Mozart's Sister (2 page)

I could have-once. I had musical talent. I'd been a wonderchild along with my baby brother. He'd become interested in music
by watching inc. It wasn't my fault Papa had decided only one child
could have center stage, only one child could be carefully sculpted
for greatness. My brother. Not the girl-child who grew into a young
woman too fast.

We'd started performing together in public thirty years earlier, in
1762. I was five years older than my brother, five years that accentuated his precocious talent and made mine less remarkable. If only
we'd started touring when I was six years old and he still a baby. If
only I'd had a few moments alone, basking in the glow of fame,
letting the warmth of the accolades fall on me. Would Papa have
pulled iiic onto his lap, looked into my eyes, and said, "You are an
extraordinary child, Nannerl. With my help your talent will shine
so kings and empresses will know your name and shake their heads
in awe at your music"?

I tripped on a stone that had invaded the path. I righted my
body-and my thoughts. Life wasn't fair. Otherwise, why was my
brother dead at thirty-five, and me alive to ... to do what?

The options were distressingly limited.

I was familiar with these thoughts and knew they would take
me into dark corners where contentment was tightly bound and
regrets had free rein. I knew I had to set them aside and get back to
the task at hand.

Mound after mound of the dead.

I'd passed some nameplates on the outer wall. Perhaps ...

"May I help you, nieine Dame?"

I nudged the hood aside so I could see the speaker. The man
was stooped, dressed poorly, and carried a shovel. "I'm searching for
the grave of a relative."

"When did he die?"

"Three months ago. The mountain passes ... I couldn't get
through."

The man nodded. "There'll be no grave for him here. Not in
this place. None you can visit."

"Why not?"

"You're not from Vienna, then?"

"I live in St. Gilgen."

"I don't know it."

Few did.

"It's a small town, east of Salzburg."

"Ali. It explains why you may not have heard about the law
Emperor Joseph decided people were spending too much on fancy
funerals-going into debt they were, 'specially with churches overcharging. He didn't like timber being wasted on coffins neither, and
seeing's how coffins slow the body going to dust ... so a few years
back he changed things. People didn't like it, and he took back some
of the law, but still ... this is the way we do it most of the time. A
few blessings, the ring of a bell, then drop-drop, into a common
grave they go. A few handfuls of lime and I cover 'em up" He made
a sprinkling motion with his arm, then nodded around him. "These
are them."

I shuddered. "So he's ... with ... others?"

"We can fit up to six in a hole depending on how many need
burying. We been ordered to dig 'em up after seven years to make
room for more."

The way his eyes sparkled ... he clearly enjoyed my discomfort.
I pointed toward the nameplates on the wall behind me. "There.
May I find his name there?"

"He nobility?"

I hesitated. He longed to be. "No."

"Then you won't find his name."

This was unbearable. With no headstone and no marker, there
could be no future flowers set in his memory, no hand on the gravestone making the coldness of death real, no letting my gaze linger
on the deeply carved letters of his name and dates.

No proof he was gone.

And I was still alive.

I spotted another mourner close by. Oddly, the man did not
politely look away but kept his eyes on me. I lowered my head
within the folds of the hood. I did not need an audience for my
disappointment.

"Sorry to upset you," the grounds keeper said. "Even I admit it's a bad law. Maybe ... what was your loved one's name so I can say
a prayer for him?"

I hesitated, then decided it was not my place to halt any prayer
for my brother's soul, even one from such a man as this. "Mozart,"
I said. "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He was my brother. I am his
sister." The last I added for vanity's sake-may God forgive me....

There was the flicker of recognition on his face, but I didn't have
time to study it, for suddenly the other mourner rushed toward me.
His face screamed recognition.

"Mozart? You're Mozart's sister?"

I took a step back, as did the cemetery worker.

The man stopped his approach but not his query. "You're
Nannerl?"

For God to reward me with recognition after I had so pridefully
sought such attention just moments before . . . "Yes, I'm Nannerl,"
I said. I let the hood fall open so he could see my face, then pulled
it tight again.

"I've been searching for his grave, his name," the man said. "I'm
a writer and an admirer of his music. I have questions. So many
questions."

I looked at the grounds keeper and nodded at him, giving him
permission to go. He withdrew, leaving me alone with this stranger,
this man in the middle of a cemetery. Yet I was not afraid nor concerned for my reputation. For who was there to see us but the dead
and the grieving who were intent on their own private issues of
character and situation?

The man gestured toward the exit, not twenty steps away. "Shall
we, Fraulein Mozart?"

