The Scent of Apples

         The old maestro lay trembling in a pile of soiled linen; his spindly body posed much like it had been when he entered the world: bent in on itself and turned away from the violent colors and clamor outside his window.  He had been sickly all his life; afflicted with a cough that raged through his body like the earthquake that shook the world the day he was born. He was so far from his beloved Venice now, trapped in a garret among the proud, gilded mansions of Vienna where people treated him worse than they would a thieving stepchild. It was a cold city, proud like a cardinal and heartless like a thief. He, who had been famous around the world, was forgotten and trapped in a failing body. O mio Dio! There was even blood on the pillow where his dry lips had touched it.
         Even now new harmonies, songs and melodies floated like angels through his mind, whispering to him, making his heart beat in rhythm with their mysterious force. Leaning against his bed was his old friend Guido, the violin that the Marchesa had given him for his 40th birthday. The last of his strength had at last gone from him, as if his body had finally resigned itself to eternity. But to whom would he give his beloved Guido? The very question cheered him, as if proving that he was still alive. He would give it to Franzy, the boy who brought him apples and listened in secret under his window when poor singers who still remembered visited him like grey specters from his past. The maestro had made his peace with God, or so he had convinced himself. But would he at least see little Franzy one last time? Would the lad play for him?
         “Signor Vivaldi?” As if answering his prayer, the plodding yet light footsteps of the boy had made their way up the steps and the door opened with a loud creak. The old man closed his eyes just so he could savor the rhythmic tapping of the boy’s shoes against the floor. A faint scent of apples perfumed the fetid room. Apples always reminded the composer of life, youth and promise even after he no longer had the teeth with which to eat them.
         “Signor, are you awake?” The rhythmic steps were broken by the dull thump of a basket dropped by his bed.
         A small, earth-scented hand tugged at his bed linens. There was the sound of a wooden object falling and strings plucked as Franzy cursed softly.
         Vivaldi opened his eyes and saw the boy slap one hand over his mouth in shame.
         “I’m sorry, Signor!” The boy’s plump face brightened as he held up the instrument. “See, nothing happened. All is well.”
         The old composer tried to raise his head. He pulled one hand over the few wisps of hair that clung to his scalp like old moss. His hair had once been a flaming red but was now as white as the lime they poured into graves. The irony had not escaped him.
         As if on command, the boy put his arms about the maestro’s shoulders and heaved his emaciated torso against the cushions. Franzy tilted his head as if asking for his approval.
         “Thank you Franzy,” Vivaldi said in his broken German. “Now give me Guido, please.” He closed his eyes again and traced his fingers along the curves and surface of the violin much like a lover’s hand would caress his mistress. Formerly a priest, Vivaldi was again conscious of the irony. The wood was smooth, no cracks or lines in the surface of the varnish. His old inamorata was indeed unharmed. He opened his eyes as he rested the instrument against his chest. “I can no longer play, Franzy. You must make the strings sing for me.” With a violent cough, he handed the violin to the sturdy Austrian boy with the ear for music.
         Franzy’s eyes lit up as he took the neck of the violin gently, cradling it against his arms much the way one holds a kitten. His rosebud lips trembled a little as he spoke. “To the glory of God, Signore?”
         “To the glory of God and to the promise of youth, dear boy. And remember that even the promise of youth has much to learn.” The composer coughed, wiping his mouth with a tattered, bloodstained handkerchief.
         On that long-forgotten afternoon, the sound of a single violin had been heard from the window as Franzy played for the dying composer. It was a charming little minuet, simple enough for any Dunderhead to play. Over the years, passing shopkeepers, priests, tradesmen and playing children would make more of it than it was, but it was important; the first step of a long journey; the long, momentous voyage of a pilgrim, as Signor Vivaldi had described it to him once. “It was like the voice of an angel singing,” a nobleman would repeat although he had never even heard it.

                                                            ***

         Franzy would have called it all foolishness, but as the years passed, he realized how true the maestro’s words had been. He had much to learn and even if he had lived four lifetimes, Franzy would not know all there was. Yet he had talent and was fortunate enough to have it recognized by the noble Esterhazy family.
      Perhaps the sad, impoverished death of the great Signor Antonio Lucio Vivaldi should have warned him of the vagaries of life and the tenuousness of artistic patronage. Maybe his gift of Guido was little more than gratitude for the apples that the boy had brought him. And yet the boy had followed his heart, practiced on the violin and clavichord until his fingers bled, and learned to listen to that mysterious muse that shapes the voices, sounds and impressions all around him into musical compositions. At first they had been as simple and artless as the minuet he had played when Signor Vivaldi breathed his last, but little by little, Franzy uncovered new harmonies and complexities, laboring day and night on the simple until his musical inventions won everyone’s heart. God had at last given him a voice. He was no longer little Franzy, but Franz Joseph Haydn, composer and teacher extraordinaire.
         For the glory of God and to the promise of youth. It had been the last words the maestro had spoken to him. For some reason, the thought had returned to him now as he was composing his eightieth symphony. A little boy, much like himself some twenty-five years ago, but far better dressed, was bending over his hands as he scratched the notes on the manuscript. Unlike little Franzy at that same age, this boy was already famous around Europe, traveling with his father and sister, vagabonds in velvet and lace. Herr Haydn had invited them to his house, to listen to this new generation. The boy was already gifted beyond his years, he had said to the domineering father who seemed to take all the praise for granted.
         “Is that a C sharp, Herr Haydn?” the boy looked up at him with a mixture of admiration and incredulity, a rare thing to see in someone so young.
         “Ah, yes, it is. But it is only a draft, Herr Mozart.”
         The boy closed his eyes and hummed the first two lines of the manuscript in a delicate soprano as he swayed to and fro, his face a bright beam of joy.
         Haydn laughed. “Does it meet with your approval then?”
         The boy pressed his head against the composer’s arm, sending a jolt of warmth through his heart. “I like it! Write more please, Master Haydn, and I will show you what I wrote just yesterday if Papa will let me.”
         Haydn returned the quill to its inkstand and lifted the boy into his lap. “I will tell you a secret, young master,” he whispered. “I have a gift for you.”
         The boy giggled and kissed his cheek. Then he clapped his hands. “What is it?”
         “Over in the corner there … that’s right. The violin. Bring it to me.”
         The boy slid off his lap and ran to the instrument.
         “Careful now. Guido is a very old friend of mine.” Haydn laughed again; the instrument was almost half as big as the boy, but the assured way he held it indicated that Herr Mozart already knew a thing or two about violins.
         “Shall I play for you?”  The boy had already positioned the violin under his chin and was wielding the bow before Haydn with a precocious flourish.
         Franz Joseph Haydn took a deep breath, closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. From somewhere in his mind he summoned forth the scent of apples.