"You're late, Signor Da Ponte."

The moment I had seen the long hand on the clock pass the twelve I had positioned my chair directly in front of the door, a blank sheet of parchment in my lap and a quill in my hand. When he finally came in I had spoken before he looked up; now, having taken him by surprise, I had to press my lips into a tight line to hide my smile.

Da Ponte was less successful at keeping a straight face as he glanced down at his fob watch. "Three minutes! Good God, what have I done?" He closed the door, unable to keep one side of his mouth from lifting into that peculiar toothy grin of his.

I shall expect you to stay three minutes later than usual to make up for it." Blast, my own smile refused to be contained anymore. I pushed myself to my feet, passing the quill and parchment to my colleague so that I could put my chair back at its desk. "To work," I said brusquely, pleased to find that the idea of returning to my music was already settling me, the irritating urge to laugh fading away. "Come, Da Ponte, give me back the quill. We've an entire opera to write." I put out my hand.

He took a step back, that playful light still glowing in his large eyes. "Lorenzo."

"What?"

"'Lorenzo,' please. If we're to work together, I insist you use my name - Antonio."

I flinched as if the name had been thrown at me. "I don't entirely think-"

"Well, I do. The offer stands."

And Da Ponte crossed his arms, daring me to complain again. For a long time we simply faced each other, though I admit I found it impossible to hold his gaze and was forced to focus instead on one of his heavy silver rings. "We should get to work," I heard myself say at last, adding, "Da Ponte."

"Very well. Antonio."

I sighed heavily and I heard him chuckle.

He had only been in Vienna for a short time, yet I could barely remember the day I first met Lorenzo Da Ponte. I could recall that I was immediately struck by his height - being rather tall myself, it was not often I had to look up at another man - and his eyes. He had large, handsomely-shaped eyes whose lifted corners gave him a permanent air of good humor and whose heavy lids made him look sleepy when he blinked. I remembered his outfit: he was wearing one of the homeliest wigs I had ever seen, a black monstrosity with multiple curls framing the sides of his face, and he was dressed rather like a priest, completely in black with a stiff white cravat evoking a clerical collar. All told, he was immediately an impressive figure, but nothing about his personality remained in my memory. Even in looking at the entry in my journal from that day (and in those days I tended to keep rather detailed accounts of my encounters) there is barely mention of my new acquaintance and there is no trace of what we might have talked about. How droll that such a relationship should begin so unremarkably.

I had spoken to the emperor to secure for Da Ponte the post of court librettist, a favor to a mutual friend back in Venice, only to learn that Da Ponte had never written so much as a verse in his life. The emperor was less affected by this news than I, but, uneager to admit my mistake, I had agreed to provide the music to one of Da Ponte's first librettos.

And by the time we had had our second meeting I had discovered that my new colleague had a rather annoying habit of making me laugh.

In fact, I was not at all pleased to find that I quite liked him. I was a successful man, an impressive figure who worked perfectly well on my own, who loved nothing more than that moment when the first strike of the harpischord keys broke the silence in my vast parlor. But with Da Ponte I found myself conversing easily in our native Italian, even listening to his stories about people back home in Venice of whom I hadn't thought in years. In Italian his voice was soft and confidential; in German it was low and gravelly and beautiful. He was comfortable somehow: as soon as he had become a part of my life I couldn't imagine what it had been like before I met had known him.

Our first opera, though not my best work, was a pleasure to write. I could see that his libretto was mediocre, but with surprise I realized that I did not mind. We had worked easily together, I offering advice on his libretto and he continuously teasing me for the rigidity of my scores. We met every day, alternating between my home and the palace, to see our second opera take shape. I had already given thought to the subject of our third. As the weather turned colder, I began to notice that I didn't even mind his insistence on familiarity, which had begun on the day he was three minutes late and continued, unrelenting, deep into the Austrian winter.

"Close the window, Da Ponte."

He made a show of looking around the room as though the order might have been directed at someone else, shrugged, and turned back to the view of the barren gardens. It was snowing; we had elected to work at the palace today rather than at my home in order to conserve my own supply of firewood.

"Alright," I sighed. He had been doing this for days now. "Close the window, Lorenzo."

"Aha!" said Da Ponte with his lopsided smile. "I wore you down."

"It's winter. It's cold. Close the window."

"Sit closer to the fire."

"Any closer and I will be amidst the logs. I will go up in flames and you will have no one to put music to these fine words of yours."

"There's Gluck."

"He's an imbecile."

Da Ponte laughed. He inhaled deeply before finally pulling the window closed, blocking the icy breeze at last. He returned to the desk and dropped into the empty chair at my side, pulling it a little too close as he always did. I had learned to stop recoiling from him before we had even finished the first act: he meant nothing by it.

Or so I had thought. I could feel him staring at me instead of lifting the quill, so I turned and caught his gaze. Immediately I regretted it. I had not realized how close he actually was: I could see the pores of his nose and each of his thick eyelashes. Why did he insist on looking at me that way? His large brown eyes flicked back and forth across my face and I could not quite bring myself to turn away. "So," he said softly, his tongue darting across his bottom lip, "what happens next?"

For a mad instant I couldn't understand the question - I was lost in a bizarre sensation that bordered on panic. It was all but inexplicable. I wanted to back my chair away from him, wanted him to move away or at least look at something else, but I couldn't make myself do it. Instead I cleared my throat and the harsh noise broke through, returning me to reality. He was only talking about the opera.

I shuffled through the papers again. The room was stuffy now that the window was closed. My cravat was choking me. "We need to work," I said weakly.

Da Ponte furrowed his brow. "So let's work."

