by Cheryl Whitfield Duval

December 15, 1791

The stacks of clothing lay on top of the billiards table in several small, neat piles. Coats in one, waistcoats and breeches in another, shirts, stockings and other assorted undergarments in another, still. Such mundane items, really--why did there seem to be so many of them, all of a sudden?

And how empty they looked.

She had no more time for tears. God knew she had shed enough of those already, behind closed doors, curled under bed quilts in a fetal position for three wretched days. She was not going to give anyone her tears. She would have to be strong now.

In silence, she watched the two men in black moving about the room in measured steps, murmuring together as they made notes in their ledgers, shaking their heads over this item, nodding over that. They were going to clean her out, that much seemed certain. The dispensation orders would not only catalog the value of every possession, but would weigh them up against all outstanding debts. And of course, there would be taxes. There were always taxes.

Now would have been the perfect time for that scoundrel, Stadler, to cough up the money he owed. Why Wolfgang had ever loaned that man a single kreutzer was beyond her. A total of eight hundred florins had disappeared into his pockets over the past two years, money that would have been of great help. And Gilowsky. Was he any better? He had owed Wolfgang around three hundred florins--but like Stadler, he was nowhere to be found.

She carefully studied the one list they had handed her, asking for her confirmation on the content of their inventory. It was all very meticulous, very impersonal.

1. One white frock coat with Manchester cotton waistcoat...

That was the coat Wolfgang wore whenever he went to Court, which was not very often in the last months. He had always looked like an angel when he wore that suit--with white satin shoes and silver buckles, with a white ribbon in his honey-colored hair.

2. One blue ditto

3. One red...

She tucked her lips together to hide her emotion. How he had loved that red velvet coat, with its mother-of-pearl buttons. More than any other article of clothing he owned, he had prized this one the most. He loved the look, the color, the feel of the velvet; he had worn it so often that she thought he would wear it out and that it would become threadbare and shabby--but somehow, he had managed to keep it pristine. Now it was just a flat, empty thing in the middle of a stack of other clothes.

4. One nankeen...

That was the light yellow summer suit with the thin ochre stripes. He wore that when he came to see her that summer, in Baden Dear God, why had she spent so much time in Baden? If only she had known how much trouble he was in. But the past year had been so difficult, and she told herself she needed a holiday. Even under those circumstances, Wolfgang had managed to keep her pregnant, yet how could it have been otherwise? He wanted children so badly--and more than that, he had wanted her.

5. One Marine-brown satin with breeches, embroidered with silk

6. One black whole suit

The one he wore to funerals.

She had planned to bury him in this, but Van Sweitan had advised against it. The coffin would be closed, he said. She would need to apply the suit--a perfectly good suit, clean and well cared for--to the household inventory, against the debts. He had offered to help her out, but she had refused. Why should she accept his money? He had never offered it before, when Wolfgang could have really used it. Yet here he was, recommending the cheapest of funerals, and she in no position to argue. No, she didn't want or need his money. She was through with begging.

She scanned the list more hurriedly, determined not to let her battling emotions get the better of her. Nightshirts, shoes, underwear... Now, what on Earth would anyone want with Wolfgang's used smallclothes? Underpants were so...well, they were so personal. Only a rag picker might want them for linen scrap. Even now, she could all but hear him saying, "What the Hell do they want with those? All they ever did was cover my arsch; besides, they've got shit-stains on half of 'em!"

In spite of herself, she almost smiled.

What was that one of Wolfgang's friends had said to her? "Time will ease your loss and you'll find someone else. You'll see, Constanze. You're still very young."

Was she, indeed? It was true she was still in her twenties, but she felt much older. She had lived more than a lifetime in the magic of Wolfgang's aura. To let a man like that touch your life--and your heart--was to do so at great peril. None knew that better than she. No one could be involved with him and remain unchanged. Nine dizzying years as his wife had been lived with all the intensity of a lifetime.

And it went back farther than that. How old was she when he first came into her world? Thirteen? She had been such a child in those days. She could still plainly see him, the way he looked that first day--young and fresh and full of hope, his smile as radiant as a sunbeam. But he didn't even notice her, standing there, her eyes shining and her little heart beating. He wouldn't notice her for a long time, although she had loved him right from the start. She had never dared to hope that she would see him again after Aloisa jilted him, and it had been like the answer to a prayer when he strolled back into her life.

