The Kingdom of Back(2)

My mother blushed and thanked him for his kind words. Her skirts glided against the floor as she curtsied. “I can only claim my gifted ear from my father,” she told him. “He was a talented musician, you know.”

As she moved, I memorized the polite tilt of her head and the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Somewhere in those movements must have been her true reaction to his statement, but her face remained as it always was, serene and secretive, sweet and mild. It was clear she pleased the Herr, because his grin broadened.

“Yes, God has blessed me in many ways,” my father said. His smile was coiled as tightly as my nerves. His eyes flashed in my direction, hard and glittering. “Nannerl inherits her good ear from her mother, as you’ll soon see.”

It was my unspoken cue. At my father’s words, I rose obediently from my bench to greet our guest. Papa disliked it when I curtsied without stepping away from the clavier or let my gaze wander anywhere that was not the floor. He said it made visitors think me a distracted and careless young lady.

I could not give Herr Schachtner any reason to find me rude.

Serene and sweet. I thought of Mama and tried to imitate the way she had lowered her head just so, the demure way she’d swept her skirts across the floor. Still, my curiosity stirred, and my eyes darted immediately to the court trumpeter’s hands, searching for proof of musical talent in the way his fingers moved.

Mama called for Sebastian to bring some coffee and tea, but Papa waved her off. “Later,” he said. It was best, perhaps, if the Herr did not see our porcelain set. I pictured the old saucers with their small chips, the teapot’s fading paint. Mama had begged him for a new one for proper company, but it had been ages since we had a reason to entertain such guests. Until today.

Herr Schachtner brushed the leaves from the velvet of his justaucorps. “Thank you, Frau Mozart, but I will not stay long. I am here to listen to your lovely daughter’s progress on the clavier.”

“Johann followed me home after I mentioned Nannerl’s talents.” My father patted Herr Schachtner’s shoulder. “He could not help himself.”

“What luck,” Mama said. She arched a brow at me. “You are just in time, then. Nannerl happens to be in the middle of practicing.”

My hands trembled and I pressed them together harder, trying to warm them. Today would be the first time I ever performed for an audience. My father had sat at the clavier with me for weeks as we prepared, studying my technique, slapping my wrists when I erred.

Music is the sound of God, Nannerl, he would say. If given the talent, it means God has chosen you as an ambassador for His voice. Your music will be as if God has given you eternal life.

My father, God . . . there was little difference between them to me. A frown from Papa might as well have been a frown from Heaven, for what it did to my mood. Every night, I’d go to bed hearing the way my hands would move across the keys, the notes crisp in their perfection. I’d dreamed of how the Herr would stand, clapping heartily, and how my father would sit back in his chair with a satisfied smile. I’d imagined the Herr demanding I play before a wider audience. My father making the arrangements. Coins filling our family’s coffers and the strain easing from his eyes.

That was the reason behind everything this morning. Children my age, Papa said, could not play the clavier with the skill that I did. I was the miracle. Chosen by a divine hand. Destined to be noticed. If I could demonstrate this to Herr Schachtner, he could extend an invitation for me to perform before Herr Haydn, the most acclaimed composer in Austria. He would be my gateway to the royal courts of Europe, to the kings and queens.

From my hands could sing the voice of God, worth its weight in gold.

“Nannerl, is it?” Herr Schachtner’s voice addressed me.

I nodded in his direction. My chest fluttered as if it were brimming with moths. My fingers twitched, eager to dance. “Yes, Herr,” I said. The last time he visited our home, he had not noticed me. But, then, he had no reason to.

“How long has your papa instructed you on the clavier, Fr?ulein?”

“Six months, Herr.”

“And do you think you play well?”

I hesitated. It was a tricky question. I did not want to speak too proudly, so that he may think me arrogant, or too meekly, so thus a poor player. “I don’t know, Herr,” I finally said. “But I believe you will know best when you hear me.”

He laughed, pleased, and I allowed myself a small smile in relief. Men, my mother had always advised, were incapable of resisting praise. If you needed something from them, you first told them about all the ways they impressed.

When I chanced a look up at him, his smile widened and he tugged at both sides of his justaucorps’ collar. “Well, what a charming girl, Leopold,” he said to my father. “Delightfully reserved for her age. She’ll marry well, I’ll say.”

I turned my eyes down again, forcing a smile at his compliment, even as my hands tensed against the fabric of my dress. I’d once heard a coachman call his mare delightfully reserved as he tightened her bridle.

Papa turned to me. “We learned a new menuett yesterday,” he said. “Let’s start with that, Nannerl.”

It was not a new menuett, truthfully, but one that Papa had written for me weeks ago and that I’d practiced for ten days. But Herr Schachtner did not need to know that. So I said, “Yes, Papa,” then sat back down at the clavier and reached for my notebook.