Bach knew it would happen eventually. Mozart may have a roommate now, where he didn’t before- but he would still be Mozart.
So when Taki came in to seek refuge because Mozart had a few girls in their room, he wasn’t surprised. Disappointed but not surprised. So Taki stayed with Haydn- still talking half in Japanese which did it mean Bach wasn’t sure exactly how many girls Mozart had, but what was life without a little bit of surprise.
“Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilius Mozart! Just what do you think you are doing!”
Ah. Three girls. Why was it always three girls?
When he didn’t leave immediately, Mozart whispered something to the girls and they left.
“Now, I’m tired of lecturing you about breaking the rules against girls, you’re tired about me lecturing you about breaking the rules against girls in the dormitories- but really? You decided to bring girls here? You share a room with Taki- at least be decent enough to rent a hotel room.”
Mozart didn’t reply. Deciding he was suitably chastised, Bach went to leave, and found Taki when he turned around.
“Is that really his name?”
“His full name, yes. He isn’t the biggest fan of it.”
Taki nodded, “Are they gone now, I need to go collect a book.”
“Yes, they are.”
“You know, Salieri, I’m surprised you don’t have girls after you.”
“Mozart, you know I want to focus on music instead of girls like you do!”
“I mean, I know you’re not after them, but you think they’d at least be after you. Unless you’ve done something really horrible to them.”
Salieri scoffed at Mozart. “Why would they be after me?”
“Well, you’re Italian aren’t you. Italian accents are the ones the girls like best after the French accents. As a plus, you can actually speak the language, so you should have girls hanging off you even if you don’t want them. I really do wonder what you did?”
“Mozart, if it was all about languages and accents you wouldn’t have been kicked out of Class S.”
Mozart looked half insulted for a second, then smiled. “But, you forget I can speak French and Italian, so I can speak in the language of love to all the lovely ladies! In fact, I’m fluent enough that I write in them,” He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, “See, I can write perfect Italian, and speak it too!”
For a second Salieri was impressed. Then something on the paper caught his eye, and he snatched the paper out of Mozart’s hand, holding it close to his face to analyse it properly, see if he actually saw what he thought he did.
It was what he thought. “Fluent, you say.”
“Fluency includes spelling, correct.”
“You cannot write Italian. Your accents are all over the place, you do realise they are there for a reason, a bit like in music!”
“No, no, I do use them see- there’s an accent on that word.” He pointed at the paper.
“But you’re not using them consistently! You spell your name in three different ways throughout this, Mozart, your own name! Is it Amadé, Amadè, or Amade! I guess we’ll never know, because based on this, not even you know what it is!”
“Salieri, at least my Italian is better than your German.”
There really was no response Salieri could give to that.
“Oh, Mozart there you are, I have another lot of fan letters for you- I’ve already given the rest there's.”
Mozart took the small pile from Taki’s arms. “It’s a smaller number than normal…”
“But some of them are in really good quality envelopes- surely quality over quantity, right?”
“Not when it comes to girls.”
Taki sighed and walked away. She didn’t hear anything more about the letters until that evening when Mozart seemed downtrodden. She made the mistake of asking what was wrong, and was handed one of the letters. “Read it and you’re see.”
It took a bit longer than Mozart seemed happy with for Taki to read it all- but German wasn’t her first language, couldn’t he give her a break?
“I see nothing wrong with this. Constance seems like a nice girl, and it’s an okay letter, if a little bland.”
“The issues at the top- see this-” he stabbed the paper with his finger, “Wolfgang Adam! Se called me Adam! It’s Amade! Not Adam!”
“What’s so wrong with it?”
“It’s sounds like an English name! That’s no name for a composer- have you heard of any? I don’t want to be lumped in with them. English music is only played in England for a reason- I’m a German composer, at least give me a German name.”
Ah. It seemed there was nothing wrong. Mozart was just overreacting.
Mozart sighed. Yet another assignment given back with something terribly wrong with it. They thought they knew his name better than he did!
Every time he would sign his work in his, (if he did say so himself) excellent handwriting, with a Wolfgang Amade Mozart, and everytime the first comment on it he would see would “correcting” his name back to Amadeus!
The audacity of some people…
He shook his head. He’d gone a few years at this school without minding, but it was really getting ridiculous.
So Mozart made up his mind, and went off to the headmaster to complain.
The immediate response was “No.”
“But it’s my actual name!”
“Well, on your school application it says Amadeus, so that’s what’s in our records. And therefore that is what we will use. We do not make exceptions for…. Personal preference.”
“It’s not personal preference it’s my name- wait. Did you say it’s Amadeus in your records?”
