Free Sent to the Devil by Laura Lebow Page A

I’ve been there ever since.”
    I was silent. I had lost my own mother when I was five years old, and had few memories of her.
    â€œI’ve dedicated my life to encouraging an understanding between our two peoples,” Strasser continued. “But it is difficult. So many Viennese are eager to believe the tales—like our landlady and her daughter.”
    I laughed. “Yes, their ideas were a bit silly.”
    Strasser smiled. “Miss Sophie may seem silly to us, Lorenzo, but that boy Stefan had better take care. She could be the ruin of him someday.”
    â€œYes. He is besotted with her,” I agreed.
    We entered the house. All was quiet. The stairs creaked as we climbed the stairs to our rooms and said good night. I entered my room, put down my satchel, and hung my coat in the cupboard. A message sat on my desk. I snatched it up and saw the familiar scrawl and mess of wax. I quickly broke the seal and read the contents, which by now I knew by heart.
    33    27    54    71    52    33    61    33    28    55
    Verrò
    21 aprile

 
    Six
    I knew it was foolish of me to read the mysterious messages as portents of approaching troubles, but nevertheless, I spent a sleepless night racking my brain, trying to decipher their meaning. The row of numbers was obviously some sort of code, but I had no idea how to interpret it, and had no clue as to the identity of the person who persisted in announcing his arrival on April 21, just two days from now. The messages had been delivered both to my office and to my home. Someone obviously knew where to find me. Perhaps the sender had an innocent intent, but still, the fact that the messages were written in Italian nagged at me. Could they have been sent by someone in Venice? Was my past catching up with me?
    I left my lodgings in the morning with that strange feeling one has when one hasn’t slept well—a combination of physical exhaustion and a racing mind. I knew that by the end of this day, I would be dragging, longing for my bed. The cinnamon roll and cup of coffee I had at my favorite coffeehouse in the Graben did nothing to revive me. I spent an hour in the office and then took my satchel and walked over to the Freyung, the large triangular market area near the old Scottish Church.
    Eight years ago, before I arrived in Vienna, the Benedictine monks who occupied the medieval monastery—it was popularly referred to as a church but was actually one of the few monasteries left in the city—had pressured the city government to remove the busy fruit and vegetable market that had thrived in the plaza. The vendors had merely moved their stalls away from the steps of the church into the wider southeastern end of the plaza, and on this pleasant Saturday morning, they were conducting a brisk trade in cabbages, onions, and peas.
    The Palais Albrechts stood on the left side of the plaza, and appeared to have been designed by the same architect who had planted tedious, bulky stone boxes all over the city. I walked through a short passageway into the courtyard. Four lackeys were carting panniers heaped with clothing, linens, and kitchen goods out of the palais and standing them in large wagons. A bald-headed, jug-eared man in the uniform of a steward directed the activity.
    Benda came to the door. “Don’t forget the boxes in the library,” he called to the steward. He looked over and, seeing me, came out to greet me. “Good, Da Ponte, you found us. Thank you for coming.” He gestured toward the carts. “We’re preparing to move out to Christiane’s summer palace.”
    I nodded. I had heard that General Albrechts owned a large, luxurious estate called the Belvedere, directly outside the city walls in the southeastern suburb of Favoriten.
    â€œI tried to convince Christiane that she wasn’t up to all this