Salieri was reasonably sure that Mozart hadn't figured it out yet.
Furthermore, he was very sure he didn't want him to.
In public, Mozart was a brash, noisy little man who filled the halls of the emperor's palace with his ridiculous giggle as though he were at the local tavern. The first time Salieri had ever seen him in person, he had brought his mistress to a rehearsal at the imperial theater and was chasing her around squealing while his weary-eyed colleagues looked on. He had kissed her in front of all of them once he caught her, and then kissed poor Signorina Cavalieri against her will when she tried to remind him that he had a rehearsal to run.
No, it was absolutely for the best that he didn't make the connection. There were precious few people on earth that Salieri would have trusted with his reputation, and Wolfgang Mozart was certainly not one of them.
In his saner moments, Salieri would convince himself that he was going to give it up, to go back to the life he had led before. But then he would pass by a closed door and hear a snatch of sonata, an aria, a minuet, and he would fall again, consumed with that damned desire to possess Mozart's unknowable talent-or, failing that, the man himself.
So he did his best to avoid Mozart at the palace, a task that had become markedly easier following the closing of Figaro. Mozart no longer prowled the halls humming to himself, intricate tunes that he conceived as he walked and released into the air, never to be heard again. He could no longer be seen lounging in the gardens all afternoon with his sheet music spread across his knees and his quill in one hand, cuffs splattered with ink. Free of these constant distractions, Salieri was getting more work done now than he ever had before: last week he had premiered a new opera buffa which the emperor had declared the best opera yet written, and since then he had already finished a new concerto that was to be performed in two days' time. But it was hollow, all of it, painstaking clockwork notes that belied his struggle to find them and put them down on paper. The more they loved his work, the more the emperor complimented him and commissioned from him, the more he hated all of it. He began taking long, solitary walks after lunch, staring at shopkeepers and passing merchants with nauseous jealousy. What must it be like to make so simple a living? What must it be like to lie down at night on a straw-filled mattress, feet aching from standing all day behind a counter, and to drift off to sleep knowing that it had been a good, honest day's work?
The morning after Signor Giuseppe Bonno died, Mozart returned to the palace with a sheaf of papers under one arm and a grimace on his face. He nodded casually as he went by, mumbling, "Herr Salieri. Herr Rosenberg."
"Signor Mozart," Salieri answered, unable to contain a small sigh of relief. There had been no glimmer of recognition when their eyes met, not a trace of his smile anywhere on his face. He had no idea. The danger passed.
If only he had been alone then! It would have been a meaningless moment among many, and Mozart would have continued on his way. But nothing ever went to plan when Rosenberg was at his side. The little count refused to return the simple greeting, leaning toward Salieri instead and theatrically whispering, "Well, I do hope the featherbrain doesn't think he's going to apply for Herr Bonno's open position! Can you imagine it, Salieri? His Majesty naming a Kapellmeister whose last opera closed in disgrace?"
Mozart stopped, his shoulders tense, and Salieri let out an entirely different kind of sigh as he whirled around to face them. "Herr Rosenberg," Mozart snarled, eyes flashing, "Would you like to make a comment about the quality of my music?"
Salieri glanced toward the nearest door, but he held his position as Mozart closed in on them. He should have been free to go since the insult hadn't come from him; on the other hand, he did have a history of letting Rosenberg speak for the both of them. Maybe if he remained still enough, he wouldn't draw Mozart's attention.
"Why, I think you would find my own comments wholly irrelevant, wouldn't you, you rogue?" Rosenberg was saying. He was peering down the length of his nose at Mozart; given that he was considerably shorter, this meant that his head was tilted almost all the way back. "Why, if I'm not mistaken, your work can't even be heard anywhere at the moment, can it, hm? Can it? Remind me, my dear Salieri, how long has it been since the emperor commissioned anything from Herr Mozart, would you say?"
Salieri hesitated. Both Mozart and Rosenberg were staring at him now, one fuming and the other with that greasy smirk. Well, he was in it now. Clearing his throat, he placed a hand on Rosenberg's shoulder and murmured, "We can't forget that he and Signor Da Ponte have been working together on a new opera, my friend."