"Of course." It seemed I had taken temporary leave of my senses. What had happened to me? Earlier in the day I had been in the company of the emperor and one of his favorite librettists, a man everyone in Vienna knew I found loathsome, and had finished a few glasses of wine to ease my frustration. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the alcohol. I had never been one to indulge in drink.

I cleared my throat again, unable to look at Da Ponte for fear that his gaze would hurl me back into a fit of madness. Perhaps I needed rest. I could not find the passage we had been working on. "What was-"

"I don't want to work with someone else, you know," Da Ponte murmured.

For a moment I thought I had misheard. "Ah- yes. Of course."

"Here." He passed me a half-finished sheet of music. "We were on the aria."

There was a knock on the door; he was on his feet at once to open it, completely unaware that something had just happened to me. A spot on my thigh was colder now: I realized that his knee had been pressed to my leg, so close had he pulled his chair. Why hadn't I noticed earlier that he had been touching me? Why had he been touching me at all?

"Pardon me, Herr Da Ponte, if you please- if you don't mind, of course- if I might have a word with Herr Salieri, just for a moment?"

Recognizing the shrill voice of Gottlieb Stephanie, I caught Da Ponte's eye and shook my head, pressing a finger to my lips. I had already spent enough time in that excitable fool's presence for one day. What I needed now was the company of my own librettist, Stephanie's opposite in dignity. Either that or an entire bottle of wine.

Da Ponte nodded back to me, his expression very serious and a finger at his own lip, before turning and throwing the door open the rest of the way. "Of course, Signor Stephanie!" he said grandly. "He's just inside."

Bastard.

The energetic little man stumbled into the room, looking around nervously before spotting me and crying, "Ha!" in triumph.

I clenched my quill tightly in my fist, trying not to let the tautness in my jaw give away my urge to pummel both of the librettists into the ground.

"Herr Salieri!" Stephanie trilled, bowing so low and so abruptly that I worried his forehead would smack into the floorboards. Over his shoulder, Da Ponte was trying to hide his amusement behind his hand, but I could see the humor crinkling around the corners of his eyes. While Stephanie's head was lowered I glared murderously past him at my colleague, who caught my gaze and winked.

Suddenly I realized that it wasn't anger I was forcing down behind my cool expression: it was laughter. How annoying. I wished Da Ponte had been with me this morning to lighten my mood.

"Oh, Herr Salieri, I just have to tell you- that is, I just wanted to thank you! What you said to the emperor, Herr Salieri, earlier today! It was you who convinced him that Mozart should write my opera! Oh, Herr Salieri, if only you knew how happy I am!" And then he dropped into another absurd bow.

I wasn't sure how to respond. Yes, I had said something earlier to the emperor, though I hadn't acted out of any concern for Stephanie's silly opera. Being around him and the obnoxiously self-important Count Rosenberg had ruined my morning: upon spotting the footman with a tray of wine I had downed everyone's serving almost immediately. By the time the emperor asked me for my opinion there had been a slight ringing in my ears.

Stephanie was still bent in half; I caught Da Ponte's eye again while searching for something to say. Apparently my expression was entertaining, because suddenly my colleague's other hand flew to his mouth. I realized he was shaking with silent laughter. He was ridiculous. I had to look away to collect myself and force the smile down from the corners of my mouth. "Think nothing of it," I said at last. I had hoped to sound dismissive, but I could hear my own voice straining against my amusement. Da Ponte had collapsed against the wall, his entire face hidden behind his hands.

"Oh, thank you!" Stephanie said again, finally straightening up only to bow once more, briefly this time. He clasped his hands and stared at me expectantly.

I got to my feet, inclining my head slightly to acknowledge his bows before offering to walk him to the door. The little man thanked me far too enthusiastically before insisting that he would show himself out. He never ceased thanking me as he left the room.

The moment the door was closed I rounded on Da Ponte, who at this point was crumpled to the floor in his fit of hilarity. Still covering his mouth with one hand, he held out the other and I took it to pull him to his feet. "You're a complete ass," I grumbled, but I knew he wouldn't believe that I was angry with him. I wasn't.

"Your face!" Da Ponte sputtered, clinging to my sleeve. It seemed like he was trying to regain his composure, drawing in shaky gasps of air and looking everywhere but at me. He released me at last, letting out a long, shuddery sigh. "I'd love to leave the two of you in a room for one day just to see how long the poor little fellow lasts," he finally said. His voice was high and weak with withheld laughter.

"Thanks very much," I grumbled as I returned to my desk.

"Always so stern," said Da Ponte affectionately. "But what was it the little fellow was talking about? You met Mozart? What did you think of him?"

I shook my head. "I've only heard his music and, unfortunately, rumors. I imagine that in a few years when he has learned to behave with a little more reserve he will have quite an impressive career."

"And his music?"

"Extraordinary," I murmured, "truly."

Da Ponte plopped into the chair at my side. He patted my hand, his eyes still crinkled with amusement, as he said, "I imagine you have more than enough reserve for the both of you, my friend. The world needs people like Mozart to balance out people like you."

"And how am I meant to respond to that?" I asked lightly, trying not to think about how comfortably his fingertips were resting on my knuckles.

Da Ponte patted my hand once more before releasing me and seizing his quill. "You're supposed to scold me for being foolish and insist we get back to work."

"In that case," I said, sliding a sheet of music across the desk, "I insist you stop being so foolish and that we get back to work."

Da Ponte grinned to himself as he dipped his quill into the inkwell. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Antonio."

"You'd be as directionless and foolish as Gottlieb Stephanie."

I bit back my smile as Da Ponte laughed.