The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a candle trembling beside unfinished sheets of music. The silence was broken by my shallow breathing, and then there was a knock at the door, unexpected at such an hour.
I had always imagined that if Death came for me, he would at least knock in rhythm. A gentle adagio, perhaps. Something tasteful. Instead, he arrived without ceremony, in the form of stranger in a gray coat, quietly commissioning a requiem for reasons left unexplained. In a brief moment of foolish clarity, I thought: If death must take me, at least let him wait until the requiem is finished.
Death had other plans. He sent a fever instead.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.
They say I entered the world crying in B-flat. I cannot confirm this; I was a little occupied at the time – but it does sound like something I would have done. My parents, hoping to bestow upon me a name of sufficient holiness and grandeur, christened me to Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart[i]. The longer the name, the holier and more impressive it seemed. It did not take long for them to reconsider. Soon, they shortened it to “Wolferl”. I always preferred Amadeus, but one cannot have everything.
My mother, Anna Maria[ii], gave birth to me in our apartment on the fourth floor of Getreidegasse 9 in Salzburg. The city, wedged between mountains and monasteries, was the third largest in Austria at the time. Our street was home to patricians and public officials and filled with the aromas of incense, horse manure, and ambition – the three great ingredients of eighteenth-century success. Winters in Salzburg were bitterly cold. I believe this helped prepare me for life.
[i] Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born on 27 January 1756 in Salzburg, Austria.
[ii] Anna Maria Walburga Mozart (née Pertl) was born on 25 December 1720, in St. Gilgen and died in Paris on 3 July 1778 of a sudden, undiagnosed illness.