The First Pamina
by Claire Lindsey
Vienna, December 1841
The outskirts of the city sat dusted with ghastly shades of snow, warmed here and there by the fire-orange glow seeping from residential windows. Anna stumbled along, clutching her tattered garments close against the clouded morning chill. Not for the first time that winter, her money purse hung empty at her side.
A sharp gust of wind caught her silvering hair as she entered the St. Marx Cemetery. Snow-capped tombstones sat beneath unclad trees, whose branches rattled in greeting. Little paths meandered through the gravesites, covered in places by powdery drifts.
Anna leaned against a nearby tree and placed her head in her stiffened hands. She did not know why she had come; she would not find them here.
“Grüss Gott,” came a gentle voice from among the tombstones.
Anna started. Behind her, a sturdy and ruddy-faced groundskeeper waved, then commenced shoveling snow to clear a nearby path.
“Grüss Gott,” Anna replied. She glanced at her fingers, red and cracked with cold.
“I don’t suppose you know where I could find the common graves?”
The man paused, regarding her curiously. “Who are you?”
Anna almost laughed. After so many years, it still felt absurd to introduce herself. She was old and obsolete now, with decades between her and fame.
“You can call me Anna.”
“Well, Frau Anna,” the man said, leaning against his shovel, “the site will be hidden in the snow, since it’s unmarked. You won’t be able to find whoever it is you’re looking for.”
“I know. I just want to see it.”
The groundskeeper shrugged and extended his arm. “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind company. That path needs shoveling, too.”
Vienna, September 1791
Anna brushed the curls of her heavy wig from her face, trying to catch her breath in the bustle of the tight backstage corridors. The corset of her gilded gown steadied her against the rush of chorus-members, clutching painted wooden masks and adjusting their costumes. From the theater stage, the cascading lines of the orchestra echoed, rushed and racing like the blood in her veins, flooded with the intoxicating energy of opening night.
Donning an easy expression of terror, Anna strode into the light. From her place onstage she could see little of the audience, pale faces strung like pearls in the expectant darkness. She opened her mouth and shaped the vowels with precision, letting the lilt of her voice intertwine with that of the yearning violins.
O welche Marter, welche Pein!
Oh what suffering, what pain!
December, 1841
Anna stood before the common graves, ignoring the sad and aching aria of her bones. The snow nestled gently between unmarked mounds of earth, shining here and there in the few brave rays of light that punctured the clouds. A small bouquet of snow roses lay nearby, their pale petals tinged with shy shades of pink.
“My wife makes them for our daughter,” the groundskeeper said. “We lost her last spring.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna replied. “What was her name?”
“Amalie.” He hefted a shovelful of icy sludge from the path with a grunt. “She loved music. Wanted a pianoforte for her birthday.”
“You must miss her terribly.”
The groundskeeper nodded, examining the shape of the trees against the sky. “Do you have family buried here?”
“Of a sort.”
She watched the wind caress the wilting flowers, her memory caught in the long midnight tangle of a chorus-girl’s hair.
September, 1791
Josefine’s dulcet laughter rang above the clamor of the party. Her black hair twisted and curled around the champagne shades of her graceful neck. From her place across the room, she met Anna’s eye with a wink. Anna took another sip from her glass to settle the sudden crescendo of her heart.
“You were incredible tonight,” slurred a familiar, wine-stained voice. “The perfect Pamina.”
Anna turned, flashing a gracious smile and attempting to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Thank you, Herr Mozart. It’s a lovely role.”
“May I introduce you to some friends of mine?” he asked, though he had already taken her arm with an unsteady hand and whisked her away.
Anna spent the evening beside her eccentric escort, who prompted soaring melodies from her to dazzle his guests. She caught sight of Josefine sometimes, talking animatedly with other members of the chorus, ruby-red wine sparkling between her dainty fingers. When Herr Mozart finally released her from his glittering company, the party was nearly over.
“There you are,” Josefine murmured over her shoulder. “Having fun?”
Anna turned, grinning. She laced her arm through the welcome crook of Josefine’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
December, 1841
The path beside the graves was clear, bits of its barren dirt speckled onto the tall banks of snow like dark freckles on the faded face of the earth. The groundskeeper leaned his shovel against a tree and moved to stand beside Anna, who wiped surreptitiously at the tears on her wind-burnt cheeks.
“You know,” he said, “they say Herr Mozart was buried here. The composer.”
Anna brightened, remembering the commanding gestures of the maestro’s arms as he directed the orchestra, the thick fabric of his tailcoat outspread like wings. She could almost hear the gusts of harmony, the tender melodic currents that pined and twined at the whim of his baton.
“He was,” she said. “Fifty years ago.”
The groundskeeper smiled. “Amalie is in good company, then.”
“She certainly is,” Anna replied, though her mind was on Josefine, whose cholera-ridden body lay wrapped in earth somewhere beneath her feet.
November, 1791
The stage’s wooden floorboards felt like a second home by closing night. Anna delivered her lines with ease, the libretto as familiar as her own name. As the orchestra began to play, she took a breath, Pamina’s tears streaming down her cheeks one final time. This was her favorite aria: one of absolute desolation set to the most exquisite melody she had ever sung.
Ach, ich fühl's, es ist verschwunden, ewig hin der Liebe Glück!
Ah, I feel it, love’s happiness has vanished forever.
The rest of the opera raced to its end, the practiced scenes and songs each imbued with new significance. By the time the curtain closed to raucous applause, Anna had little left in her but a strange and prideful sorrow: I was the first Pamina, and I am Pamina no more.
Josefine met her just outside the theater. The cobblestone streets were much colder than the stage, much more common. Somewhere above, the light of the stars stretched and smiled, catching in the corners of Josefine’s honey-colored eyes. But as Josefine pulled her close, Anna was more focused on the taste of wine and symphonies caught in the space between their lips.
December, 1841
The clouds above had begun to disperse, revealing the pallid warmth of the midday sun. Anna and the groundskeeper walked back up the path towards the cemetery gates and stopped beneath the empty branches of an oak tree.
“You are welcome to visit anytime, Frau Anna,” the groundskeeper said, offering a small smile.
“Thank you. Auf Wiedersehen.”
She stepped out onto the street, her face set towards home, a renewed warmth settling into the hollow spaces of her heart.