Mozart's Sister: A Novel Read online

  The aristocratic irritation became palpable. One could only hope that the concert would quickly begin and end even more quickly, and that that pompous clown would stop strutting! Herr Mozart realized it, and hastily returned to his wife.

  Impetuously the child began to play, and it was as if a lightning bolt had ripped through the frescoed ceiling, setting ablaze the curtains and the tapestries. There was nothing human about little Nannerl when she was making music; she seemed to be possessed by a primitive divinity, just waiting to get to an instrument to burst forth and leave listeners stunned. Her small hands produced clear and rapid sounds, obeying a supreme harmonic instinct, and the result was at the same time assured and undisciplined. The contradiction between her more-than-adult mastery and her child’s body was disconcerting. Her notes were words of a language still unknown, a language both fascinating and disorienting. Where’s the trick? No, there is no trick. And yet there must be! The lords and ladies approached, examined, were struck dumb; and, meanwhile, the child played melodies that she drew at random from her mind, inspired by the shapes of objects, by the crackle of the fire in the hearth, by the crash of a glass falling to the floor from the clumsy hands of one of the ladies.

  Then, abruptly, she stopped, without even finishing the passage. She jumped down from the stool, ran to her father, took the fan, and began to open and close it again, swaying from one foot to the other and whispering strange words.

  The ovation exploded, shaking the walls and the windows. How different from the applause for the voluptuous dilettante! It was the crash of an ancient tree trunk, the shouts and cries as a building falls. The women crowded around Leopold Mozart, who took his daughter in his arms and showed her off like a trophy, shaking jeweled hands, offering her to rouged mouths. Nannerl, however, showed no interest in that adoration meant for her alone; the fan absorbed her attention completely.

  No one could hear the hoarse appeals from the woman in the chair, whose expression had become concentrated on a sudden internal upheaval; she raised her voice, but they all continued to ignore her, until a shrill cry burst from her.

  “Leopold! Oh shit! Leopold!”

  Those who heard her did not seem upset by the shocking words; rather, they looked at her as a member of an alien species.

  With a great effort she took a breath and spoke again, holding her stomach: “Leopold…we’re there…we’re there; do you understand or not?”

  II.

  Through the bedroom door came utterly unfamiliar sounds. They were cries and moans, and they were Mama’s; she was in pain, and to Nannerl it wasn’t clear whether her father and the fat lady from downstairs were helping her or were the torturers. Why had Papa forbidden her to enter? She had to intervene. The child stared at the mother-of-pearl door handle, too high above her head, and wished she were bigger. But a sudden sharp scream terrified her, and she jumped back. Then she heard, too, the excited voice of her father, and the fat lady’s hysterical tones. Nannerl took refuge under the harpsichord and stuck her fingers in her ears as deeply as she could, until she was practically digging out her eardrums: there, she no longer heard the cries. But gradually they reemerged from her memory in an amplified chorus, distorted and inhuman. Then she opened her mouth to cry and burning tears flowed from her eyes.

  Her father came in, but she didn’t notice; she was crying too hard, and the sorrowful symphony in her head was deafening. Leopold drew her to him, put his arms around her, hugged her, while she struggled with her nightmare. For a long time the two remained sitting on the floor beside the harpsichord, holding each other, she out of terror, he out of love.

  When Nannerl had calmed down, Leopold sat up on the stool and made her stand in front of him. He placed a finger on her nose: “Daughter, promise me that you won’t cry anymore. Ever, in your life. Remember: tears are useless.”

  She nodded, drying her face with her sleeve.

  “Now listen to me. Mama is fine, and you have a little brother.”

  She stood motionless, bewildered.

  “Yes—a fine little boy, completely pink and completely bald. His name is Wolfgang Theophilus. Would you like to see him?”

