“It’s true, then.”
“Tell my sister we’ll be reunited.” She glanced back at the door. “Please, there’s no time for more questions. Just do as I ask.”
“But I’m not planning to return to Venice now.”
“Trust me, you’ll be returning sooner than you think.” She squeezed my arm. “And be careful when you do.”
With that, she turned back to the house and I walked to the corner and hailed a cab. I gave the driver Madeleine’s address, then sat back and closed my eyes. I needed to regain my bearings.
As my carriage crossed the city, I reached into my jacket for a handkerchief and instead came on the mail I had picked up that day at Hoyer’s office: a bill from my tailor and a bank check for my recent recitals. But there was a third envelope, tucked between those two. Pale blue with a red seal, exactly like the envelope Adriana had handed me when I was transported. This time I was able to read that it was addressed to me, care of Hoyer. My heart beat faster, thinking for a moment it might be from Adriana, but the taut, masculine handwriting told me otherwise. The letter, dated two weeks earlier, was written by my old friend Bartolomeo, but it turned out to be about Adriana. In other words, as Maximus had promised, it was essentially a message from the person I had concentrated on.
Bartolomeo wrote:
My dear Nicolò,
I hope this finds you well. Here in Venice we have heard of your newfound fame. It does not surprise me, and I am happy for you. But I am writing to you now with some sadness. Matters have only worsened at the Ospedale since your departure. Master Vivaldi is constantly traveling himself now, to Marseilles, Paris, Brussels, Madrid—anywhere he can stage his operas and make money. Perhaps he, too, will end up in Vienna. They say he is heavily in debt. Luca and Marta have the run of the orphanage, and they have turned it into a prison. In addition to Carmine, they hired two other porters, who are in fact waterfront toughs. The girls are not allowed out into the city except to perform. But there have been no performances. The morale is low. The privilegiate di coro rehearses long hours, not in preparation for concerts, but merely to be kept busy. A substitute conductor named Sabato was hired, whom the girls detest for his arrogance. I took it upon myself to write to the Master, but have yet to hear back from him. I am writing to you, however, about a matter much closer to your heart. Adriana has run away from the Ospedale and not returned. I happened to see her the afternoon she left, on the bench in the courtyard. She was preoccupied and fretful. She had a small bag at her feet that she tried to hide from my view. I pretended not to see it. I asked her what was wrong, and after some hesitation, she answered that she had learned by chance that her friend Julietta had not run away, as everyone was told, but was in Padua in dire circumstances. Adriana would not elaborate, except to say she felt she must flee the Ospedale and find her. I warned her how dangerous this could be, and I offered her my assistance. She refused. Like the other girls, she had learned to be suspicious of everyone. A few hours later, when the girls were called to dinner, it was discovered that Adriana was gone. The porters were dispatched to find her, and I was relieved when they returned empty-handed, for I would not have wanted her in their clutches for a moment.
I am sorry to be the one to deliver such news, but I thought you ought to know. I should add that Adriana asked after you, and I told her you were in Vienna, making a name for yourself. She wanted to know how long I had known your true sex. I took the liberty of telling her some of your story, so she would understand why you had entered the Ospedale as you did. She knows why you were expelled, and what you did for her, which moved her greatly. She cares for you, Nicolò. If I can be of service to you, call on me. I hope we will see you in Venice again soon. In the meantime, I remain
Your friend,
Bartolomeo Cattaglia
I felt angry and guilty, and most of all, helpless, after reading and rereading this letter. While I had been gaining fame and riches, and seeking out pleasure, my friends had been in trouble, and maybe in worse danger than I had imagined. I had often rationalized of late, while enjoying Madeleine’s favors and basking in the glow of my audiences’ applause, that I would put my riches to good use one day, making a triumphal return to Venice and taking Adriana away from the Ospedale for a better life. It was too late for all that grandiosity now, but I knew what I must do: settle my affairs in Vienna as swiftly as possible and travel to Padua. With the time that had elapsed, I had no idea whether Adriana was there, and if so, where I might find her. But I had to go.
