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days nobody brushed their teeth much either. Not even Mozart.”

  Just then, the door to the bedroom swung open again. Herr Shack stood in the doorway and beckoned to them. “You like to listen?” he asked.

  Carol nodded emphatically.

  “Herr Mozart says it is fine for the kinder to listen. Quiet like maus now.”

  “Yes,” said Carol eagerly. “Quiet as mice.” They sat on the floor together by the door. She couldn’t believe what seemed to be taking place. They really did seem to be time traveling, this really did seem to be Mozart, and he had given them permission to listen in. It was incredible.

  But the great man did not look well, thought Mathew. His face was wrinkled and ashen. His cheeks seemed to sink into his face. His hair was beginning to turn gray. Mathew felt the loose pills in his pocket. It seemed impossible enough that they were here in the same room with this guy. But now they had to figure out how to do the most impossible thing of all: getting him to take not just a couple of the pills but a whole shebang cycle of them.

  “Ah, Benedickt,” said Mozart shaking his head at his friend who apparently was habitually late. “Bitte seien Sie punktiich.”

  “Es tut mir leid, Wolfgang,” said Herr Schack profusely apologizing. “Es tut mir leid.”

  “Jetzt das Lachrymosa,” said the composer, directing them to start the rehearsal.

  Herr Schack wedged himself into a spot next to the other two musicians. There wasn’t much space for any of them in the bedroom because behind Mozart’s chair was a large bed as well as a small piano. Mozart signaled for them to begin, and they began to sing the Lachrymosa section of the Requiem. Mozart hummed and sang along with them.

  Not too smoothly, thought Mathew. A bit wavery, but he was obviously not feeling great. And anyway how many things was he supposed to be able to do? Carol had said he was the best pianist of his day, one of the best violinists and certainly the best composer. Was he supposed to be able to sing, too?

  He sure had a lot of energy for a sick man, or so it seemed to Mathew. Mozart stopped them several times to make what sounded like tart comments to the musicians. They didn’t seem to mind the tartness. They laughed and sometimes made cracks back at him. No one laughed louder than Mozart with his infectious, giggling laugh.

  Mathew was struck by how small he was—much smaller than he or Carol were.

  “We’re missing everything,” said Carol in an annoyed whisper.

  “They’re making jokes. I want to laugh, too.”

  “We don’t speak German,” said Mathew. “You’ll have to guess at it.”

  “I can’t. And how’re we going to explain to him about the pills?” she said. “He doesn’t understand English.”

  “Cheest, forget about it, Carol. It’s mind-blowing enough that we’re here.”

  “I won’t forget about it. You said we could use subtitles. Well, obviously we can’t. I want them to speak English to us.”

  “Are you out of your head? How about you learning to speak German?”

  “What? In the next 10 seconds?” she asked in a voice that was well above a whisper.

  “Pretend!!” Mathew practically shouted back.

  “Children! Can’t you be quiet while we sing the Requiem?”

  They were horrified and thunderstruck both at once. The Master—as Herr Schack had called him---was addressing them directly in an angry voice. Oh, my God, thought Carol. He’s going to toss us out of here. But what totally overwhelmed her was the realization that he had spoken to them in flawless English. Or was it in German, which somehow, suddenly, she had understood perfectly?

  How could any of this be? And if she replied to him, would she be talking In English or would it be in German? But reply she must.

  Mozart was waiting for an answer.

  “Please forgive us, Herr Mozart,” she said. “It will not happen again.” She realized she had no way of knowing whether her words were coming out as English words or German ones.

  Mozart’s stern face relaxed into an impish smile. He turned to Herr Schack and said: “I like her. She reminds me of Nannerl. The same manner. Except for the hair.”

  Carol remembered her dad had told her that Nannerl was Mozart’s dark-haired older sister, now married. This was the sister who had played with him at the piano at concerts in over a dozen cities all across Europe when they were children. Their father had promoted them as musical child prodigies—which indeed they were.

  “I can’t call you Nannerl,” he said, “though I’m tempted. What is your real name?”