  Of course! And she sped across the threshold. Her mother’s appearance alarmed her. She was in the bed, prostrate, and even though she was smiling, there was something abnormal about her. Everything in the room was abnormal; on the floor, at her feet, was a pile of blood-soaked rags, and, after wiping her hands, the fat lady threw another on top. Then, however, Nannerl saw the cradle; the sense of horror vanished miraculously, and she felt an intense desire to discover what sort of creature it held. She approached cautiously and slowly looked inside, enjoying every fraction of that memorable moment.

  Wolfgang was pink, yes, and bald, yes, and he wasn’t aware. His head was elongated, like a bean, and his small, toothless mouth was wailing. His eyes seemed not to grasp space; his gestures were without meaning. But the instant she saw him, Nannerl knew that she loved him with her whole self, and that she would never love anyone else in the world the way she loved him.

  Do you have sisters, dear Armand? I sincerely hope so, for your sake. Everyone should be lucky enough to have a special relationship like the one between my brother and me! My mind and his have always been in unison, and we have never needed language in order to understand each other. As a child I liked to think we were a single body that had been divided by mistake. When I was eleven, in fact, an Italian painter made portraits of us, and it was disturbing to look at the paintings side by side. We had the same features: the same high forehead with prominent temples (which he naturally called “horns”), the same wide space between blond eyebrows and large light eyes, the same nose with the slightly downturned tip, the same full lips, with their mocking expression, the same strong-willed, pointed chin. Yet in character we were very different: he capricious, impertinent, and tirelessly in search of attention; I reserved, insecure, and fearful of imposing. I could express myself freely only in his company and in solitude—a condition not uncongenial to me even then.

  In our games we were the king and queen of an imaginary land, the Kingdom of Back—a reality distinct from the tangible present and yet able to transform it and shatter its boundaries. How I yearn, dear Armand, for that enchanted land that I can no longer enter—a place inhabited only by children, where all make music the whole day long, and all are good and kind, and the bad are not admitted even for a visit. In the Kingdom of Back every pleasure was possible; you had only to utter the magic formula.

  III.

  “Here forever happy are we…”

  “And nothing bad will ever be!”

  The rhyme echoed between the narrow balconies of the inner courtyard, shooting upward until it reached the pentagonal patch of sky and disappeared among the clouds.

  For Wolfgang and Nannerl, every action had a sound, and every sound had a meaning. The noise of the traffic on the Getreidegasse, the nasal chatter of two women at a window, the splashing of slops emptied out of a chamber pot; the scuff of feet on grass, the rustling of Nannerl’s skirts and petticoats, the silent instant when she raised them to reveal long legs covered by scratches and bruises. And then the quick rhythm of running, he ahead and she behind, a tomboy, her hair loose and freely flying; and the crumbling mountain of garbage on whose summit rose the king’s throne. Wolfgang climbed up, triumphant, a crown of leaves on his head and a sword of reeds in his hand.

  “Your Majesty, I haven’t done anything wrong!” Nannerl cried.

  “When you speak to the king, you must kneel down!”

  With a thud, she was on all fours. “Forgive me. I have no faults, my sovereign lord.”

  “It’s not true! You don’t love your brother!”

  “No, I adore him, Your Majesty! I adore him—and even more,” she said, seizing his feet and covering them with kisses.

  “All right, I forgive you. You can be my queen again,” the tyrant said with a magnanimous scowl, and then he got down from the throne to tap one
of her shoulders with the sword. But at that moment, like a castle of cards, the mountain of trash came crashing down and a long metal rod tumbled to the ground, the noise echoing painfully in their ears. Closing their eyes tight and sticking out their tongues, the two children groaned and, as the last vibration faded, emitted, in chorus, a sigh of relief. “What a horrible B-flat!”

  Their mother leaned out the window of their apartment, on the third floor, and her sharp cry was the final blow: “Nannerl! Wolfgang! In the house, this instant!”

  IV.

