The Kingdom of Back(85)

“You and Woferl were so close,” Herr Schachtner remarks, when I become carried away in telling one of his childhood stories. A smile emerges on the edges of his mouth. “You were quite the pair, weren’t you? You played for the kings of Europe, those who have changed our countries and written our histories.”

The memory returns of our jostling carriage rides, the stories my brother and I would make up to entertain each other. I smile too, cherishing the warmth of this nostalgia. “Yes,” I reply gently. “I suppose we were.”

Herr Schachtner returns to his stack of papers, pulls out the next one, and holds it out to me. “Sebastian, your old servant, had this in his possessions. I found it and thought you might know more about it than I will.”

I stare at the paper, momentarily unable to speak. It is the old map that Woferl and I had once asked Sebastian to draw for us, a map of the Kingdom of Back. Some of his sketching has faded away now, and the castle on the hill is smudged and ruined. I look at the little moat Sebastian had drawn, the upside-down trees and the white sand beach. I hear in my mind the crunch of leaves beneath our feet, the splash of water as we swim in the kingdom’s ocean. I remember the dark, damp stairs in the castle tower, the scarlet sky and the children and the winding, crooked path.

I do not try to remember the faery’s name.

“It was a childhood memory,” I say after a while. “We called it the Kingdom of Back.”

“The Kingdom of Back?” Herr Schachtner laughs a little. “How did such a name come about?”

Woferl had whispered it to me one afternoon, a long time ago. But to Herr Schachtner, I say something different. The kingdom, and all its secrets, were meant only for my brother and me. “I can no longer be certain,” I say. “We used it to pass the time we spent in the carriage and on our journeys.”

Herr Schachtner studies my face, as if he knows that there is more I want to say about it. I choose my words carefully, changing the kingdom into something that the rest of the world can understand. “We thought of ourselves as the rulers of this place,” I say. “I suppose it was where we could escape to, with our joys and sorrows, and let them out to play.” I look at Herr Schachtner. “Just a simple childhood game.”

Herr Schachtner nods, satisfied with my story, and moves on to the next paper.



* * *





We sit together late into the afternoon. When it finally comes time for him to leave, he promises to visit me again and bring gifts for the children.

“I will let you know how Herr Schlichtegroll does with his writings,” I say. “I hope he will portray Woferl as a great man.”

Herr Schachtner bows to me. Then he seems to remember something and pauses halfway out the door to face me again. His hand digs into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’d almost forgotten. I have something for you.”

I wait patiently.

The Herr pulls out a tiny package for me, wrapped in white silk and tied with a simple ribbon. “His widow, Constanze, told me that she found this among Woferl’s possessions shortly after he died. She said that he meant this for you, as he had a little note on it with your name. She asked me to give it to you.”

I turn the package over in my hands. Sure enough, a tiny scrap of paper is attached to its bottom. Für Nannerl, it says. I look at Herr Schachtner, who holds out his hands to me.

“I’ve no idea what it is,” he says. “But I’m sure he would have liked you to receive it.” He bows once again, tipping his hat to me. “Farewell, Marianne. History will remember the Mozart name.”

I thank him, curtsy, and then watch his coach leave.

When he is gone, and I am still alone, I return to my seat and open the package. It’s very light, as if it holds only air, and for a moment I think that when I open it, the silk will simply fall away to reveal nothing at all, a final bit of mischief from Woferl.

But when I unfold the silk, I find in my lap a seashell painted bright blue, a shell shaped like a near-perfect circle, with flecks of white showing through the paint inside its grooves. Like grains of sand.

“Mama,” says a small, sweet voice beside me. I look down to meet the wide eyes of my little Jeannette, who has tilted up onto her toes to see what I am holding. “What is it?”

I smile at her, then lower my hand to show her the shell in my palm. “It is a gift from your late uncle,” I tell her.

She studies it, turning her head this way and that at the curious object. Her hair is like mine, dark and wavy, held back in a simple state with pins. “Where did it come from?” she asks.

I am prepared to tell her something brief and careless, so that she does not ask again. Perhaps it is not worthwhile to mention the dreams and fears of our youth, of all that I had experienced. Perhaps it is unwise to trouble such a small girl with the pains of my past.

Then, from some distant place, a memory stirs. It is a whisper in the air, the voice of a mother.

Speak for the ones who will come after you, looking to you for guidance.

I fold the shell back into the silk wrap, re-tie the ribbon around it, and put it in the pocket of my petticoat. Then I pick Jeannette up to sit in my lap. My arms wrap securely around her. She snuggles against me.

“I am going to tell you a story you already know,” I say to her. “But listen carefully, because within it is one you have never heard before.”