Mozart's Last Aria by Matt Rees Page A

composer, entered the hall from an antechamber. The orchestra rose.
    Salieri acknowledged the applause. The room grew quiet. Salieri gathered himself, his mouth tight, his eyes full of suffering. He raised his arms and began the Allegro vivace of Wolfgang’s last symphony.
    It was the first time I had heard it. It carried me away with a complexity and majesty I hadn’t encountered in his earlier symphonies.
    By the time Salieri drove his arms high to end the fugue of the Molto allegro finale, all power had drained from my body. I had known my brother as a prodigy, then as a man of extraordinary talent at the keyboard who possessed a sensitive compositional technique. Until this moment I had failed to comprehend the staggering extent of his gifts.
    My mouth opened and I cried low, while those around me rose to applaud. When he had been merely my brother, I had mourned Wolfgang’s death. Now that I saw him as a man of such stupefying musical genius, I felt his loss so much more greatly. It was this which kept me in my chair, shivering.
    Lichnowsky regarded me in puzzlement, as though embarrassed by my emotion. “Madame?”
    I brushed a finger below my tearful eyes and smiled. I wished to divert him, to alleviate his discomfiture. I touched his wrist. “You were telling me about the trip to Berlin. How was the journey?”
    “Wolfgang and I went slowly to Berlin, by way of Leipzig. Your brother made a study there of the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.” His lip twitched and he stroked his nose. “We progressed to Berlin and attended upon the king of Prussia at the Sanssouci Palace. It’s a most delightful place. The gardens are the best of it. While we waited, we walked through the terraces and into a pleasant grotto behind a waterfall.”
    “A grotto?”
    He faltered over my interruption. “Quite so. A little cave. A cool place to sit during the hot summer months. The king was also constructing an Egyptian garden, with statues in the pharaonic style and mystical pyramids.”
    I slipped my hand into the pocket of my dress and touched Wolfgang’s note. The Grotto. I closed my eyes.
    The prince leaned toward me. “Are you unwell?”
    Applause, once more.
    “Your sister-in-law is about to perform,” he said.
    Constanze sang “Ah, I was in love,” and her sister followed her with a virtuoso aria that, Lichnowsky informed me, she was performing in The Magic Flute at Schikaneder’s theater.
    But I heard little. I was overcome with confusion. Lichnowsky’s mention of a grotto in Berlin, Stadler’s fury over the letter, Gieseke’s strange numerical rant. I tried to slow my thoughts. I needed to clear my mind before I performed.
    My fingers were crooked and cramped. Staring at them, I feared I’d disappoint the audience. As a girl, I had often waited to perform while Wolfgang ran through his tricks and delighted everyone, playing blindfolded and improvising on demand. He frequently went on so long and to such acclaim that there was no time left for me to play. I would watch, downcast, as the dukes and princes wandered away to their dinners without hearing me. I wished that this would be my fate today. One after the other, Vienna’s best musicians displayed their interpretations of my brother’s genius. Soon I was to demonstrate that the name of Mozart might attach to mediocrity, too.
    Mademoiselle von Paradies completed her recital of a piano sonata by Wolfgang in B-flat major with a vigorous cadenza. She came to her feet, breathing hard, defiant and triumphant. Her rolling, blind eyes seemed to seek me out in the audience.
    As the applause for Paradies subsided, the orchestra tuned up once more. Maestro Salieri bowed to me, gesturing toward the piano.
    I stared at him, my vision out of focus, a chill in my belly. I had never been frightened in front of an audience. Neither was I now. I was scared of Wolfgang. What would he think of me?
    My legs shook. I would not stand. I heard the coughing and muttering of the