11

Waiting

In Paris, Nannerl practiced scales. Her fingers ran up and down the keys, over and over, in time to the rain that pounded on the roof and mixed with the steady click of Mama’s knitting needles. Nannerl had been practicing all afternoon and now her legs felt cramped. She wanted to stretch them and take a long walk through a park. She wanted to find Sopherl. She got up suddenly, went to the window, and sighed as she looked down at the people with their black umbrellas hurrying down the slick gray street. It hadn’t stopped raining since they had arrived two weeks ago and she was tired of staying indoors all the time!

She turned impatiently from the window and went over to Wolfi. He was seated at the table, writing in her diary. Usually Nannerl watched him while he wrote, but today she had wanted to practice, so Wolfi had solemnly promised not to look at her pages. Now she peered over his shoulder to see what he had written—in French, because that was the language she and Wolfi had used to write in the diary, ever since they had crossed the border from the Austrian Netherlands into France.

…and then a hoop from one of the wheels snapped. We had to wait at an inn for hours while the slowpokes repaired it. We sat by the fireplace, where a kettle hung from a long chain and meat, turnips and other strange things all boiled together. We had a ragged tablecloth and ate soup and fish. All around us the people babbled a very bad French dialect. The funniest thing was the pigs — the door to the inn was constantly open and so the pigs wandered in and out as if they were guests! Snort, snort! And the largest looked exactly like the Count van Eyck!

“Wolfi!” Nannerl stifled a giggle. “You musn’t say such things about the Count van Eyck, especially since he and the Countess are letting us stay here in their palace, and the Countess let us borrow her clavier with two keyboards!”

“But the Count does look exactly like those pigs, don’t you think?”

Nannerl giggled. “Not nearly so much as that prince in Brussels. Remember, we had to wait almost a month to play for him, because he didn’t have time? Remember how he was always hunting and eating and drinking?”

Wolfi sighed. “And now it looks like we’ll have to wait just as long to get an invitation to play in Paris! I’m tired of waiting! I want to play a concert again!” He grabbed her diary and ran around the room.

“Wolfi!” cried Nannerl. “Give me back my diary!” She began to chase him. Wolfi stopped at a trunk and pulled out the miniature sword he had received from the Belgian prince. “You’ll have to fight me for it first!” he cried, laughing and waving the sword.

“Children!” shouted Mama, putting down her knitting. “Stop that running this instant! And Wolfgang, you know better than to play with that precious sword! Put it back in the trunk where it belongs. I know it is hard, all this waiting, but—”

Papa suddenly burst into the room. Rain dripped from his wig and his cheeks were flushed.

“Three cheers for Herr Grimm!” he announced, triumphantly waving a small book in the air. “Now I am certain that the invitations for concerts will come rolling in, and so will the money! Just look at what Herr Grimm, the famous editor, has written about my children! And all of the intellectuals of Europe will read this literary journal!”

Wolfi dropped his sword. Nannerl took her diary from his hand and they both ran over to where Papa was standing. Nannerl looked over Papa’s shoulder as he read.

True miracles are so rare that it behooves us to report one when it comes our way.
A Kapellmeister of Salzburg named Mozart has just arrived here with two children who present the prettiest appearance in the world. His daughter, eleven years of age—

“But Papa, I’m twelve!” interrupted Nannerl indignantly.

“Yes, yes, Nannerl, but I told him to put both of your ages back a year. It’s important that the public think you are as young as possible,” answered Papa.

“But that’s—”

“Nannerl, would you please let me finish?” said Papa. He cleared his throat and continued.

His daughter, eleven years of age, plays the clavier in the most brilliant manner, executing the longest and most difficult pieces with amazing precision. Her brother, who will be seven years old next February, is—

“I’m almost eight—”

“That’s enough Wolfgang. Wait until you hear what he wrote about you!” He cleared his throat.

