“Come.” I walked to the klavier. “Let us play. Forget our woes. Just you and me, mein Brüderchen.” I felt, rather than saw, my brother smile. I sat down on the bench and played a simple repeating phrase.
“Don’t you want the light?” Josef asked.
“No, leave it.” I knew where the keys were anyway. “Let’s just sit in the dark and play. No sheet music. Nothing we know by heart. I will give you the basso continuo, and you will improvise.”
I heard the faint plink of strings against the soundboard as Josef pulled the violin from its case, the soft shush as he ran his bow over the rosin cake. He settled the instrument beneath his chin, touched the bow to the strings, and began to play.
* * *
Time passed in waves, and my brother and I lost ourselves in music. We improvised on established structures, embellished on some of the sonatas we knew from memory, and then gradually segued into what Josef was to play for Master Antonius. Papa had decided on a Haydn sonata, though I had suggested Vivaldi. Vivaldi was Josef’s favorite composer, but Papa claimed he was too obscure. Haydn—a composer with critical and popular acclaim—was the safer choice.
The music wound down. “Feeling better?” I asked.
“Just one more?” Josef begged. “The largo from Vivaldi’s L’inverno. Please.”
By now the enchantment the music had woven over us was fading. Käthe had accused me of loving Josef more, but it was not Josef I loved more; it was music. I loved my sister as much as I loved my brother, but I loved music most of all.
I glanced over my shoulder. “We should go,” I said. “Your audience awaits.” I closed the lid of the klavier and rose from the seat.
“Liesl.” Something in my brother’s voice gave me pause.
“Yes, Sepp?”
“Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go into that long night alone.”
“You won’t go alone.” I gathered him close. “You will never be alone. I am always with you, in spirit if not in flesh. Distance won’t make a difference to us. We will write each other letters. We will share our music with each other, in paper, ink, and blood.”
It was a long time before he spoke. “Give me a little something, then,” he said. “Just a little melody, to hold your promise.”
I pulled at a scrap of melancholy and hummed a few notes. I paused, waiting for him to tell me my opening chords.
“Major seventh,” was all Josef said. His smile was wry. “Of course that’s what you start with.”
THE AUDITION
The sounds of the gathered guests in the main hall flooded the corridor outside Josef’s room. My brother shrank back, but I pulled him along, bringing him out from the darkness and into the light.
Our little inn had never seen this many patrons before. Many of the assembly were burghers from town, including Herr Baumgartner, Hans’s father. Mother bustled back and forth between the tables, serving the customers alone. Käthe emerged from the kitchen with platters of food a few moments later, Hans on her heels with steins of beer.
“There’s our little Mozart!” One of the guests rose to his feet, pointing excitedly in my direction. My heart leaped with both excitement and fear, but then I saw he was pointing to Josef hiding behind me. “Come, Mozart, play us a jig!”
Of course the guest wasn’t referring to me. I was no one, the forgotten Vogler child with neither looks nor talent to recommend her. But the truth did nothing to lessen the sting of disappointment.
Josef gripped my skirts. “Liesl—”
“I’m right here, Sepp.” I gently nudged him in Master Antonius’s direction. “Go on.”
Our father and the violin master were sitting by the fortepiano near the hearth. It was the nicer of our two klaviers; Papa had used it when he was still teaching. Our father stood over the celebrated musician, animatedly reminiscing about the time they’d played with the “greats” during their erstwhile Salzburg careers. They spoke in Italian—Master Antonius’s mother tongue, and one Papa did not know particularly well. I noticed the scattered steins by Papa’s side and winced; when our father had a few drinks in him, it was impossible to get him to stop.
“Is this the boy?” Master Antonius asked when Josef stepped forward. He spoke German passably well.
“Yes, maestro.” Papa proudly clapped my brother on the shoulder. “This is Franz Josef, my only son.”
Josef gave me a frightened glance, but I nodded encouragingly.
“Come closer, boy.” Master Antonius beckoned Josef to his side. To my surprise, the old master’s fingers were gnarled and bent with rheumatism; it was amazing he was still able to play the violin. “How old are you?”
Josef quailed. “Fourteen, sir,” he managed after a few swallows.
“And how long have you been studying?”
“Since he was a babe,” Papa said. “Since before he could speak!”
“I’ll have the boy speak for himself, Georg,” Master Antonius said. He turned back to Josef. “Well?” he harrumphed. “How do you answer?”
My brother first looked to me, then to Papa. “I have been studying since I was three years old, sir.”
Master Antonius snorted. “Let me guess: keyboard, theory, history, and composition, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your father also schooled you in French and Italian, I presume?”