Mozart realised, slowly, horrified, what had happened. He attempted to explain. “Well, you see, I was horribly drunk when I wrote that application to the school, and since it was kind of a joke, I may have written Amadeus as a joke while drunk.-”
“This school is not a joke. Also, that story just makes me less likely to change my mind. You have to live with the mistakes you make when drunk, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”
Sacher smiled to himself, ready to walk on to stage. He may not be able to perform under Beethoven’s name any more.
(well, he could, he was just too terrified to do so.)
Instead, he could pick up on Mozart’s coattails. That would work.
So he had stuck a sign outside, saying, “concert by Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart at 7 in the evening,” and had returned via the backdoor. It only took a few seconds to straighten his suit out, and then he walked out, smiling as he did, going to wave to his admiring audience as he walked towards the piano-
Except there was no piano, just a barmaid sweeping the floor.
He looked at the clock. It was seven! It wasn’t that then!
Then what was wrong?
Where was everyone?
“Where is my audience?” he asked the barmaid he could never remember the name of.
“Sacher, honey, there’s an error on your sign that’s keeping them away.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my sign! I made sure of that!”
“Well, firstly, I don’t believe Mozart performs under the name Gottlieb. Secondly there’s a festival of some kind on the music school at the moment, so anyone who wants to see music will be there.”
Dammit, couldn’t he ever catch a break!?!
Once the end of term music festival was over, everybody else had gone home for the Christmas holidays, leaving Taki all by herself in the dormitory.
Not that she minded, it was just a little… lonely. Still, she had time to practise her composing all day at the moment!
At least all of her friends had promised to write, but given how sort the break was, she knew it would not be practical to write back. She’d see them again before they got back to the source.
So far she’d gotten letters from Hadyn, Lizst and Chopin, Saleri, and Tchaikovksy. But this morning she was pleased to see there were two letters that the postman had delivered.
The first she opened was Bach’s. His handwriting she found the easiest to read out of all of them, so she was silently thankful. It seemed e was having a nice holiday, his family may not have been the richest given he was the scholarship pupil, but based on the writing, they seemed nice enough. Of course, it had to end with a reminder to do her homework.
The next letter was ...more interesting.
She guessed it was from Mozart, given that he’s the only one she’d seen writing in what he’d called “mock latin.”
She almost wished for a second that he hadn’t sent a letter given how hard this would be to read, but then she remembered she didn’t really have much to do, so decoding this mess of a letter would at least give her something to do.
At the end of almost every word was a “us” added on, which may have been fine for the letters Mozart sent to his sister, but German really wasn’t her first language, so it was little bit of a struggle, but she managed to glean out a few things. The first sentence apologised for the content as he was absolutely drunk off his arse.
It seemed Mozart wasn’t having the best holiday. His sister was refusing to object to an arranged marriage, and his father was trying to make him perform almost every day.
As sorry as Taki felt for him, she still laughed at the end. He’d signed himself off as Wolfgangus Amadeus Mozartus. And after all the fusses he kicked up about that girl calling him “Adam”!
It was the early evening, and for some reason, everybody seemed to have gathered in the dormitories sitting room. Everybody except for Beethoven, so Mozart had left to go fetch him.
The conversation continued with him gone until this massive crash could be heard, that seemed to shake the window panes.
Bach sighed. “What’s he done now?”
No one moved, hearing a crescendo of crashing noising, and what sounded like someone running face first into a door. Then the door opened and Beethoven flew in, holding a small book in his hands.
“I have Mozart’s Diary here! And we are going to read it together!” He declared.
Mozart rushed in after him, nursing a bleeding nose. It seemed he had been the one to run into something. “I didn’t mean to destroy your suicide notes while waking you up, Just please don’t read that out in front of everybody. How did you even know where it was anyway?”
Tchaikovsky went to grab Mozart and stop him from taking the book back. “Beethoven, go on and read to us, I’ll keep him under control.”
And so it began, “Dear Diary, today I wrote a new piece of music mocking-”
And it was interrupted almost as soon as it begun.
“This isn’t Mozart’s diary, should we really be reading it?”
“What do you mean Taki, of course, it’s Mozart’s.”
“It’s just it’s signed off Trazom. I don’t know who this Trazom is, but should we really be reading their diary.”
Tchaikovsky released Mozart in order to come over and look. “No, it must be Mozart’s. Trazom is just Mozart backwards, anyway.”
“Should we continue then?” Beethoven added.
Haydn pushed his way into the conversation, “Not yet! That’s a great idea! I wonder what our names backwards would sound like. Taki, you would be Ikat,”
“Like the fabric dyeing technique.”
“I have no idea what it would be, but yes! And Chopin you would be Nipohc, or Ni..Phoc? Any idea of how to pronounce that? Anybody?”
In all the commotion that followed, having been distracted by Haydn, they entirely forgot about the diary in the end, meaning Mozart could steal his secret diary back and hide it again, somewhere he hoped it would not be found again.