—who will be seven years old next February, is so extraordinary a phenomenon that we can scarcely credit what we see with our own eyes and hear with our own ears. Easily and with utmost accuracy, the child performs the most difficult pieces with hands that are scarcely large enough to span a sixth. It is a wondrous thing to see him improvising for a whole hour, giving himself entirely to the inspiration of his genius and generating a host of delightful musical ideas, which, moreover, he unfolds successively with admirable…

Nannerl stopped listening and looked out the window at the rain. Now the rest of the article would be about Wolfi. Papa’s voice droned on and on, praising Wolfi and telling in great detail all the wonderful things he had done. Nannerl wanted to clamp her ears shut and run away. She felt something in the room, a kind of weight in Papa’s words, pulling her shoulders and her head down to the floor. If only Papa would finish with the article!

…Mozart’s children have aroused the admiration and wonder of all who have seen them. The Emperor and Empress have lavished kindness upon them, and they have enjoyed a similar reception at the courts of Munich and Mannheim. It is a pity that in this country music is so little understood! The father intends to proceed from here to England, and then to take his children back home by way of North Germany.

Papa beamed and snapped the book shut with a flourish. “Well, well, I shall expect important calls any time now. In the meantime, we must do something about our unfashionable German attire. When we do play these concerts, we want to look like proper Parisians! It is time for a shopping trip! Everyone prepare to go out of doors! I’ll arrange a carriage! We’re going to buy some French clothes!”

Wolfi and Nannerl ran to get their capes. Nannerl felt the weight drop away. New clothes from Paris! Wait until she told Katherl!

Mama stayed where she was and frowned at Papa. “Leopold, I don’t approve of the children walking about these Paris streets. The women are so unnatural-looking. Their painted faces and make-up would make any honest German blush! Perhaps you could go out alone—”

“Mama!” wailed Nannerl and Wolfi. Nannerl felt that she would burst if she didn’t get out of this room soon.

“Come,” said Papa, holding open Mama’s cape. “A short stroll through the business sector of Paris can do no harm. Besides, it is high time we showed ourselves off to the public.”

Mama reluctantly got up from her chair and put on her cape. Wolfi and Nannerl raced down the stairs to the sitting room of the palace to wait. The Countess let them take one of her private carriages; once they were rolling along, Nannerl rubbed her hand against the foggy window and peered out at the distant spire of the famous Nôtre Dame cathedral.

In her head she went over Sopherl’s address for what seemed like the hundredth time that week: No. 68, rue François, Paris, France. Every night since they had arrived, Nannerl had secretly taken out the map and traced the route from the van Eyck Palace to the rue François. Every night she resolved to find Sopherl the next day. But the next day always came and it seemed impossible to steal away from Mama and Papa and Wolfi. Nannerl shivered as she looked out at the winding maze of gray streets. Suppose she got lost? Suppose thieves and beggars lurked in the corners of the dark streets, waiting to kidnap her? But she must go…soon…she needed to find Sopherl.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Champs Élysées, the famous street that was lined with trees and fancy shops.

“What good fortune,” said Papa, stepping from the carriage first. “The rain has stopped for us.” Mama quickly stepped down, linked her arm in Papa’s, and looked nervously at the crowds of people. She fidgeted with her gloves and looked down as she walked. Was Mama scared? In Germany, it had always seemed that Mama was the boss, at least in things like food and clothes and chores. But Mama hadn’t had French lessons with Papa the way Wolfi and Nannerl had. She looked lost and…and well, plain…in the crowds of people who rustled by in satins and silks, holding elegant fans even though it was almost December.

Nannerl couldn’t stop staring at all the clothes; one woman had six huge feather plumes in her hat, all tied with a red satin bow that tilted stylishly above her left eye. Nannerl walked along, noticing that the skirts weren’t as wide or as full as in Salzburg or the Netherlands; it must be the Paris style. She would have to remember to tell Katherl.

“Here we are,” said Papa, ushering them into a shop filled with all kinds of fabric—red velvet and gold brocade, linen, satin, lace, and silk. A man came toward them, but before he could say anything, Nannerl spotted the fabric she wanted for her dress. It was dark blue satin, the color of evening, with thin gold stripes.

