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No one else noticed the signs when Antonio Salieri, the Emperor’s favorite composer, walked into the main ballroom at Count Schönborn’s party, which concerned but did not surprise Lorenzo da Ponte. After all, most men were not trained to identify vampires.
Even after his family was baptized, Lorenzo’s father had told his sons the old stories passed down through generations to scare children straight: Lilit and her fellow demons who would fly through the night seeking righteous men to suck their blood. “Do not sleep in a house alone, or Lilit will catch you!” Lorenzo’s father would warn them, and Lorenzo’s brothers would shriek with fear. But Lorenzo himself stayed silent, determined to be the brave older brother, and had let the stories percolate.
Lorenzo’s fascination with the demons of the night had persisted through adulthood. He was lucky to find another such enthusiast at the seminary he attended in Portogruaro—but Padre Pietro would have doubtless been insulted by being referred to as an enthusiast. The priest took demon-hunting very seriously, and had imparted on young Lorenzo all the best ways to identify and defeat each creature—especially vampires.
Which was why now, in Vienna, Lorenzo da Ponte was sticking close by Antonio Salieri, watching as the other man avoided mirrors, preferred the shadows, and favored glasses of deep red wine even while consuming the fish appetizers. When Signor Salieri let his guard slip, passed too close to one of the large mirrors framing the ballroom, and revealed himself to have no reflection, Lorenzo was certain: Antonio Salieri was a vampire.
Unfortunately, Lorenzo could not simply thrust a stake through Salieri during the middle of the party (though he had stashed an emergency stake inside his jacket, and he had been rather bored by all the nobles posturing and the lack of unattached ladies to flirt with). It would be a bad move politically to kill one of the Emperor’s favorites, vampire or no, and after both Pope Benedict XIV and the Empress Maria Theresa had denounced the existence of vampires, vampire hunting was perceived as both provincial and passé by Vienna’s elite. No, Lorenzo would have to be much more subtle if he were to keep any of his hard-won status at court. Thus, as soon as he had arrived back home after the party, he devised a plan he thought was rather cunning, but in honesty mostly consisted of him writing groveling letters to the Saxon Court.
His friend Caterino Mazzolà was the court poet of Saxony, and had long since bragged about being the acquaintance of such an esteemed composer as Antonio Salieri. Caterino also had an enormous ego that was always in need of stroking, and Lorenzo was not above a bit of flattery. After a short exchange praising Caterino’s illustrious connections across all of Europe, Lorenzo held in his hands a letter of introduction to Antonio Salieri, stamped with Caterino’s seal and doubtless containing illustrious praise of Lorenzo’s skill as a librettist.
And thus, the long game began.
At first, it seemed as if Salieri didn’t suspect a thing, and was genuinely interested in working with Lorenzo. After all, how many librettists would put up with Salieri’s bizarre habits—which seemed to grow in number the more Lorenzo got to know the man and pried Viennese nobles for gossip? Salieri rarely worked during the day, and would only meet with Lorenzo to discuss their work during or after dinner. He never traveled outside of his home for music lessons; the few he gave were conducted in a room whose windows were entirely sheathed in heavy black drapes. Any mirrors in his house were also covered in heavy black fabric—Lorenzo had peeked under all the shrouds once when Salieri was delayed with a lesson.
And most suspiciously of all, the biggest court gossips revealed that Salieri’s operas always had a scandal associated with them: during the rehearsals of each opera that had been performed so far, someone associated with the production had died. It was never any particularly well-known member of the cast—generally a stagehand or one of the young girls who sewed the costumes, and always someone who was alone in the big city without family or friends to notice their death. They would go missing one day, not showing up to rehearsal when they should have, and would turn up a day or two later in an alleyway or washed up on the shores of the Danube, drained of all their blood.
Lorenzo was careful not to reveal his detective work to Salieri, though as the evidence mounted up and Lorenzo waited for the ideal time to stake Vienna’s most eminent composer, he added another crucifix to the one he already wore around his neck. Better safe than sorry, he figured, and he was proud to be so careful and diligent with his investigation. Padre Pietro would have congratulated him!
But Padre Pietro would have also told Lorenzo that pride cometh before a fall, and Lorenzo’s pride in his successful investigation would definitely cometh before his fall.
Lorenzo had learned that Salieri often met with the Emperor’s chief chamberlain, Count Rosenberg, who did not appear to be a vampire, but was conniving and ruthless enough that Lorenzo would not have been surprised if he were some other sort of demon. Count Rosenberg would occasionally stop by Salieri’s house during one of his meetings with Lorenzo, and the two other men would immediately step into another room, leaving Lorenzo alone while they consulted for 10 to 15 minutes.