  “You must be quiet when Papa is working!” yelled Anna Maria Mozart, who was washing the floor, as soon as she saw her children at the door. “And you, you’re older. You should be watching over your brother! Will you tie up that hair? You look like a witch!” She took a comb out of her own hair and started toward Nannerl, but the pail of dirty water was in the way and she bumped it with her clog so that the water sloshed out. “Holy shit!” she cried, raising her fists, as if to strike at random; she stood there like an enormous marble statue, the giantess Juno poised to transform the children into mice and the dirty water into a stormy sea, but instead she burst out laughing.

  The children immediately followed, and how gaily! Wolfgang trotted around the puddle, and his laugh made the glasses on the shelf vibrate; Nannerl’s laugh was deep, and though she covered her mouth with her hand, it escaped anyway. “Hush, children, hush,” their mother begged. “Papa will be angry…Hush up, for heaven’s sake.” But she was giggling as she spoke, and could hardly be taken seriously. She pushed them along the hall with loving pats on the behind. “Go to the bedroom and be good. And please, be quiet.” Then she went back to the kitchen, and as soon as she saw the mess on the floor the desire to laugh vanished.

  Exhausted, the children threw themselves on their backs on the bed, in which both had been conceived and born. They lay there without moving, staring at the ceiling that their imagination opened up to the sky, while the sound of string playing wound its way through the door with the mother-of-pearl handle.

  It was Wolfgang who spoke first. “I’m going to be a coachman when I grow up. I’ll drive my carriage to the top of the mountains. I mean, to the top of the clouds.”

  “I’m going to be a musician when I grow up.”

  “What does that have to do with it! I’ll do that, too. But you won’t make it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll be a mama. You’ll have a bunch of children and you’ll be lucky if you’re even a music teacher.”

  “I don’t want children. Not one! You’re enough for me.” She reached out a hand to cuddle him but encountered instead a large pear-shaped object hidden in the covers. “What’s your new violin doing here?”

  He shrugged, and hugged the instrument case as if it were a doll.

  “Will you let me try it, Wolfgang?”

  “No. It’s mine.”

  “Let me at least pluck the strings. I just want to hear the sound.”

  “You’re not even supposed to touch it!”

  “Come on, Wolfgang, let me try it. You don’t know how to play yet.”

  “I do so!”

  She laughed in his face. “Who do you think you are? You haven’t had a single lesson!”

  A flash of defiance lighted the child’s eyes, and in an instant he had climbed onto a stool and turned the door handle. She jumped up and tried to grab him, but he was already in the middle of the music room, standing behind the string players and brandishing his violin like the Archangel Gabriel with his flaming sword.

  “Stop, stop! Don’t you see there’s a crescendo here?” Herr Mozart said to the second violin, a man with drink-reddened cheeks. “If the intensity diminishes at that point, the whole thing collapses! Concentration, please.”

  “Papa, I’ll do it; I’ll do the crescendo!”

  Leopold made a grimace of irritation. “Anna Maria, come and get Wolfgang.”

  “My papa is right!” the child yelled. “That phrase has to be heard forte. You were playing like a pig. I can do it better!”

  Faint smiles appeared among the players, and Leopold, brimming with parental indulgence, said, “Come, what do you know about these things? When you’ve learned to play, I’ll let you rehearse with us. Now go and play with your sister.”

  “Why don’t you let him try?” said the red-faced musician, launching into what he clearly imagined to be a good joke. “We’re all eager to hear the interpretation of the illustrious Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!”

  There was a noisy burst of laughter.

  “All right!” Leopold yielded. “Try the second-violin part, but softly, so that no one will hear the mess you’ll certainly make of it.” With a little shove he sent his son to his place.

  Nannerl hid near the door and, under her incredulous gaze, as the musicians began, her little brother joined in, following the score attentively.

