to the speaker, the Abbé Giambattista Casti, my most guileful enemy. Like me, Casti was a poet and a priest. Unlike me, he had enjoyed a celebrated career all over Europe. Monarchs, aristocrats, and connoisseurs of modern poetry delighted in his satirical style and the lubricious subject matter of his rhymes. After many years at the courts of St. Petersburg and Tuscany, he had settled in Vienna a few years ago, hoping to use his friendship with Count Rosenberg to win a post with the emperor.

"It is going very well, signore," I said. "We have dress rehearsal in two weeks."

"Is Mozart pleased with your translation of the Beaumarchais play?" Casti asked.

As I took a moment to measure my response, I studied him. His wispy hair was uncombed, and as usual, he wore a rumpled satin cloak. A long, dark hair sprouted from a mole on his right cheek. "I am not translating the play, signore," I said. "I am adapting it. You see the difference, I am sure?"

"Adapting it? Like you did for your last libretto, the one for Martín? What was it called, The Grumpy Curmudgeon?"

My cheeks grew hot. My opera with the Spanish composer Martín had been a hit just a few months ago. Casti knew the correct title perfectly well. "The Good-Hearted Grump," I said.

"Ah, yes. A nice translation of the Goldoni play, but would you really call your work original?"

I glanced at Rosenberg as I fought to bite back a retort. The theater director's face was expressionless, but I saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "The public loved my libretto, signore. As you recall, that opera sold out every performance."

Casti fixed his beady eyes on me. "You are right, it did. Martín is a very talented composer for one so young. His music was sublime."

"I believe-"

Rosenberg coughed. "I trust you and Mozart are taking care with the text," he said. "The emperor was reluctant to allow you to use that play."

"Yes, Figaro was a sensation in Paris," Casti said. "I've read it. The emperor was wise to ban its performance here."

Mozart and I had written an opera based on the most notorious play on the Continent-Beaumarchais's The Marriage of Figaro. In the play, a nobleman carries on affairs with his female servants while his wife flirts with a teenage boy. A servant openly expresses his belief that he is the social equal of his master. The emperor had allowed the play to be printed in Vienna, but had banned its performance in any of the city's theaters because of its vulgarity and impropriety.

"I've cut all the objectionable parts out," I said to the count. My voice grew tighter. "We are focusing on the human aspect of the material-the characters' yearnings for love and respect, for reconciliation and forgiveness." Rosenberg just stared at me.

"Ah! The human aspect!" Casti said. "Yes, I see now." He sighed. "I hope the emperor isn't disappointed with the final product. You must admit, you and Mozart took a great risk deciding to write the opera without his prior approval."

Mozart and I had been so sure we could make a successful, acceptable opera out of Beaumarchais's play that we had written it without a commission. My enemies have big ears and mouths, however, and one went running to the emperor with the tale of our deed. I had been summoned to explain myself and I had described the libretto to him, and then had sent for Mozart, who had played some of the arias he had already completed. The emperor had been delighted with our work and had ordered Rosenberg to put the opera on the theater schedule. It had been a bad day for Casti and Rosenberg.

"As I said, I've read the play," Casti continued. "It seems to be challenging material from which to make a comic opera."

As if Casti knew what made good theater! In my position as theater poet, I am the first to read librettos that are to be performed. I had read several of Casti's. He had an elegant style, to be sure. His lyrics were beautifully worded and sparkled with wit. But his plots dragged, his dramatic structures were absurd, and his characters were clichéd. I strained to hold my temper, and bit off the snide retort that was forming on my lips.

"Thank you for your concern-"

"Be careful, Da Ponte," Rosenberg said. "Remember, you are on shaky ground with this opera. I worry that your career here won't survive another debacle like the one with Salieri."

I tightened my fingers around my stick. Antonio Salieri was the court composer. My first assignment had been to write a libretto for an opera to be composed by Maestro Salieri. I had heard he was a gentleman of good taste and artistic discernment, so I had proposed a number of possible subjects and left him to choose. Unfortunately for the opera and for me, he had selected the work that was the least suitable for adaptation to opera-a play calledRich for a Day.

Casti nodded. "Yes, Rich for a Day lasted only one poor night in the theater." He tittered. A glob of spittle had formed at the corner of his mouth.

"That play was extremely difficult to adapt," I snapped. "There were not enough characters. The plot was much too slender to fill two hours of theater!" I had worked on the libretto for several excruciating weeks, only to have Salieri request "minor changes" that involved deleting most of the plot that I had created. The composer had then set what remained of my verses to that shrieky music he had admired on a recent trip to Paris. It was then that I had learned the most important truth about theater in Vienna: if an opera is a smash, the libretto is considered, at best, a frame surrounding a beautiful painting. The composer receives all the credit. The words are unimportant. But if the opera is not well received, why, then the words become paramount-in fact, so very important that they can cause the failure of the work all by themselves!

Casti looked at me with feigned sympathy. "How unfortunate for you, Signor Poet, that the court composer looks elsewhere for his librettos. How long has it been since you last worked together? Four years?"

I clenched my teeth. My hands began to shake. "It's not my fault-"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," Rosenberg said.

After Rich for a Day had quickly closed, Salieri had sworn that he would never work with me again. I had heard from friends that Rosenberg had advised the emperor to dismiss me and appoint Casti to my post. My beloved sovereign would not play the game, however. He encouraged me to try again, and since then, I've had a few successes, most notably my recent collaboration with Martín. I hoped that my opera with Mozart would erase Vienna's long memory of my failure with Salieri.

"Thank you for your concern," I said to Casti. "I'm sure my new opera will be a success." I bowed to the count. "If you will excuse me, sir." He nodded his dismissal, and the two started off toward the Hofburg next door.

As I opened the heavy door to the theater, Casti's high voice rang out, mocking me. "I'm thure my new opera will be a thuccess." Rosenberg laughed.

I stood in the empty foyer of the theater, trembling with anger. I took a deep breath to calm myself. I needed to get to work. Figaro must succeed. I couldn't bear another failure.



Copyright © 2015 by Laura Lebow