Lorenzo hadn’t dared to eavesdrop on their conversations, but after a few months of observing Salieri and incurring no suspicion, Lorenzo decided to be a little more daring one night. As soon as he heard Salieri and Rosenberg ensconce themselves in another room of the house and close the door, Lorenzo crept out of the room he had been left in and tiptoed down the hallway. When he pressed his ear to the keyhole, he could just make out Salieri and Rosenberg’s voice.
“I promise you, it’s for the best!” Rosenberg was saying. “We can’t take any chances now that this new upstart from the provinces has come to court. No one in Vienna suspects a thing, but any new blood—pardon the expression—may get a little more curious.”
“Rosenberg, I cannot last any longer,” Salieri replied. “I dislike being made to wait for a meal.”
“Then feed on me! I would be honored to serve you in this nature—and, if you deign to turn me, in any other matters as well.”
Here it was! Even more indubitable proof that Antonio Salieri was a vampire—and that, moreover, he was part of some grand conspiracy within the court to cover up his feeding habits! Lorenzo was so thrilled by the discovery that he pressed himself even further to the keyhole, forgetting the heavy crucifixes he had taken to wearing. In his haste to move closer to the door, one of them smacked heavily against the wood. All conversation within the room stopped at the noise. Lorenzo froze.
Salieri murmured something that Lorenzo couldn’t hear. Footsteps. Suddenly, the door swung open, banging Lorenzo’s jaw and throwing him to the floor. He hesitantly looked up into Salieri’s unreadable face.
“Signor da Ponte, I’ve tolerated your poking and prying around my personal life so far, but this is truly beyond the pale,” Salieri said. “I can forgive your gossip-mongering around the court, but eavesdropping on my private conversations is a betrayal of my trust and something that should be punished.”
Salieri stepped forward slowly, forcing Lorenzo to scramble backwards until he hit the far wall. Salieri kept pressing forwards, however, and his slight smirk broadened into a threatening grin. Had his canine teeth always been so sharp? Lorenzo stood up hurriedly, patting down his coat pockets in the frantic hope that he had packed an emergency stake, but to no avail. Salieri leaned towards Lorenzo’s neck, and the vampire’s teeth glinted. Lorenzo threw his hands up, ready to defend himself—
And then Salieri leapt back suddenly, as if burned, almost falling back into Count Rosenberg’s waiting arms. “What’s wrong? Are you all right, Herr Salieri?”
Salieri quickly recovered, stepping away from Count Rosenberg and flinging his hand out to point at Lorenzo’s chest. “He is protected. I cannot touch him.”
Lorenzo looked down at his crucifixes, and sent up a quick prayer for Padre Pietro’s insistence that a vampire hunter must always be prepared for an attack.
Count Rosenberg scowled, and puffed himself up in a way that was quite comical given the man’s diminutive stature. “I think, Herr da Ponte, that it would be best if you leave! Immediately!”
“I am in complete agreement,” Lorenzo replied. “I have no interest in working for a man so devoid of ethical principles and Godly grace.” He turned to leave, his heart beating fast as he walked down the hallway and prayed this was the end of any attempts on his life for today. But that image of Salieri's sharp, shining teeth burned Lorenzo's mind. He glanced back at Rosenberg and Salieri before leaving the apartment; Salieri was still smiling, exposing those teeth, like a cat who'd just slaughtered a baby bird.
Happily, Salieri's dismissal of Lorenzo did not seem to affect the librettist's status among the rest of the court. Emperor Joseph continued his patronage, and Salieri quickly found work with the court's new rising star, Wolfgang Mozart. Mozart was incredibly talented and expected Lorenzo to keep up with his gift, and thus for a time Lorenzo could almost forget the threat Salieri posed. Lorenzo still made a habit of donning protective crucifixes every morning (after the confrontation, he now wore three), but with his plans exposed, Lorenzo felt there was not much to be done other than preoccupying himself with his writing and trying to ignore the stagehands and seamstresses that still went missing every time Salieri premiered a new opera.
And so, life went on. Lorenzo lost his job and gained a job and lost his job again. He fell in love and had children. He sailed across the ocean to America, gained a job and lost a job and gained a job again. He taught Italian and produced operas and even exorcised a few demons. And somehow, he managed to forget the vampire that had once prowled the opera rehearsals of Vienna.
That is, until he received a letter from Gioachino Rossini, a popular new composer whose operas were sweeping Paris. Lorenzo was flattered to find that Rossini had learned of Lorenzo's American opera productions, and the composer wished to have his own operas performed in America. “Perhaps we might discuss such an arrangement,” Rossini wrote, “especially if you find yourself on our fair continent once more.”
Lorenzo had initially scoffed at the idea of such a lengthy voyage—he was not getting any younger!--but as he considered the possibility, it began to seem more appealing. He had saved enough of the royalties from his memoirs to be able to afford a transatlantic trip, and it would be nice to see his homeland before he died. He wrote back to Rossini, who was thrilled “to finally meet such an esteemed librettist such as yourself, who worked with such masters as Mozart and Salieri.”