It should have been a mild enough comment to quiet Rosenberg down and end the conversation, but Mozart did not walk away. Even after Rosenberg had harrumphed and stormed off, Mozart remained where he was, staring at Salieri's hand. A furrow appeared between his brows. His gaze slid to Salieri's face, then down to his breeches, then up to his eyes. Then, to Salieri's horror, an incredulous grin spread across his lips.
Merda.
"If you'll excuse me," Salieri mumbled, inclining his head and hurrying toward the nearest empty salon. Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps Mozart was only smiling at him because Salieri had very nearly defended him in front of Rosenberg. Perhaps he was only looking at him that way because his opinion of him was changed.
But just when he reached the door, Mozart replied, "In any case, I do look forward to seeing you again later... maestro."
There was laughter in his voice.
When the coast was clear Salieri went directly home, locked the door to his bedchamber, and then kicked a chair at it.
It was all Da Ponte's fault, like most of the messes in which Salieri had found himself over the years. There had been a rumor curling temptingly through the court that a new club had sprung up, meeting nightly in the old ballroom of some ruined baron's estate, and that only gentlemen of certain proclivities were welcome there. It was the sort of idea that was sneered at or giggled about in polite society, a revolting, blasphemous notion. But despite what his well-tailored clothes, his work ethic, and his wide-eyed stare led his colleagues at the court to believe, Lorenzo Da Ponte had never been polite society.
How he had found the address or gotten the password, Salieri didn't know. He also didn't know whether Da Ponte thought of himself as a prospective member of the club or a mere spectator. Above all, he had no idea what possessed him to agree to accompany his librettist to the masked ball that first night.
Oh, he had pretended to be bored alright. He had stood in a corner with his arms crossed, knowing his mask was glowering at the room while behind it, Salieri was free to watch the dancing, the drinking, the gambling, and listen to the laughter of these men who, for probably the first time in their lives, were able to hold their lovers against them at a ball. Even without being able to see their expressions, Salieri had read their posture, their energy, their pride. By the time Da Ponte tugged at his arm and muttered that he would be too tired to write in the morning if they didn't leave soon, Salieri was hooked. The next night, he came back alone.
And for a long time, it had been enough to simply stand there for hours on end, to bask in it all. There was no harm in attending a party, helping himself to a few pastries and watching others dance, was there? And with this unlikely oasis waiting for him each night, the days were more bearable too. At one point he even laughed at one of Da Ponte's filthy jokes in the presence of the emperor himself.
But it had all changed with a sonatina.
The music at the club was generally subpar, but hard to judge too harshly since it was provided by drunken members daring each other to pick up the violin or have a seat at the poorly-tuned clavichord in the corner. There was something charming about its flaws, its missed notes, its faltering melodies. It erased any notion of formality that the grand old ballroom might have given their nightly gatherings.
But one night, the music was perfect.
Salieri was leaning in his usual corner, exchanging nods with masks he had begun to recognize, shaking his head politely when newcomers tried to tempt him out on the floor. On the far side of the room, a baritone had been standing on the clavichord bench butchering what Salieri supposed was meant to be a Gluck aria. He finished, bowed, and hopped down, leaving the dancers to continue to move in silence in the interim. It never took long for someone else to step up, and tonight was no exception. A great shout rose up from the cards tables as a man in an overworked lavender jacket broke away from the crowd and settled himself on the bench. When he began to play, Salieri's knees nearly gave out. He knew that music, that style. He would have recognized it anywhere. Wolfgang Mozart had come to his club.
That first night, Salieri had stormed out at once, hurrying home where sleep had eluded him for a long, torturous night. Had Mozart just come to satisfy casual curiosity as Da Ponte had apparently done? Had he been invited by a friend and been unable to resist the chance to show off when it had arisen? Or had he come on purpose? Could he have meant to be there?
Salieri had stayed home for a week after that, his heart pounding in his ears every time he considered going back.
