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so easily. When they had finished the ensemble, Benucci, who played the disguised servant, sang an aria in which he pleaded with the others to spare him from harm. With his inflections and gestures, the talented bass convinced me that he was indeed arguing for his life.
    The aria came to a close, and Benucci feigned the servant’s escape through a side door on the stage.
    â€œBravo, Signor Benucci!” Mozart cried as the rest of the cast applauded. “Please don’t change a thing. That was perfect.” He turned to the tenor, Morella. “You are next, signore. Remember, in this aria, you are telling us that your beloved is your treasure, your very reason for living. Please give me a signal when you are ready.”
    Morella stood and squirmed uncomfortably. He straightened his cravat, held the sheets of music at arm’s length, and squinted to read them.
    â€œSignor Morella? Are you ready?”
    Morella coughed loudly. “One moment, maestro, if you please. I have something caught in my throat.” He coughed again. “All right, maestro. I am ready.”
    Mozart played the first few bars of the aria. “‘Meanwhile, go and console my treasure—’” Morella sang in a tight voice. He coughed again. His face reddened as he threw the music onto his chair. “I am sorry, maestro. My throat is very dry today.” He waved a hand around the stage. “The air in here—if it would not be too much trouble, I would prefer to sing the aria another day.”
    Mozart glanced over at me and raised his eyebrow slightly. “Fine, Signor Morella. We’ll work on it together, you and I, perhaps tomorrow.” Morella heaved a loud sigh of relief, took up his music, and sat.
    We rehearsed the rest of the act. At its end, Don Giovanni was taken to Hell. Francesco Albertarelli’s performance was brilliant, as we had expected it would be. The emperor had paid dearly to lure him to Vienna, and would be pleased to hear that he had gotten his money’s worth from the young baritone. The singers gathered their parts and left, Cavalieri sailing out accompanied by the young men. The workmen began to move the chairs off the stage and extinguish the lights.
    I walked with Mozart to the lobby. “What do you suppose is wrong with Morella?” I asked.
    Mozart shrugged. “Chances are there is a line in the aria he does not want to sing. I’ve seen that plenty of times before. I’ll meet with him tomorrow and find out. Oh, and I’ve been thinking, Lorenzo. You’ve been saying we should add some physical comedy. What about some sort of burlesque scene after the sextet?”
    â€œGood idea,” I said. “I’ll sketch out a few possibilities.”
    â€œCome for dinner on Sunday. Constanze has been asking after you. There won’t be anyone else there, so we can work on the new scene afterward.”
    â€œI’d love to come,” I said. We shook hands and Mozart left. I started downstairs to my office. In the narrow hallway, a tall ladder and a mandolin leaned on the wall outside my door. I shook my head. With a different production being performed every day, there was not enough space for all of the props in the small rooms behind the stage upstairs. I would have to take care that Thorwart and his workmen did not wall me into my office.
    I felt a brief stab of worry as I opened the door, wondering if another mysterious message waited on my desk. But all that sat on my worktable was a stack of new librettos for my review. I pushed them aside, sat down, and pulled a fresh sheet of paper from my drawer. I started to toy with ideas for a burlesque scene, and after a few moments I was immersed in my work.
    A few hours later, I put my scribbles and my Don Giovanni libretto into my satchel, took my cloak, and climbed the stairs to the lobby. The porter was about to lock the front door, as there was no performance scheduled for this