page two of an excerpt from
another original Mozart manuscript
by Juliet Waldron

          I bought flowers from a woman we passed on our way. She'd had exactly what I wanted: lilies of the valley. They were fresh and powerfully sweet, their perfume an aching memory from last spring. Merely holding them caused my eyes to fill. It seemed that everywhere I went, sharp memories gathered.

          In the graveyard, the spring grass was deep and a brilliant green beneath the in and out spring sun. Rows of metal crosses leaned in the soft ground. Close to the church there were gravestones, but mossy lichen was already at work devouring names.

          Born, Married, Died--the complete circle of life compressed into three words!

          I passed the graves of a man and his three wives. A litter of tiny stones trailed after them, testimonial to sweet kisses, to pleasure whose fruit had fallen green.



          The gentleman must, I mused, have been well-to-do to have bothered to mark the infant graves. Babies were usually squeezed into the narrow strips of sod between the walks and graves sans marker. Mozart and his Constanze had lamented four such awful tragedies, a child flown to the angels before they were even acquainted.

          I rested a hand on the moving lump inside my own belly and prayed that my baby would live. I prayed likewise that I would survive the ordeal of birth, that I would be able to provide for this child, my treasure, my relic--my shame!

          We walked toward the back wall of the graveyard, the poorer neighborhoods of this silent city. Here the crosses were no longer metal, but of wood.

          Then, beyond, we reached the lowest estate, the place of the common pits. At a distance I could see a fresh one, a dreadful earthy yawn. I was heartily thankful that we were up wind. As much as the smell, I couldn't have endured so much as catching a glimpse of them, those bodies swathed in cheap material, lime dusted in a pitiful, topsy-turvy heap.

          We were approaching a wide sunken bald spot. There on the edge, as Joseph had said, was an upright twig. To my joy, it already carried a few tiny green leaves.

          "Wunderbar," Joseph declared. "The rain has started it."



          As we stood, sadly considering Mozart's humble resting place, a hollow-cheeked sexton popped up behind us, a dour and dirty ghost. As he swept off his battered hat to acknowledge me, Joseph instantly produced a bottle from beneath his coat.

          The man smiled in recognition of both giver and gift, revealing a set of gums as bald as the top of his head. After politely excusing himself, Joseph and the obliging sexton moved off toward an elaborate monument closer to the church where they could drink discreetly.

          Standing beside the mud, I scattered my lilies. On every side around lay rows and rows of sleepers.

          A breeze gusted sharply, billowing my black skirts. I lifted my head to gaze up at the sky, blue patches visible among small, bustling clouds.

          Then, clearing my throat, I began to sing, the first melody that occurred, a song he'd composed upon a love poem. The refrain "Vergist me nicht" - Forget me not – filled my throat, and then, of course, I couldn't finish. Extracting a handkerchief from my sleeve, I said, "I'm sorry," apologizing to the damp brown earth. "I really do cry too easily."

          As if in answer, the slender twig with those five green leaves swayed in the wind. When I had recovered myself a little, I noticed that Joseph and the sexton had returned and were standing a little way off. They were gazing at me, hats politely in hand.

          The wind, steadily increasing, fanned my veil. Crows tumbled overhead, raucously cawing. The two men moved closer.

          "Lady." Joseph was tactfully vague. "Herr Jakab wishes to an introduction."

          Lifting my veil, I gazed into the face of Der Herr Graber, whose skin was the same weathered beige as the earth at my feet.

          "Thank you for letting it grow."

          I groped for my pocket inside my dress and found the coin I had prepared to give. The old man accepted it with a rusty bow.

          "Never fear, Lady," he assured me. "I'll let it grow." His words carried emphasis, a promise given by an honest man.

          "Besten Dank," I said, impulsively reaching to press his rough hand. I wanted him to know how much the willow twig meant to me, hoped that my touch would incline him to protect it as much - or perhaps even more - than the coin.

          As I did so, I imagined him telling his friends about our visit. "Not Kapellmeisterin, but die Geliebte, und sie schwanger ist..."

          "Here, Herr Deiner," the sexton broke the ensuing silence. "Let us give the Kapellmeister a libation. I understand he was a serious drinkin' man."

          The bottle came out from under his dusty black coat, and a surprisingly generous quantity was spilled onto the ground, an offering of charity to the dead which was old in the time of Rome.

As soon as the liquid splashed upon the ground, a chill shot through me. A thick, dark bottomed cloud swallowed the sun. The wind forgot it was April, and blew a gust that would have done January credit. I gathered my shawl tight and shivered.

          Sparse gray hair bristling, the sexton glared all around, then waved his hand theatrically, an actor upon a graveyard stage.

          "For the Kapellmeister!" The words came in a shocking bark. "The rest of you make way!"

          There followed a curious silence. The clouds became stationary, paintings on a scrim of sky. There was a hum, too, a slightly flat Middle C. Then, I too saw them.

          Shades, the Romans named them, and this is what I saw, a ragged stooping throng crowded around on every side. One came forward, a small figure with tousled fair hair and huge eyes that were so very, very blue.

          The sexton handed me the bottle. "Drink and then pour," he hissed.

          Joseph's expression betrayed nothing. Did he see them? To this day I do not know. We would never speak of it.

          I accepted the bottle and tilted it back for a sip of The Serpent's best. Next, with shaking hand, I splashed a little more on the ground. His shadow crouched, like a dog drinking from a puddle.

          "Besten Dank," I whispered to no one at all.

          They faded, my Mozart last of all.

          "I'll look after him, Lady," the sexton was saying. "But you mustn't grieve so hard, dear Lady. He always comes, you know, when they play his music."

          The crows, who had settled on the church roof, set up a sudden roiling chorus, as if in vigorous agreement. In the crazy moodiness of spring, the sun chose this moment to spring from behind the gloomy castled clouds.

          "Time to go," said Joseph, gently taking my arm.


          On the way out, I noticed that an ornamental tree, planted close to the church, was flowering. It was a particularly immodest shade of pink.



          As we drove toward the Freihaus in the hired hack, the dark rack beat a hasty retreat East. The sun, shining unhindered, began to warm us. In the suburban gardens we passed, flowers bloomed. The whole world appeared fresh and new, like a day after rain.

          Women were scrubbing steps, sweeping sidewalks, putting comforters to air upon window sills. We passed slow, rattling wagons, farmers bringing heaps of fresh green produce to market. Street sweepers were brushing the cobbles, collecting what the horses left behind. Newly budded trees cast a fine network of shadow over the cobbles.



          We passed a cheerfully noisy group of women, wearing dresses of yellow, pink and lavender. They carried matching parasols, and were trailed by maids, nurses, and a squad of gamboling, shouting children. The entire expedition had probably been mounted to cross the street for English tea in one of the fine apartments we were passing.

          From an open window, the sound of a skillfully played fortepiano spilled out. What else but Tamino’s sweet aria to his wonderful Magic Flute?

          I imagined the performer. Who else could it be but a pretty, talented woman? I met Joseph's eyes and found he was smiling, for of course he’d recognized it, too.

          I felt better than I had in months. I was still alive, floating helplessly upon the current of life, but the baby and I were not alone.

          Far from alone! What I'd experienced at St. Mark's made that clear. ~  ~  ~

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