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

companion.
    â€œTwo twenty, he said,” the heavy officer answered. He grunted as he grabbed me again and dragged me down the hall. My right arm throbbed. We turned a corner and continued down another long, dark passage. Just when I believed that I could no longer keep from screaming from the pain, my captors stopped before a door. One of them fumbled with the cord that bound my arms, and a moment later I was free. I groaned as I pulled my arms forward. They were both numb. The taller man rapped on the door, opened it, and pushed me in.
    â€œThe poet, sir,” he said. I grabbed at the knob of the door to avoid falling. I regained my balance and looked up. The room was dark except for a single candle set on a desk directly in front of me. A man sat behind the desk, a sheaf of documents piled in front of him. He looked me up and down and nodded to the officers. “You may go,” he said. The heavy one gave me a final shove and closed the door.
    The man rose from the desk, crossed to the door, and turned the lock. He gestured toward a wooden chair a few feet in front of me. I fell into the chair. I leaned over to examine my trouser knee, but I could see nothing. The light was too dim. The man returned to his seat behind the desk.
    â€œYou are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.
    I studied him through the candlelight. His features were sharp, his nose large and hawklike. Even in the dimness I could see that his eyes were dark and cold.
    â€œAnswer the question!” he snapped.
    I had had enough. “You know who I am!” I shouted. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why have I been roused from my bed and treated like a criminal? The emperor will hear about this!”
    He stared at me coolly and gave a small, bemused smile. He picked up a sheet of paper from the pile on the desk. “You were ordained as a priest in 1773?” he asked.
    â€œWho are you?” I demanded.
    He studied the paper for a long moment, then put it aside and took up another one. “After your ordination, you taught at the seminary in Ceneda and moved to Venice six months later?”
    I nodded, confused. How did he know all this about me? A wave of exhaustion swept over me, as if my outburst had drained the rest of my energy and anger. “Why are you asking me these questions?” I said. “Your officers accused me of murder—”
    â€œWhile in Venice, you took a lover, a married woman named—” He scrutinized the document. “Angela Tiepolo?”
    A cold vise closed around my heart. I had hoped I had left all that behind me thirteen years ago.
    He banged his palm on the tabletop. I jumped. “Answer the question!”
    â€œYes,” I said. “But what—”
    â€œShe gave birth to your child? A child you abandoned to an orphanage?”
    I rubbed my temples as my head began to throb. After my ordination, I had been restless in my vocation, and on a trip to Venice, I had met Angela. She was the orphaned daughter of a minor aristocrat, and when she turned her dark, indolent eyes my way I had forgotten about God, my vows, my duty to my family, and the existence of her husband. She had quickly drawn me into the raucous party life of the city. We had spent our evenings at the opera or theater, and had drunk and gambled into the early morning. The days we spent in bed.
    I hadn’t been certain the child had been mine, but Angela’s husband had left her and had disavowed the newborn. We had no money, and so had had no choice but to give the baby to the orphanage. Soon after that, my younger brother had rescued me from my life of debauchery. He had taken me to Treviso, where he had found teaching positions for both of us at the seminary there. Girolamo—my beloved brother! Lost to me forever.
    I started at a soft rustling sound, the kind a rat would make, coming from somewhere behind me. I imagined myself thrown into a cell somewhere in this maze, with only