  “Carol,” she said shyly.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “I am flesh and blood like anyone else. Maybe more so.” He giggled briefly and exchanged a look with one of the musicians. He stared at her for a long moment. “You are very pretty, Carol. Even prettier than Nannerl.” Another pause. “I do like pretty girls. Do you play the piano, too?”

  Carol felt it was almost presumptuous to say she played it to someone like Mozart—she knew she was just a beginner---but she nodded.

  “You are about 15 years old. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she said, still shy before this towering man of music.

  “Fifteen and not yet married? Many girls like you are married off by now.” He paused. “Do you want to marry me?”

  Carol couldn’t help laughing out loud. She knew he was already married. He must have realized surely that she knew this.

  “Ah, I knew I could make you laugh,” he said gleefully. “You think I am too old for you, yes? You think I cannot dance and run about like your friends. I will show you.”

  To Carol’s surprise and shock Mozart leapt up from his chair and began to prance around the room in his nightgown. “See? See? I am not dead yet.” He did a pirouette—kind of—and collapsed back into the chair, breathing heavily.

  Was this really the great and famous composer? She could hardly believe it. Neither could Mathew. He seemed to have no dignity at all. She thought of conductors at concerts she had gone to with her dad. They were always so imposing and frowny-faced. Leaders and commanders who drew beautiful music from the orchestral legions in front of them. And yet they were nothing compared to Mozart. They would all be forgotten one day, she knew, but Mozart would never be forgotten. He would live forever. Even if he didn’t give a hoot what anybody thought about his behavior.

  Just then, another door to the bedroom opened. Silence descended on the room. A small, fierce-looking woman, even smaller than Mozart, in a long, frilly house dress and a bonnet, stood in the doorway looking at the musicians and at Mozart. She placed her hands on her hips.

  “Ah, Constanze,” said Herr Schack. “How nice to see you. We were, uh, just going. Am I correct, gentlemen? We must not tax the Master any further today.”

  “Of course, of course,” mumbled his fellow singers as they quickly collected their sheets of music and bustled out of the room past Constanze, nodding and smiling at Mozart’s unsmiling wife.

  When they were gone, her severe look seemed to fade, replaced with a worried one. “You must get into bed,” she said. “What you need is lots of rest. I have called for Dr. Closset. He wants to bleed you again—to bring down the fever.” She seemed to notice Carol and Mathew for the first time. “Who are these children? How did they get into the bedroom?”

  “They came with Bene.” This was a nickname he used for Herr Schack. “He said they are English. The girl’s name is Carol and is very nice. Very refined. She speaks perfect German.”

  Carol looked with wide eyes at Mathew. How was this happening? How, how, how?

  “The boy I don’t know. He must be her brother. I am enjoying their company very much.”

  “But Bene has now left,” said Constanze, clearly puzzled. “He didn’t take them with him.”

  “Let them stay, Constanze. It pleases me.”

  “Very well---as long as it does not tir
e you. I imagine Herr Schack will come for them later. What is your name, young man?”

  Mathew was afraid to speak. What if unlike Carol he could not speak German at all? Then, Constanze would know they were fakers or at least he was. Why would they speak two different languages if they were brother and sister? But he had to answer her.

  He hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt and spoke one word only. “Mathew,” he said, giving it as strong a German-like accent as he possibly could and smiling broadly afterwards.

  She seemed to tilt her head and frown slightly but made no comment. “We must be very quiet,” she said. “He is terribly sick. He needs to get well so he can finish his work.”

  Mozart gave a wink at Carol. “Constanze is a wonderful wife to me,” he said. “She loves me and cares for me. And I love her back.” Another wink.

  Carol did not know what to make of the winks—or even what to make of Mozart, for that matter. Was this really the man who had written all those breathtaking piano concertos and symphonies? Was there some mistake? Did he have a twin? She imagined for a moment two Mozarts, one who danced around like a mad clown while the other composed like an angel and played the piano brilliantly. Which one was the little man in front of her? It had to be possible for there to be two Mozarts, she thought. Look at Mr. Ishmail’s two twins.

  “Constanze, tell me, does this Carol remind you of someone?”

  His wife thought about it but could not recall anyone.

  “Constanze, think! Isn’t she Nannerl?