Read Online The Figaro Murders by Laura Lebow - Free Book Online

one had appeared in her box the rest of the evening. I wondered again what or who had caused the sadness I had read on her face.
    I turned the pillow over again and pulled the bedsheet over my shoulders. Stop thinking about her. Go to sleep. But I could not help myself. I set free my imagination and envisioned my fingers running through her loose, lustrous curls; my hands caressing her soft, pale face; and my words persuading her lips into a sweet smile. A familiar, joyful yearning spread in my heart, and after a while, I slept.
    *   *   *
    My dreams took me back to my childhood, to my neighborhood in Ceneda. I was ten years old, already a leader among the boys of my age, admired for my knowledge and wit. I stood in the middle of a circle of friends and recited a poem I had heard in church and had quickly memorized. As I finished, the boys my own age applauded, and I flushed with pleasure. The local butcher’s son, an older boy with a domineering swagger, approached me and, with a sly grin, held out a book to me, demanding that I read a passage. I demurred, saying that it was someone else’s turn to be the center of attention. He pushed the book into my trembling hands. “Go ahead, read to us,” he said loudly. The younger boys all looked at me expectantly. My mouth grew dry as I looked down at the words, which were unintelligible to me. My heart thumped in my chest. The older boy and his friends began to laugh. They began the familiar chant. Brilliant dunce. Brilliant dunce . The butcher’s son grabbed a heavy stick and began to beat it against the trunk of a nearby tree. Brilliant dunce . Brilliant dunce. I stood red-faced with humiliation as he pounded out the rhythm with the stick, louder and louder.
    â€œOpen up,” a voice yelled. I sat up straight in my bed, wide awake but dazed, my heart racing. The room was pitch-black.
    â€œSignor Da Ponte?” I heard the tremulous voice of my landlord. “Are you there? Signor Abbé, please open the door, quickly.” The pounding resumed. I rose from the bed and stumbled through the darkness to the door. As I opened it, a draft of cold air blew into my room. I shivered. My landlord, his nightdress clutched around him for warmth, stood there holding a lantern. Beside him were two men dressed in black uniforms. I peered at them through the dim lamplight. One was short and heavy. He held another lantern. The other man was of medium height, loose-limbed, with a week’s worth of beard on his face. He stepped forward, pushing my landlord aside.
    â€œYou are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.
    â€œPlease, gentlemen, may we step inside?” my landlord asked. The lantern shook in his hands. “The other tenants—”
    The heavy man turned to him. “You may go. Don’t worry, we won’t be here much longer.” The landlord flashed me a look of pity and scurried away.
    The tall man pushed me back into my room and stepped in. He grabbed the front of my nightshirt and pulled me so that my face was inches away from his. I gagged at the smell of his breath, a mixture of fermented cabbage and stale beer. “Police,” he said. “Get dressed.”
    By now I had recovered my senses. “What is this? What do you want with me?” I asked. He pushed me aside. I stumbled and fell to the floor. My pale, bare legs splayed out from beneath my nightshirt.
    My cheeks grew hot with shame as the two officers laughed. “Get dressed,” the heavy one said. “You are coming with us.”
    â€œWhere? Why? Where are you taking me?” I sputtered.
    â€œYou’ll find out soon enough.”
    I pulled myself up and hobbled over to my cupboard. My hands quivered as I put on a pair of breeches and a shirt. I pulled on my stockings and shoes. “What do you want with me?” I asked again. “There must be some mistake. You have the wrong person.”
    â€œYou are Lorenzo Da Ponte, the