That letter from Rossini stayed in Lorenzo's jacket pocket throughout his time at sea. From time to time Lorenzo would read it over again. It jogged something in his aging memory, something that twirled round and round trying to find a mental scaffolding to affix itself to. Lorenzo had forgotten something, something important—but what?
It was only on the last day of the voyage that Lorenzo remembered exactly why his career with Salieri had ended so suddenly. Once in Paris, while not meeting with Rossini, Lorenzo did what he had always done best—gossip. He learned that the mysterious deaths among the Viennese opera workers had only subsided within the last few months, when Salieri had moved to the country in his old age. It had only taken a few judiciously-composed letters sent off to various eminent figures, bemoaning how Lorenzo had lost touch with one of his dearest friends, to find the exact address where Salieri currently lived.
And thus, as soon as business with Rossini had concluded, Lorenzo left for the Austrian countryside. It was a long and tedious trip, but he occupied himself by collecting sticks while stopped at inns in the evening and sharpening them to a point during the day. Then finally, the carriage he had hired dropped him off at the little house on the country road, the name of which Lorenzo had painstakingly procured.
The path to the door was muddy, and difficult for Lorenzo to traverse. As he went to go rap on the door, he felt his heartbeat speed up rapidly. As his left hand knocked, his right hand rested nervously on the three stakes he had hidden in his coat pockets.
The door swung open, and Lorenzo braced himself for the sharp teeth that had haunted his nights in Europe, the teeth that had been the last sight he had seen of Antonio Salieri. But instead, a matronly middle-aged woman was standing in the entryway. “What can I do for you, sir?” she asked. “Are you hear to see a relative, your brother or cousin perhaps?”
“Um...this is where Antonio Salieri lives, isn't it?”
“Oh yes, Antonio has been living here for a few months now. Are you a friend? He'll be very glad to see you; he has had so few visitors. I'll take you to his room.”
Lorenzo followed the woman down the hall. She continued to chat amiably about Salieri's health and daily activities while Lorenzo peered down corridors and into doorways. This was clearly not a private house: he saw at least five older gentlemen shepherded around by women dressed in the same plain dresses and aprons that his guide through the halls was wearing.
She soon stopped in front of a door indistinguishable from all the others. “This is his room,” she explained, and then knocked softly on the door. “Herr Salieri? You have a visitor!” Lorenzo couldn't hear anything but soft mumbling from from inside the room, but apparently this was a sufficient answer for the matron, who opened the door and all but shoved Lorenzo inside. “I'll let you two reconnect, then,” she said brightly, and then left, closing the door behind her.
Salieri was sitting hunched over in a chair, staring absently at the ground as if he hadn't noticed Lorenzo's entry. “Signor Salieri?” Lorenzo said, trying to get Salieri's attention, “it's Lorenzo da Ponte, your former librettist.”
Salieri didn't move for a minute or so, and then slowly looked up. “Francesco?” he said slowly. “It's been so long, how are you?”
“No, Signor Salieri, I'm not Francesco, I'm Signor da Ponte. We worked together in Vienna, I wrote the libretto for Il ricco d'un giorno....”
And you kicked me out of your house when you realized I might spill your little secret about killing stagehands. But the memory didn't seem to register in Salieri's mind. “Francesco, I am almost ready for our music lesson,” he said. “Papà's assigned me lines to copy since I stole some of the marzipan Mamma was saving in the cupboard.”
L orenzo walked up to Salieri, placing his hands on Salieri's shoulders. “My friend, it is 1825. You are no longer a child. I am Lorenzo da Ponte, do you remember me?”
Salieri shook off Lorenzo's hands with a surprising amount of strength, almost flinging Lorenzo across the room. “Go away! I don't want to talk to you!”
Lorenzo jumped back hurriedly, but Salieri seemed to have already forgotten Lorenzo was there, and was staring fixedly at the floor once more. Lorenzo's hands wandered to the stakes he had stashed in his jacket. Surely in this confused state, Salieri could do no harm? But his vampiric strength had not diminished, and it was likely that his vampiric appetite would not either.
Besides, vampires did not die of natural causes. And to condemn a man to an eternity of relieving the distant past, unmoored to the present--
Lorenzo drew one of the stakes he had made from his coat pocket and slowly approached Salieri. He crouched down next to the chair. “I am sorry, old friend,” he murmured. “ I hope that I can release you from your pain, and that you will eventually find peace in God.”
Suddenly, Salieri's eyes jerked towards Lorenzo in a moment of clarity. “Signor da Ponte?” he asked.
Lorenzo plunged the stake into Salieri's heart.
Salieri's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in a second-long silent scream. Then he fell back in the chair, looking almost as if he had merely fallen asleep.
Lorenzo stood up, closed Salieri's eyes, and walked out of the room. After over 40 years, his job was finally done.