Nightingale (26 page)

Powder was applied to her face and full bosom, making both ghostly. With a brush she'd painted her pretty mouth the dark red that was the fashion this year. Next, with a wool puff, she'd dabbed a bloom of rosy powder upon each cheek. From the mirror her reflection stared back, everything very elegant, the height of fashion. Her youthful face looked almost grim beneath all the paint and powder.

She would sing for Oettingen and his friends tonight, dine with them
– and then? What if he summoned her to his bed? She knew that her voice aroused him powerfully. The very notion sent a shiver of disgust through her.

She had decided to tell him that she had female trouble, that she was indisposed. The excuse was good for few days, then Oettingen would do as he had done before and send his own physician to attend her. Two years ago, it seemed that he had been both fearful and furious as he'd begun to imagine that she might have contracted a disease from her "escapade with that Italian crow
". Of course, the physician had pronounced her fit and not with child. Max had been, in that case, fairly understanding.

"I am a patient man, Klara, and I do have some knowledge of women. Rest assured, I can bide my time."

Of course, he had soon managed to have his way, just as he always did. He had taken her to his country house in Josephplatz. For a few days they'd entertained company with music, and he'd been quite content with that. They had ridden, taken walks inside the elegant gardens. Klara, suffering from a broken heart, slept heavily. This was the time, however, when Max took advantage. She hadn't known it, but there was a way for him to look into her bedroom. One afternoon when she had retired for a nap in the heat of the day, he availed himself of the pleasure of watching her. Her healthy young body had been crying out for relief, and she had weakened in the languorous heat of the day caressed herself. Just as ecstasy began, Max had joined her in her bed, seizing the moment of supreme vulnerability to claim her.

Klara trembled, remembering. A lie such as this would only give her a few days. She knew he'd ask Liese for confirmation, so she'd been careful to send her servant to the apothecary for the herbal mixture that made a douche for the whites, a misery from which she had suffered before.

Oh, why had Max returned?
She remembered the night in the cabinet, the curtains blowing, the scent and taste of her lover, sensation she desired, sensation that made her frantic with longing. She remembered his hands, his sensitive musician's hands. Oh, how he'd filled her, how they'd seized each other and flown like eagles, to annihilation! It was not the calculating craftsman's sex she had with Max, but a blissful miracle that seemed to flow from Almassy's hands into her flesh.

Oh, it was right to do these things with him, right as nothing before had ever been…
.

***

When she arrived at Max's townhouse, she was alarmed to see the coat of arms of Prince Vehnsky on one of the carriages. When she arrived inside, the Hungarian Prince was there, standing right beside Max. As her Count bowed his distinguished head over her hand, Klara trembled. Maximilian, always watchful, noticed.

"How are you this evening, my dear? Did you take cold coming in the carriage? We'll have to get you close to the fire." Tucking her hand into his arm, he took her round to greet everyone. Again and again Klara curtsied, inclined the tower of curls towards them, Barons and Counts and noble
‘vons’ of all kinds. The women present were, in equal measure, wives and mistresses. It was easy to tell which was which, for the wives greeted Klara with an icy superiority. The eyes of the mistresses were assessing and interested, in her clothes, in her jewels and her face beneath the towering silver wig. Then, as Max led her to where a servant had placed a chair by the corner stove, one of Vehnsky's servants caught her eye. Standing at attention by the wall, in red livery, stood Almassy.

Klara felt sick. That they should see each other so! That she must pass without greeting or touching the one she truly loved, was like a knife in the heart. For a moment she wanted to do something, to scream, to faint, to run! His dark eyes held hers, but what came from them? Yes, there was male anger in those black eyes, but even greater was pity for her and tenderness. He dared to incline his head.

Max, of course, had been watching for this. Now he turned to Klara at once with a question on his lips.

"Ah, Concertmaster Almassy! I particularly requested His Highness to bring him to accompany you, dear Klara. I hear that he plays as well as he practices medicine."

Almassy made a crisp bow. "The medicine may, in this case, be the higher art, honored sir."

"If you have preserved Fraulein Silber's health and sublime voice, I must agree with you, young Concertmaster."

Then he offered his hand and led Klara away. It was a terrible moment when Almassy bowed low before them and then stepped back among the other uniformed musicians.

They entered a smaller antechamber where the nobility were gathered. There was talk of the last campaign, which Max dismissed with a weary wave of his hand.

"If you will pardon me, Baron, tonight I don't want to waste another moment on that. Here in Vienna I always hope to divert myself with the healing pleasures of music and peace."

The inquisitive Baron had inclined his silver head. A slight smile traced his lips as he gazed at Klara.

"You seem very quiet tonight, my dear," Max said. "Is something worrying you? Are you feeling unwell?"

"It's a slight indisposition, nothing for you to concern yourself about, sir." Klara shook her silver curls, tried to smile.

"Never mind.” He squeezed her fingers.

After a little stiff chat, they rejoined the guests of lower standing, the musicians and servants who waited in the larger room. A wind band was the first entertainment. Klara and a tenor from the Court with whom she often sang, Ernst Dauer, went to another room down the corridor where there was a spinet
and Almassy, who would accompany them as they sang, first a duet and then solos. There was a half an hour before they were to sing, and it passed quickly. There was no time for anything but the business of music. They were to sing a love duet from a light opera that had been popular a few years ago. Fair, plump Dauer was his usual peacock self, vain and demanding. Akos handled him with such good humor that the eternally touchy tenor grew, for once, cooperative.

When a servant came to call them, Klara extended her arms inviting the gentleman to escort her out.