  The second violinist watched him, smiling under his whiskers, but his expression changed radically as he realized that Wolfgang was playing…well. Yes, well! Imitating what he saw the adults doing, he moved the bow and placed one note after the other; perhaps he made some mistakes in the fingering, but the notes were right, and the sound was full—in a word, beautiful. Was it possible that he had never had a violin in his hands? That he was only six years old? The man laid down his instrument, amazed, and little Mozart continued to play the part without the slightest hesitation. The others, too, stopped playing, one at a time, staring in astonishment at this extraordinary child, who was now performing like a soloist, as if it came naturally. Leopold, an expert teacher, and the author of a method that was known throughout Europe, would have sworn to God that such a thing wasn’t possible; and now here was his own son, the embodiment of this miracle before his very eyes! What higher instinct had suggested the violinist’s technique to this prodigy? Maybe God himself!

  Wolfgang ended the passage and bowed his head in a gesture of thanks, as if he were already an accomplished performer. Mad with joy, his father took him in his arms and held him up: “Gentlemen, my son is a miracle! My son is a divine miracle!”

  “Herr Mozart, the whole world must know him!” the second violinist shouted. “Take him on tour! Have him play at the courts of kings!”

  Nannerl opened the door and entered the room. Her brother had shown the way, and luckily he was there, and had had the courage; from now on it would be possible to break into the rehearsals of adults and play with them; and if you were good, you could even be applauded! She grabbed her brother’s violin and began playing a rapid, virtuosic passage.

  No one looked at her, or seemed to be aware of her. The little group went off, Leopold in the lead, carrying the child in triumph, and Nannerl, in the deserted room, went on playing for herself.

  V.

  The young woman was on her knees talking and weeping at once, and behind the purple curtain the man of the church was hidden, but the grille did not drain her words of sorrow, or lighten their import. How much time does it take for a person’s life to be ruined? For the attractive salon harpsichordist, the time taken for an intimacy consummated in a doorway had been enough, demanded by a count as a condition for engagement: an intimacy whose result was pregnancy, and not even the shadow of a ring. Her stomach was still flat; only the man directly responsible was aware of her condition, and he had denied his involvement.

  The Reverend Joseph Bullinger had the girl leave the confessional and, taking her by the hand, led her toward the pews.

  “I don’t even know how I managed to get here,” she sobbed. “I haven’t eaten for days, and I don’t have the strength to get up in the morning. If it were up to me, I would stay in bed until the end of my days.”

  “What did you tell your family?”

  “A lot of lies.” Awareness of that further sin made her cry even harder. “If I tell them, they’ll throw me out of the house. And if the rumor spreads, there will be a scandal, and I can’t even think of the consequences. I don’t know
what to do, Father. Help me.”

  There was only one solution, and he was silent as he searched for the words most suitable for proposing it; in the meantime, he observed her wrinkled clothes and tear-stained veil with a sad smile. He had been hearing ugly gossip about this tormented young woman for some time, and at first he had paid no attention to it. In his role as preceptor, Joseph Bullinger had regular contacts with the families of the aristocracy; he had never liked those vacuous circles, and was always hoping to improve them through education and culture.

  “My child,” he said, “don’t cry. You have no reason to despair, believe me. Often the Lord indicates to us the just path in an unexpected way. When one reaches what seems a dead end, there may be a doorway to happiness: the doorway through which the Almighty offers you the chance to begin a new life, upright and pure, in His name.”

  The musician sniffed and looked at him, filled with hope.

  “You will construct in your heart a system of new and just values, in the absence of which you have unfortunately committed this grave sin. You may repair the evil done through work and helping others, and learn to appreciate asceticism and contemplation.”

  “I understand,” she said, but in fact she had understood nothing. “But what must I do, exactly?”

  “Leave the city as soon as possible and, safe from the gossip, bring the pregnancy to term. I will take care of finding a good situation for the child when it is born; and for you, I already have in mind the convent where you will take your vows.”

  The harsh cry of dismay rattled the windows: “You mean, I am to become a nun?”

  Protests followed, expressed in every form and every tone of voice, and a vain search for alternatives. As the reverend insisted, trying his best to convince her, she withdrew into a dangerous silence, accompanied by a new flood of tears, and so, disheveled and weeping, as she had arrived, she hurried to the door of the church and almost bumped into Leopold Mozart.