Work Text:
One of these afternoons Caterina took tea at Salieri’s house, and lingered afterwards in his study, where she sat and read from his shelves while Salieri went through some work from his students— rather than for the theater, now that he was no longer directing the opera. They were waiting for Mozart, who was going to call in the evening and take them in his carriage to the theater.
There they sat in an unbothered silence well-worn by years of close relation, both well at ease with the quiet company. Perchance Caterina looked up while flipping a page, and what she saw momentarily drew her out of the novel’s thickening plot.
Salieri was smiling.
Which in itself was less strange than supposed by those who’ve only seen the sullen and reserved exterior of the court composer. Although Caterina has never known a student’s work to have elicited a smile like that.
He was still utterly absorbed in the paper he held— it was only a scrap, ripped-out half-page of a score sheet. There couldn’t have been more than a phrase or two of music written on it, but Salieri perused it carefully, nodding a little to himself as he read, as if it was packed with the miniscule writings of a divine charter. After a while, he unfolded the bottom half, and his smile deepened, crinkling in the corners of his eyes.
He picked up his quill, and begun scribbling onto the scrap. Soon, he brought out a fresh piece of paper, and was transcribing the musical contents from its battered host. It was when he reached to dip his quill in the inkwell, that Salieri suddenly noticed Caterina’s gaze on him.
He blinked, tilted his head a little.
“Maestro,” she asked teasingly “what’s that you’re looking at?”
“Oh, nothing,” he waved her off, carefully folding the scrap piece of paper into a small square, and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Never you mind.”
Caterina could guess what it was, however.
“It’s not another fragment from Mozart, is it?”
It’s a testament to their mutual trust, that Salieri didn’t immediately retreat into his metaphorical shell. He hesitated, for some long seconds, before acquiescing, by returning his quill to the paper.
“If only he would finish the things he start, rather than leaving them around in scraps,” Salieri said. “But you know him. He writes them down everywhere and forgets then complains of misplacing his acorns of genius— when he has no trouble conjuring up another theme in their place.”
Caterina smiled too. She’s seen such a paper trail before. Found scraps of paper herself lying on a piano at the theatre, slipped into a book, and above all, half-hidden into all sorts of corners of Salieri’s house, where she knew Mozart was becoming a more and more frequent visitor. Those in the know often picked up the pieces to give to Salieri, who would receive them with a fond scoff, or a discreet roll of the eyes, or sometimes, if he’d already glimpsed a few notes or a harmony or a silly doodle on the page, a faint, but unmistakable smile.
“I don’t know what this is—” he continued to speak as he continued writing on the page, “it could be the beginning of a new concerto or a symphony. Or the middle of a movement. Or a mere sonatina.” He sighed, and by the look in his eyes it was clear this was Salieri at his least self-conscious. “Goodness knows he has a dazzling palace of gemstones in his mind, but the rest of us have to made do with picking up the stray pieces as puzzles to fill… There’s this… notation he uses, a sort of short hand.” Another wry smile, “I find myself inadvertently becoming trained in deciphering it.”
“Hm,” Caterina hummed vaguely, not bothering to say what he knew Salieri had no attention to listen to.
He was, of course, being his customary sort of self-deprecating in relation to Mozart, but whatever illusions he was under, Salieri was likely the only person in Vienna who didn’t realise that Mozart was not leaving these pieces for any one of the ‘rest of them’ to find. No, Mozart was leaving them for him, and him alone. It was something she was willing to compare to love letters, written in a code known only to the two of them. A long serenade, one unfinished sonatina at a time.
Perhaps it got to Salieri, anyway. If each note induced a smile and a flush like that.
They resumed their respective activity— Caterina’s heroine was approaching a great turning point in a dramatic romance that she was rapidly losing interest in. Luckily, she was rescued from the vicarious horrors of a disappointed love when Salieri spoke up.
“Ah, look at the time. We ought to go.”
“Well! Let’s— we can’t have Herr Mozart waiting.”
She stood, smoothed down her dress, while Salieri shrugged on a coat and picked up a hat. There, something caught Caterina’s eyes again.
Caterina has long since given up trying to distinguish between Salieri’s abundant collection of coats in drab browns and blacks— but this one she was sure she’s never seen before. For around the cuffs and collar and down the front was a beautiful embroidering that lined the edge the of the dark fabric. It was a fine floral pattern, delicate and tasteful, very well chosen to suit Salieri, though she couldn’t imagine he had done it himself.
“You’re dressing up,” she said, brushing a thumb over a feather-leaf on his cuff.
Salieri’s lips flattened, and a tell-tale blush threatened to climb up his neck. “Don’t you dare say a word.”
Her eyebrows went up at such a reaction. In the privacy of her mind, she hazarded a guess at the provenance of the coat, and had to bite her lips to keep back the grin.
She leaned in to kiss his cheek anyway. “My lips are sealed.”
Her ears, however, were wide open. Because in a few short moments, as they left the house, Caterina could swear to herself and Mozart and all sacred forms of earthly love, that Salieri was humming.
It must have been a sonatina.