As I ascended the stairs to the Marquise’s apartment, I remembered how certain Lila had been that I would be leaving the city soon. Just how soon, and with what further measure of desperation and confusion, I would find out the moment Madeleine opened the door.
3
“Where have you been?” Madeleine cried. “Noémi’s husband is here, looking for us. We must leave Vienna at once.”
“Her husband?”
“Yes, the Baron told me he arrived this morning. And that he knows about her various affairs, of course, but even worse, that he imagines you are one of her lovers.”
“What?”
“It’s true. He thinks you have been involved with her, not me. He knows you are a famous musician—that would be enough. Your age would be meaningless to him.”
“But who would have told him such a thing?”
“Who knows? You were seen coming and going from here. People gossip. Servants talk. It doesn’t take much. The more a rumor spreads, the more it can be twisted.”
“But can’t you just tell him the truth?”
“Don’t you understand, Nicolò? He is furious with us. Noémi left him—forget that it was for good cause—and we have been living on the money she took. He wants revenge. And you have become one of his enemies.”
“Where will you go?”
Hurrying around the corner from her bedroom, the Marquise answered my question.
“We will go to Budapest. Somewhere he never goes.” She lowered her voice. “You’re welcome to join us—for your own safety.”
Madeleine took my hand. “Will you come? We were waiting for you.”
Over her shoulder, in the parlor, I saw their trunks and suitcases lined up. The Marquise’s maid had just entered, carrying her coat. I knew Madeleine was lying: if I had arrived fifteen minutes later, they would have been gone.
She read my expression and averted her eyes. “Honestly. If you didn’t come, we were going to go by your apartment.”
“We were,” the Marquise added, unconvincingly.
I flushed, as much with embarrassment as anger. In the preceding weeks, I had seen how duplicitous the Marquise was, juggling her lovers, but I had expected more of Madeleine. I realized just how much my feelings for her had blinded me. “No, Madeleine. You go.”
“You don’t know my husband,” the Marquise said, pulling on her gloves. “He’s a vengeful man.”
“You mean he’ll challenge me to a duel?”
“No. He’s a coward. He’ll hire men to beat you. Or worse. That’s his way.”
Now I did believe her. But after all I’d seen and heard that day, and with so many things happening at once, I wasn’t afraid. I just felt numb.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Anyway, I think he’ll be more interested in finding you, not me.”
The Marquise smiled wryly. “You’ve learned some things since you arrived in Vienna. Come, Madeleine.”
Madeleine hesitated, then embraced me, and despite my anger and confusion, I held her for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body for the last time.
“There’s no time for this,” the Marquise said. “Get back to your apartment. Ask Herr Hoyer for assistance. His brother is police commissioner, no?”
“You really think I am in that much danger?”
“I know you are. Now, go.”
Madeleine squeezed my hand. “Think of me sometimes, Nicolò.”
I looked around the apartment—the sky-blue drapes, th
e mirrors, the divan by the window—and drew in the scent of all those lilies for the last time. I wanted to tell Madeleine that I would never forget her, but she had already turned away to put on her coat, and I left.
4
The Marquise was right.
When I arrived back at my apartment, I froze when I found the front door ajar. I knew Gertrude would never leave it that way. And for the first time, I was frightened. I could have fled the building at that point, but nearly everything I owned was in those rooms—not the least of which was my clarinet. And I had to make sure Gertrude was all right.
I pushed the door open, and the only light was the glow from a dying fire. I didn’t hear a sound. My heart was beating fast as I walked over to the fireplace and lit a tinder stick from the embers. I lit a candle and, holding my breath, slowly made a circuit of the apartment. I didn’t come on any intruders, but they had been there all right.
The place was a mess. It had been ransacked, everything turned upside down. Drawers were emptied onto the floor, furniture upended, plates and glasses shattered. My clothes were strewn around the bedroom. And three things were missing: the lockbox hidden in a cabinet behind some books, a pocket watch Hoyer had given me on my birthday, and my clarinet.