"Quite an able fellow, your Hungarian friend," Dauer murmured approvingly. Klara gave him a measuring glance, but it seemed that Ernst was sincere, so she smiled. Thus, with the warm touch of her lover’s hand on hers, Klara went out to sing for her master and his guests.

Everything for the past few weeks had felt like a dream, and this was no exception. Anything that happened without Akos was of no consequence. Because he was here, even if all that could pass between them was music and clasped hands, Klara felt alive. When it was time to sing the aria solo, she stood beside the clavier, happy at the idea she could join with him in music, at least.

Dear eyes, beautiful eyes,

Dear lights, beloved stars,

Give rest to this heart!

If I am sighing and dying for you,

My darling, my dearest treasure,

It must be only because

The God of Love makes it so!

The whole room sighed as the last note, with a ring like crystal, died away. The Count gestured and inclined his head. "Perfection, Fraulein Silber. Perfection!" His words were lost in applause and audible comments of "sublime
”, and “marvelous”. Kapellmeister Haydn, who'd been sitting nearby, leaned forward and said, "Most precise and beautiful, Fraulein. That was a high example of the singer's art. You are a credit to our profession."

As Klara curtsied gracefully to the room, Prince Esterhaza added, with a courteous nod to the Count, "And to the judicious ear of her patron
….”

The old Kapellmeister gravely nodded, taking the mild rebuke in stride.

"Have you another song prepared for us, Fraulein?" Max asked. How proud and pleased he looked! In days past, his approval would have mattered. Tonight all Klara could feel was the humiliation of service, of being a possession, an object carried out for display.

"Yes, my Lord."

Klara often wondered how a man as great as Herr Haydn could be so humble. She had never minded it so much, this eternal currying of favor, but tonight how it rankled! Klara couldn't restrain a glance that leapt, loaded with feeling, to Almassy. He couldn't help returning it, a flash of love from his cat’s eyes, before he lowered them again to the clavier's black keys. In order to hide it, he began a long embroidered prelude to her next song. He played it through once, until Klara, signaling an end to her preparation, began the Song on the Death of a Nightingale.

She is gone, she who rang in the May!

A Nightingale, who, with her song,

Beautified the grove.

Ah, her sound echoed in my soul,

When I wandered

Beside the brook.

In the gold of evening, as I lay,

Half asleep among flowers…
.

"Bravo, Fraulein!” Prince Esterhaza rose to his feet, the better to applaud her. A modest tumult followed his display of enthusiasm, as everyone else had to follow suit.

Klara turned to thank Almassy for his accompaniment, tears welling. During the music she had felt his support so strongly, his skill laying the musical foundation from which her voice could soar. Each wonderful moment they’d spent together, those wonderful times of collaboration, of shared music, came flowing back in a wave of remembrance which almost drowned her.

"A fine accompaniment, young Concertmaster!"

Oettingen appeared at her shoulder. To have him suddenly so close made Klara start.

"I understand you have been playing for Fraulein Silber at Signor Manzoli's."

"Yes, and it was a great honor, sir, to assist Fraulein Silber." Akos rose and bowed. Klara loved his gesture, for somehow it conveyed, not the mechanical politeness of a servant, but the ease and grace of a nobleman. She watched Oettingen's bright predator's eyes taking him in with more than usual interest.

"And who is the composer? The poetry, of course, is the great Metastasio's."

"Both poems were set to music by Wolfgang Mozart, sir
," Klara answered for him. "I find his lyricism quite remarkable."

"Indeed. Quite lovely." Count von Torny entered the conversation. "Still so young, is he not?”

"Thirteen, this year," said Kapellmeister Haydn.

"Ah, yes. Hmmm. The Mozart father and son, with whom the Empress has lately been so displeased."

"Servants who spend all their time traveling about and not attending their Master. Rather a bad business."

"Indeed!" Vehnsky joined in with his peers. “It is a curious thing, this new antagonism to the natural order of society."

Klara and Akos lowered their eyes. Klara wasn't sure, but she thought that Herr Haydn had looked down as well. Nevertheless, in next moment, she was surprised to hear him dare to enter what had become an aristocrat's conversation.

"Ah, honored sirs, it is still a truth, that to my ears, Mozart's music is near to perfection."

"You are quite right, Kapellmeister. Credit where credit is due." Agreement, much to Klara’s surprise, came from Count Oettingen. "The boy has a remarkable ability to translate the mature emotion of these poets into song."

***

Later, now sitting beside her Count, Klara watched Akos accompany Herr Haydn and others in the string quartets that finished their evening of music. In spite of all her fears, Klara felt her heart lift on a cloud of divine music.

Her beloved was here, playing so beautifully, playing with all his soul
– playing for her!

They dined. Most of the musicians were dismissed below stairs, along with the servants of Esterhaza, Vehnsky and those of Count Oettingen. Only Herr Haydn, Klara and Ernst Dauer would remain with the aristocrats and their ladies.

"Ah, Concertmaster!" Maximilian suddenly called out. "What's his name?” He turned to Klara, eyes bright, an almost smile curving his thin lips.

"Herr Almassy, sir." Klara hoped to control her anxiousness.

"Concertmaster Almassy! Wait!"

Akos turned. "Sir?"

"Dine with us. Perhaps you could give us a little music afterward, too. The Prince says you have a fine command of both keyboard and violin."

"I am honored." Almassy respectfully lowered his head.

So they dined together, but at a distance, Akos at the far end of the table. Klara watched him discreetly.

Oh, how much separated them! The dangers and the two weeks that remained of playing at this game seemed almost unbearable.

***