I accepted the idea of escape from this place and did not correct
the name he'd connected with mine. He did not need to know that
I was Frau Berchtold now: Baroness Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia
Berchtold zu Sonnenburg, but simply Nannerl to all who knew me.
I was the wife of a man twice widowed, the mother of six children,
and far, far removed from my brother's fame.

Too far removed.

You're due the recognition. You're entitled.

But was I?

The man paused outside the cemetery walls, giving me no
chance to ponder such intricacies of my worth.

"I have been remiss in not introducing myself. I'm Friedrich
Schlichtegroll." He offered a tight bow

I let the hood fall to my shoulders. The cold air took possession
of the space around my head, nipping at my ears, expelling the
warmth I'd so carefully hoarded. "You have questions, Herr... ?"

"Schlichtegroll. Your brother's music is well known, but I want
to confirm some of the details of his personal life. Is his wife still
living? How many children does he have? Are they well? Where do
they live? Was he working on any piece of music when he died?"

Each question produced a weight, as if the gray clouds were
descending downward, threatening to release my own private storm.
I longed for the anonymity of the hood.

"Fraulein Mozart?"

I needed to be away. Immediately. I looked for my carriage and
spotted it a short distance to the right. "If you'll excuse me." I
walked quickly, praying he wouldn't follow

I heard no other feet crunching gravel. When I glanced back,
he still stood at the entrance. He raised a hand and called after me,
"But, Fraulein Mozart ... the questions are not difficult."

They shouldn't have been.

But they were.

I hugged the wall of the carriage, needing to feel substance
around me, supporting me. If only the far wall were close enough
to push against my free side to contain me completely, to put a limit
to the breadth of my regret.

The jostling of the carriage on the cobblestone streets of Vienna
prevented me from the oblivion of rest. Apropos. I did not look
out the window as the world sped by. I did not deserve to be a part
of it.

I heard rain against the carriage roof. It was inevitable the sky
overflowed, letting the tears of God rain down on me. For surely
the Almighty grieved at the distance that had developed between
the brother and sister Mozart.

How could two siblings who had been bound as one, who
thought as one, whose lives played out as if they were one being,
lose contact like two appendages of the same body amputated so that
neither could function fully?

Tears demanded escape and I let them come, for each one represented a wasted moment as Wolfgang and I had lived our lives
apart.

The carriage came to a stop at an intersection. I leaned forward
and saw two children rush by in the rain, urged on by their fatherthe older one a girl, the younger a boy. Both smiled and laughed
while their father's face showed his opinion that rain was serious
business. Hi1ny, hiurq, we have places to be.

Two proud and happy children. Proud and happy for good
reason.

Like the Mozart children.

Had been.

Once.

A bow from Wolfie and a curtsy from me.

Applause. So much applause.

I glanced at my little brother and he winked at me. I wanted to
stick my tongue out at him-and if we had been at home, that's
exactly what I would have done. But we were not at home practicing. We were not even in our hometown of Salzburg. And though
Papa and Mama were in the audience, there were even more important people to impress here in Vienna. Dukes and duchesses, counts
and countesses by the dozens.

As Wolfie took another bow-he liked bowing; he liked sweeping his right arm to the side dramatically, as he'd seen grown-up
courtiers do-I looked in the direction of Empress Maria Theresa
and her husband, Emperor Francis. They were the rulers of the
Holy Roman Empire, of all Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. They
sat in the front row, and it was their applause that mattered. They
were a golden couple, dressed like heavenly angels in white brocade
with gold trim. Yet they were not scary and stern as I'd imagined
the rulers of an empire to be. Although their silk-covered chairs
were a bit more grand than other chairs in the room, they were not
massive thrones as I'd expected. And the empress and emperor were
not giants in the land, as one would think. They were quite shortPapa was taller than both-and I'd noticed them fidgeting in their
seats, and even scratching under their powdered wigs. Like real people. And though at first I'd found this disconcerting, it had also
eased my nerves. As for Wolfie? He didn't have nerves and always
played well. Actually, neither of us had made a single error while
playing our sonatas on the clavier.

The applause began to fade, and the emperor leaned forward and
rested his elbows on the carved arms of his chair. He pointed his
finger at us. "Bravo, children. Yes indeed, bravo. But . . ." He surveyed the room with a smile, like a boy scheming mischief, and
everyone gave him their attention. "It is no great art to play with all
your fingers, but if you could play with only one and on a covered
keyboard, that would be something worthy of admiration."

Papa had taught us such tricks, but before I had time to choose
which trick to do first, Wolfie ran to the keyboard and began playing a Scarlatti sonata with one finger, just as His Majesty had
requested. Wolfie's stubby little finger moved swiftly over the keyboard, more swiftly than I had ever seen him play. He did not miss
a single note.