“I can see which fabric has caught this young girl’s fancy,” laughed the tailor, gently pulling a bolt of it off of the shelf and handing it to Nannerl. “It is in the very latest fashion. I can picture it as an overskirt, with this,” he pulled down some white silk with tiny flowers dotted all over it, “as an underskirt. Perfect. Then white ruffles at the elbow, long gloves, a satin shoulder sash, a new taffeta hat, and she’ll be set for Paris.” He winked at Mama and Papa. Nannerl just stood there, cradling the blue fabric as if it were a child.

They went over to the full-length mirror and Mama and the tailor helped Nannerl to drape the material in front of herself. The color and the satin made her look different—older, somehow.

“I must say,” said the tailor, “she looks most exquisite in that particular shade of blue.”

Papa came up from behind. “Nannerl will look far too old in that color and in the style you described,” he said to the tailor. “We want her to look as young as possible, like an eleven-year-old.”

“But Papa—” Nannerl began to argue.

“I insist on some other, simpler fabric—and a brighter color! Why, you’ll look like a young woman in those golden stripes! You must look the part of a child prodigy.”

Wolfi came bounding over in a fancy black French hat. “Bonsoir, Mesdames,” he said, making a sweeping bow.

They all laughed and Papa inspected his watch. “Now, we must all have our measurements taken and select the appropriate fabric.” He turned to the tailor. “How long will it take for the clothes to be ready?”

The man frowned and scratched his head. “About nine days at least, since I won’t be able to start until the day after tomorrow.”

“Very well,” said Papa. “In nine days we’ll be the most fashionable family in Paris!”

Nannerl stood like a statue and let the tailor measure the width of her shoulders and waist. He chatted about the fabric and the style Papa had chosen for her and she listened half-heartedly, glancing often at the deep blue satin lying like a forbidden jewel in the far corner of the room.

“…and you’re sure he’ll be stopping in Paris? Do you know how long he’ll stay?” Papa was saying to an old man with bushy eyebrows at the front of the shop.

“Perhaps three weeks, perhaps four months…one never knows with Johann Christian Bach.”

“I had expected to meet him in London, where he lives, not so soon, not in Paris. Well, well, we will definitely prepare for his arrival. When did you say he would come?”

Nannerl let the tailor finish with the measurements, then rushed over to where Papa and the old man stood.

Papa put a hand on Wolfi’s and Nannerl’s shoulders. “Children, this fine gentleman from Munich has just told us some wonderful news; Johann Christian Bach will arrive in Paris in—”

“—a few days,” finished the man. “I heard that he would most certainly be here in a few days.”

That night, Nannerl worked on the final movement of the symphony in her tiny room at the palace. She wanted to finish it tonight—then she’d have a day or two to make final changes before showing it to Johann Christian Bach.

She looked at the candlelight flickering on the walls, still unable to believe that she had her very own room. Of course, it adjoined the main apartment and was barely big enough to hold a bed. But still, it was separate, with a real door and not just a partition separating her from Mama and Papa and Wolfi. On their arrival, the kind Countess van Eyck had looked Nannerl over and said, “I have just the room for you,” and taken her up and shown her the room. No amount of protesting from Wolfi could change the fact that this room was hers.

Nannerl smiled to herself, hummed the violin part in the last movement, and crossed out what she had written before. She had slowly been changing her symphony, ever since that evening with the Kerpen family. She wanted to make it simpler and more elegant. How silly she had been, to make it so huge, so clumsy, with all those instruments and choirs! This way, she might be able to hear her symphony performed.

But it took a long time to take instruments out and polish the work until it gleamed like the silver in Mama’s cabinet at home. Nannerl sighed and rested her pen in the inkwell. Just one stretch left. It was a violin duet finale—she wanted the two melodies to bump against each other at first, then sink together into a rhythm and slowly climb a very grassy hill, then fly…

But how could she make the notes do that? She rocked back and forth in her chair and fiddled with her thumbs. She crossed her arms and uncrossed them. She sat very still for a few minutes with her eyes closed, listening to the melodies in her head. Then she dipped the pen and began to write, quickly, before the notes could slide away from her. Up, up a steep mountainside—she couldn’t look down for dizziness but she knew she was near the top. Step after step, note after note until finally she felt the sun on her face and the whole symphony shimmering and finished below her. She rested her head on her arms, waiting for the last note to dry.