Strolled? Wolfgang had never really "strolled" anywhere. He skipped, pranced, and ran through life, burning himself out and everyone else with him. He had been a fragment of light and sound that was never at rest, that danced over the landscape of her little world like a flaming butterfly--always with his feet just barely touching the earth. And always just out of reach.

In the end, he remained unattainable. All she had of his person was a lock of his hair that Sophie had cut for her--before the body was removed--and a plaster casting of his face. It had been made by a wax museum curator who had come to her apartment before poor Wolfgang was even cold on his deathbed. In the curator's eagerness to secure his prize, he had made an imperfect impression: the nose mashed in, the eyelids closed unnaturally, a big air-bubble over his upper lip. It was ugly, and she really didn't want to keep it. She could not bear to remember him that way; not Wolfgang. He had been too full of vibrance and life to ever be thought of as cold and still...

People like Wolfgang did not simply vanish in a puff of wind. Somehow, somewhere, he had to still exist, somewhere out there where she could no longer touch him. It seemed unthinkable, impossible that he was gone and that he would never come back.

Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could still see him walking toward her, reaching for her, and smiling with that enormous grin full of teeth, beckoning her, "Come with me, Stanzi.."

And she almost did!

She had wanted to die--for a few terrible moments, she forgot the children, forgot her reason, forgot everything save for the one, burning desire to end her life by any means available. It had taken two people to pry her arms from her dead husband's body, and when that was no longer possible, she had thrown herself on the filthy bed sheets, hoping to catch some vague, unknown contagion. Her thoughts were filled with morbid fantasies of leaping from a window or drinking poison.

Just so that she might, indeed, follow him one last time...

The list had still other entries, including one billiards table.

The table had a life and character all its own, too. What a comical, bewildering sight they must have looked on all those many occasions when they uprooted their household--often against her wishes--hauling all of their belongings to one new apartment or another, usually just a few blocks away from the last? Always the same Mozartean caravan: the babies, the servant, the barking dog, a cat, a birdcage, the piano and the billiards table. Everywhere they went. The billiards table was sometimes treated with more care than the piano, it seemed, although some of the balls were now missing.

She was his favorite game opponent, and it was curious how the table almost invariably ended up in their bedroom, at the foot of the bed. That was very convenient for games where the stakes would be articles of clothing, which would vanish one by one with each turn. Wolfgang invariably won--and to the victor went the spoils.

He was quite a lover. That was the little secret that she supposed no one else knew about. No matter how many times he would get up in the middle of the night to work on a piece of music that nagged at his fertile imagination, no matter how frantic his self-imposed schedule, no matter whatever else pressed down on him, he was always ready to make love to her. He made love, as in everything else he did, as if he was creating music; and he played her like a violin until she throbbed like strings beneath a master's bow. Then, more than ever, his touch was pure magic -- and for a few moments, she could share in his private world of music; a world which no one else could possibly enter.

The softest presence of calm fluttered over her heart, and folded itself over her like an invisible blanket...

She thought, then, of the whispers in the outside; stories that he was unfaithful to her and unable to control his impulses when it came to beautiful and exciting women.

Only people with ordinary minds could have said such things.

Everything in his intense little world was done with passion and sincerity. He had special places in his heart for his friends, male and female alike. And he adored women. He adored them deeply. And in all honesty, there had been times when she found herself wondering if there was more to certain friendships than hugs, kisses, and dangerously playful flirtations. Yet even if it were true, it in no way lessened the intensity of his passion and love for her.

To the last days, he courted her as if she were his bride. How he had enchanted her that evening in Baden, when she was pregnant with Wowi. Snow had fallen heavily, softly...

She had been feeling so unlovely, puffed up like a balloon, with discolored scars on her ankles that looked as if they would never go away. Then Wolfgang came to Baden with Süssmayr in tow, and a fistful of music papers for the evening's entertainment. "They'll help pay the bills for this place," he had laughed, treating it as a joke. It was a set of dances. One was a rousing, happy sleighride of a dance with jingling bells, and an entire roomful of people dancing to it while fresh snow fell outside. The other dances were Tyrolean "Ländlers" for strings.