But he couldn't stay away, not when the ballroom was constantly lingering in his thoughts. Even Mozart's music couldn't drown out the rhythm of the dancers' feet, the harmony of their contented sighs.
So he had gone back, stationing himself a little nearer to the clavichord this time. Sometime after midnight the lavender jacket had appeared again: Mozart had seized an opportunity to slip onto the bench. He played for nearly an hour, mostly improvising. The tunes that were pouring out of him were a perfect summary of the club, of the dancers, of love that found a way to thrive despite the law. By the end of the night, he had drifted across the floor and was standing by Mozart's shoulder, watching his fingers expertly work the keys. He had never dared to stand this close in the palace. He had been afraid that it would be like staring directly at the sun.
When he finished playing, Mozart had turned to Salieri, his brown eyes glimmering behind his mask, and had winked at him before getting up and dissolving into the crowd.
Salieri had stayed home for two nights after that, terrified that he had somehow been recognized.
The third day, Da Ponte invited him to dinner at his apartment. When Salieri arrived, Mozart was there, finishing up some work on Figaro. Salieri had lingered at the edge of the room, watching the two of them work together-or rather, watching Da Ponte desperately try to corral Mozart into getting something written down. His presence had no effect on the composer, not even a knowing look shot in his direction. And yet, watching him create more of his music, knowing that he was witnessing the birth of something immortal, well, it had had the same impact on Salieri as the first time he had seen a couple at the club lift their masks to exchange a kiss.
He went back to the club that night.
Mozart was there again, already at the clavichord, still wearing the same clothes he had had on at Da Ponte's apartment. When Salieri appeared at his side he paused in his music, grinned, and said, "Good, there you are! I was afraid you weren't coming back." He had scooted over slightly on the bench then, patting the space beside him until Salieri nervously took it. "Do you play?"
"Some," Salieri muttered, wondering if Mozart's skilled ear would be able to recognize his voice. They traveled in the same circles at court for the most part, but ever since the first time he had heard the aria from die Entführung aus dem Serail Salieri had done his best to keep distance between them.
Crowded onto the bench together, knees brushing beneath the clavichord, there was no more distance now. Mozart inclined his head toward the keys and said, "Play with me then... maestro."
Maestro! Salieri had nearly jumped to his feet at the title. But when Mozart began an old sonatina by Bach, he hadn't been able to resist joining in with the melody. Someone behind them whistled suggestively; beneath his mask, Salieri flushed.
"You're good!" Mozart had said in surprise, and Salieri had been so relieved at not being recognized that his fingers had stumbled, earning a good-natured chuckle from Mozart. He lifted his right hand and covered Salieri's left with it, leaning even closer. Of course, he somehow managed to continue his part of the sonatina with his left hand, machine that he was. Salieri, meanwhile, found that he was powerless to carry on with the melody. "You have elegant hands," Mozart had murmured, curling his fingers around Salieri's palm and then tracing them down the inside of his wrist. "Long fingers," he went on. "Very... skilled, I'd wager. Would you care to take me up on it?"
Salieri swallowed, watching Mozart's fingers draw a line along his vein and toy idly with his cuff. Why did it seem like his fingertips were burning into his flesh? "I- I don't want you to see my face," he blurted, wincing even as he said it.
But Mozart simply cocked his head at him, eyes flashing from behind his own mask. "I didn't ask to."
There were three stories of empty rooms to choose from in the old house, though many of the doors were already closed and none of them had another clavichord. Toward the end of the hall stood an empty dressing room with no windows, furnished only with a desk and a wobbly old settee. This was where Mozart and Salieri ended up, closing the door and extinguishing the candles. This was where they always ended up after that, a blind symphony of sighs, of grunts, and, on Mozart's end, of giggles. Somehow, the darkness had been enough to absolve Salieri of every sin, of the endless lies he spun for Mozart and for everyone else, of the adultery against Mozart's wife, of the sodomy.
But the darkness had not extended far enough, and Mozart had figured it out.
That night, he threw his mask into the fire.