My clarinet was gone.
I still didn’t believe in sin, and punishment for sin, but at that moment in my apartment on the Braunerstrasse, I had a flash of doubt. I wondered if I was exactly the sort of sinner the priests railed about, the kind who rejected God and disdained the Church, and when he was most sure of himself, fell into a pit of misery. I could hear them condemning me—for pride, greed, deceit, and who knows what else—as they made clear that no punishment I suffered would be too great, no misfortune too excessive, unrepentant sinner that I was. I even heard the voice of my former choirmaster, the gentle Father Michele, thundering Repent, Nicolò, or be damned!
But I was saved from my doubt, and from further self-pity, when I heard an actual sound in the apartment that terrified me. A scratching and thumping, barely audible, in the closet by the kitchen. I stood outside the closet for several seconds before opening the door slowly and holding the candle up to the darkness. To my horror, I saw Gertrude lying on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound with rope, a piece of cloth stuffed into her mouth, and her eyes wide with fear.
I removed the gag, but only after I had untied both pieces of rope was she able to speak.
“I thought they would murder me.”
I helped her up. “You’re all right now.”
“They broke things, they took things. They shut me in there, Herr Zen.”
“Did they hurt you, otherwise?”
“No. Just the ropes,” she said, massaging her wrists. “They knocked at the door. I thought it was you. There were two of them, not Austrians.”
“I’m so sorry, Gertrude. This should not have happened to you. Come, we’re leaving here. We’re going to Herr Hoyer’s house.”
“But your things …”
“We need to go now,” I said, taking her arm.
She was breathing hard and unsteady on her feet. “Wait. I was able to hide something before they tied me up.”
“I don’t care about the lockbox.”
“Not the lockbox.”
I followed her into the kitchen. She leaned down by the oven. “Hold the candle lower, please,” she said. She reached into the gap between the oven and the wood bin and pulled out my clarinet.
“How did you manage that?”
“I know it means everything to you.”
“Gertrude, I can never thank you enough for this.” I took hold of her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.
She blushed and raised her head a little higher. “I am Viennese. I love music.”
1
I departed Vienna at dawn in a driving rain. The previous days had been tumultuous. Though the Marquise and Madeleine were long gone, the Marquis continued to search the city for them—and me—accompanied by his manservant, a former French soldier named Reynal and two local toughs whom Reynal had recruited in a tavern. Reynal himself was more bodyguard than manservant; a battle-hardened man, quick with his fists, handsomely compensated, his principal duty was to keep the Marquis from being assaulted and robbed during his extended casino tours. His secondary duty was to settle scores for the Marquis, a querulous, thin-skinned man who, if the opportunity presented itself, was not averse to committing robbery himself by way of Reynal. For example, on their recent visit to Marseilles, after sustaining heavy losses at the faro table, the Marquis had had Reynal ambush the big winner of the night, drunk on brandy, en route to his hotel and divest him of a thousand francs. Reynal was also adept at menacing or beating various husbands whom the Marquis had cuckolded. In short, they were a rotten pair, and for several days they had focused their attention on me.
Unfortunately for them, what must have seemed a trivial nuisance at most—their menacing and binding Gertrude—became their undoing. For though Gertrude worked at my apartment most of the time, she was an employee of Emmerich Hoyer, and Hoyer’s twin brother, Heinrich, was the police commissioner of Vienna—a chain of connections the Marquis de Montal could never have imagined. And while Hoyer was furious that the home of one of his star clients, an apartment he himself had secured, had been ransacked, what outraged him in a more personal way was the fact that one of his servants should have been frightened and roughed up by three thugs. In order to identify the Marquis as the culprit behind all this, I had to tell Hoyer about my relationship with Madeleine. He took this information in stride—he was surprised, in fact, assuming that because of my fame and success I would have been more precocious with the ladies than in fact I was. That is, he had at first believed that I was indeed one of the Marquise’s lovers. And knowing of her many indiscretions, with men young and old, this had not seemed particularly unusual. But he was not so blasé about the Marquis’s behavior, and he immediately paid a visit to his brother at police headquarters. To my chagrin, he took me along, and the commissioner, upon hearing my story, cast me a cold glance and nodded, his initial suspicions about me—whatever they might have been—no doubt confirmed, despite the relative innocence of my liaison with Madeleine. Heinrich Hoyer was a policeman through and through, and because I had gotten myself into such a mess, I must on some level have been guilty—of something.