How well she still remembered the night. Wearing a simple, loose-fitting blue dress, she felt awkward because of her obvious pregnancy. But Wolfgang led her to one side of the room and danced the ländlers with her, and he had eyes for no one else. The music was so simple, so sweet, so heartbreakingly lovely. How it sang to her, seductive and glowing with warmth. He could have had any woman he wanted, but he wanted her. And in the end, this was how she would always remember him: in his red velvet coat, a black ribbon in his beautiful hair, his wonderful eyes looking into hers...

Angel wings folded around her, dreamy and tender, shielding her, caressing her. She could almost hear the music as if it were playing...

She blinked her eyes as if to clear the memory away and cast her eyes around the room. Nothing much had changed in here since the day Wolfgang died. She supposed that was natural--the authorities had locked down the house until the men in black could come. Certainly they couldn't take a chance that she might return and take something of value from her own apartment!

She looked down at the list in her hands once again, and she noticed that the assessors had listed "Books and Music" valued at just over twenty-three florins. Used books never sold for much, but the music?

"Enschuldegin sie, bitte..." She spoke for the first time since the men in black had began their silent work. "What does this mean?" She held out the list for them to see, and the elder of the two men peered at it over his spectacles.

"Perhaps ten florins for the books," he said. "There are just over sixty of them, that is a fair value. The other thirteen florins are for the violin."

She felt a terrible lump in her throat. "It's not a violin; it's a viola. The most wonderful things were played on that instrument--it is worth a great deal more than thirteen florins. My husband was an artist."

"I'm sure of it," the man nodded, not particularly convinced.

Desperately, Constanze looked toward the stacked piles of music papers and notebooks that had been shoveled into yet another pile, in a corner of the floor. A few notebooks and papers were still on the top of Wolfgang's little writing desk where he had left them, some still stuffed in drawers and cubby holes. Quill pens stood in the penholders, crusted with dried ink. Clearly, these men did not take these things into account as being of any value whatsoever.

"These are not to leave the house..." She stood up suddenly.

"You may do whatever you wish with them, Frau Mozart," the other man said, smiling blandly, "they are of no monetary consequence. However, this fine pianoforte..."

A sudden fire flashed into her eyes and she stepped in front of the instrument.

The bland smile straightened. "This instrument is worth at least a hundred florins, madame, and would go a long way toward the settlement of your late husband's debts."

"Nevertheless," she stood as straight as her small height would permit, "the only way this pianoforte will be taken away from me will be over my own dead body."

There was a bristling silence that lasted for several moments, but it was the men in black who blinked first. "Very well, Frau Mozart," the older man conceded, "for the moment we will remove it from the list--but someone else will come for it if not ourselves."

"They can try," she smiled softly, with a look in her eyes than meant business.

She watched them warily now, like a mother bird guarding her eggs. How could these fools think Wolfgang's music worthless? Didn't they know? They would never have the satisfaction of getting their hands on his piano--not while she lived.

And that was when the cold, sinking feelings began to come over her. No, they did not understand Wolfgang's worth. And after a while, no one else would care to remember, either.. He would be just a shooting star in the memories of a few people who would fondly remember certain beautiful music and lament its passing, but it would slide into oblivion, as most music was fated to do. It would be just like it was with poor old Bach--his wonderful fugues lost and forgotten, hidden away in obscure corners of northern Germany. If it hadn't been for Wolfgang and his horribly ill-fated journey to Berlin, many of these treasures might have been lost forever.

And now it was Wolfgang's turn to be consigned to oblivion.

He had already been hurt and used by so many people, and here were two men in black, prepared to chip away even more pieces of him. Who was next, she wondered.

And where were Wolfgang's "friends" when she needed their help? Süssmayr had left town, Van Sweitan was nowhere to be found, the old friends he'd cared for were completely gone--and Wolfgang's precious Masonic brothers seemed to have forgotten him completely.

She despised them all.

They no longer matter, my love, be assured of that.

Why did she have the feeling that she was not alone in the room? Apart from the men in black, there was no one else, and they clearly did not like her attitude.

"With the sum total of your assets," the younger man said officiously, "subtracted by your debts, that leaves an outstanding three hundred florins still owed by the estate of the deceased. Of course, as we've said, this could be offset by the sale of the pianoforte."

"No, meine Herren," she said firmly, "I will find another way to pay the creditors if I must--but the pianoforte stays in my possession."

The younger man was annoyed now, and his smile seemed even more insincere than ever.