“I don’t care that he’s a Marquis; in fact, I wouldn’t care if he were the Dauphin himself: I don’t appreciate that this Frenchman has come into our city thinking he can trample on our laws, breaking into houses and assaulting citizens. And now it’s clear he has lethal, perhaps murderous, intentions toward our Venetian friend, and this is unacceptable.”
He pronounced the word “Venetian” with nearly the same contempt he’d employed for “Frenchman.” But, to use his expression, Commissioner Hoyer showed the Marquis his lack of appreciation by having him arrested, along with Reynal and his accomplices, and locked up in a dank cell in the municipal jail. The Marquis raised an enormous ruckus after recovering from his initial stupefaction, but the commissioner did not budge. Not even when the Baron Francke, a well-connected financier, interceded and tried to get the Marquis out. No, the commissioner insisted that the Marquis wait his turn, behind more than a dozen common criminals, before being arraigned in front of a magistrate during the next session of the court, three days later.
And that happened to be the very day I said goodbye to Herr Hoyer. I had shown him Bartolomeo’s letter and shared with him my feelings for Adriana and my concerns about Julietta. He understood, but still tried to discourage me from leaving Vienna. “Your star has just begun to rise,” he implored me. “I know people in Venice who can help your friends. You don’t need to go yourself.” I wouldn’t relent, and finally he gave up, and told me to send word as soon as I was ready for him to book me engagements in Venice, Ravenna, Mantua, wherever I liked. He promised that he himself would meet me in Venice in order to make the arrangements. I thanked him, though after wh
at Bartolomeo had written me, performing was the last thing on my mind. After I withdrew a large sum for my expenses, Hoyer and I had transferred the rest of my money—a small fortune of sixty-three thousand marks at that point—from the Banco del Giro to its main office in Venice, where in our dialect it was known as the Banco del Ziro.
The commissioner had some words of farewell to me, delivered discreetly but firmly at his brother’s office: “Think twice, young man, before you involve yourself in intrigues, or it is you who might end up in jail—or worse.” I promised I would, thanking him profusely for all he had done.
Then I said my goodbyes to everyone else at Hoyer’s office, most especially Gertrude, to whom I insisted on giving a full year’s pay.
“I cannot accept that,” she objected. “I told you, Herr Zen, I am Viennese—”
“I know, and you love music. Gertrude, you’ve done more for me as a musician than you’ll ever know. Please take the money.”
Until Montal and his henchmen were apprehended, I had stuck close to Hoyer’s house. I had grown fond of Vienna—in ways I surely would not have had I arrived homeless and penniless, as when I arrived in Venice—and a part of me was saddened about leaving. On my last day in the city, I ventured out to see some of my favorite landmarks one last time. I went to my favorite chocolate shop, and walked under the shade trees in the park by the Danube, and then made my way to the still-unfinished Palais Kinsky, where I watched the masons, high up on their scaffolds, completing the roof of the steeple. Finally, on the spur of the moment, I hailed a cab and decided to ride past Maximus’s house as well.
I traveled along the Boulevard Hauser, across the Kirchnerplatz with its green marble fountain, and through the same maze of alleys, which looked every bit as narrow and confusing as they had at night. But when I reached the south end of the Kundenstrasse, my heart sank. I knew I had the correct address, yet between the windowless church and the substation of the waterworks, there was only a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds, enveloped in mist.