"Very well, madame," the older one sighed, taking his hat and coat down from a wall peg, "I would like to see this matter solved, but unfortunately, I fear we have another appointment to be kept this afternoon. Many are dead this season--it has been very busy. The matter of the pianoforte will have to be discussed at a later date."

"But we will return in the morning to complete your business.," the younger man said with his thin, nasty smile, tipping his hat politely. He wanted the piano as badly as she did, and he seemed more than prepared to do battle with her.

The two of them marched toward the door in unison, but not without taking their eyes off Constanze. She was lingering behind. After all, this had been her home. Too many things had happened here.

"You will have to leave, too, Frau Mozart. No one is allowed to take anything from this house, not even ourselves."

"Not anything?" She raised her eyebrows. "I thought you said the music papers were mine to dispose of as I see fit."

The men in black looked at each other. "You did say that," the older man reminded his partner.

"So I did," he sighed. "Very well, take as many as you can carry."

For a moment, she stood nonplussed. There were so many papers, and she scarcely knew one from the other. "I-I will need help..." she stammered.

"That will have to be arranged for tomorrow morning, when we come back to collect the available household items."

"Then I shall have to be here all the earlier," she said tightly.

Flustered and nervous, she bent down to pick up as many loose papers, as many notebooks and small portfolios as her arms would hold. It was only a fraction of the whole. The implication was only to clear --anything left behind that these men did not consider valuable would be destroyed. She tried to keep her back to them so they would not see how hard her lips were trembling, nor the fact that she was finally losing the battle against her tears. She must not appear weak and vulnerable--especially not in front of them...

White, soft angel wings flickered in the corners of her eyes.

Do not be afraid, my love, God will not abandon you. He has work for you.

She paused for a moment, as if she had heard a voice whispering in her ear, but that she knew could not have been. Wolfgang was gone forever, he could no longer speak to her. In her grief, her imagination was getting the better of her.

Suddenly, as if in a moment of rare compassion, the two men were beside her, helping her to gather up the scraps of paper that were her only inheritance. That was when the tears fell at last...

She hated herself! She must not show weakness to any of these people.

It only took a few minutes, really, for the three of them to collect everything into a more or less manageable stack on top of the piano, and they escorted her through the door with as much as she could carry.

The outer courtyard was cold and barren, and the narrow street beyond even more so.

For several minutes she stood alone, the cold air biting her cheeks. The Rauhensteingasse was a narrow little back street, not trafficked much by pedestrians. Few memories of this place had been very good, and now the street itself seemed bleak and deserted. She wasn't even sure of what she was going to do next, even with her arms full of Wolfgang's music. She would have to go home to her mother's house, of course--there was no question of that--but she would have to come back in the morning for the rest of the papers. She could always get Sophie to help her out. Maybe Sophie's young man could come, too --and Hofer, Josefa's husband. He and Wolfgang had been very good friends. Between the four of them, they should be able to remove everything.

But there was still the matter of the pianoforte. If that were taken away, it would be almost like losing Wolfgang a second time.

The curtain of angel wings folded around her like comforting arms, and she felt a light breeze touch her cheek like a kiss.

It couldn't be her imagination. There was something there--something or someone.

"Wolfi ?" She whispered, not daring to hope.

There was, of course, no reply--but her heart beat faster. She had always heard that angels came to those in need, but she had only half believed it until now. The dead didn't turn into angels, angels were creatures of a different sort--but was it possible, just this once?

Then she felt the glow around her, filling her with a sense of well-being she had not known before, as if a ray of sunshine had pierced her heart. The same sunshine that was part of Wolfgang's aura.

"They won't get the pianoforte--will they, Wolfi ?" She murmured out loud.

Amadeus.

"Wolfgang--Amadeus--Mozart..." She breathed the words as if it had never occurred to her before to speak them.

She smiled, for the first time in many days. It was going to be all right. The music belonged to her now --it had been given to her. She was its trustee.

She would not let it die.

EPILOGUE

This is one of my own personal favorites, written a number of years ago. It is both sad and uplifting at the same time, and i am quite fond of it.

Disclaimer: Mozart, his family and associates, are historical personalities not subject to any copyright laws. The individual stories themselves, however, are the exclusive property of the author and may not be reproduced without written permission from the author.

"Angel Wings" -- © 2001-2006, Cheryl W. Duval and Off-Note Productions"