Zaide: Mozart's Lost Opera

Way back in 1779 (200 years before I was born), Mozart began work on his opera, Zaide. Drawn in by the music of history's most beautiful aria (Ruhe Sanft), I delved into this opera. A stunning work that captures the moods of Mozart at the time he wrote it. A work that screams of youthful struggles. 

I had share it.

Join me and my journey of research and writing, as I release my latest novel Zaide: Mozart's Lost Opera. 

As far as failures go, Mozart had reached the epic arm of the spectrum when he began the opera Zaide. Its tone and themes brilliantly reflect the feelings of failure—the realizations that he may never achieve his dreams and that his love would never be. I want my novel to reflect such moods. The aria ruhe sanft (Sleep gently) is the apex of such emotions. Two slaves, Zaide and Gomatz, fall in love. But, Sultan Soliman treasures Zaide beyond all his possessions. Dare the two risk their lives to pursue their passion? 

A ‘failure’ in waiting, this beautiful, emotional opera could have faded into history had his wife not kept a copy. As I have watched various performances, I realized that this opera speaks powerfully to a young adult generation. And historically speaking, two teenagers could very well have found themselves in such a lot. 

Check it out on Amazon... 

Praise For Zaide...

“This novel really makes the characters come alive with details I could not have imagined. The musical references and the incorporation of the libretto quotes are fantastic.”
 

  ~Isaac Selya
   Conductor
   Queen City Opera

"The story had such a great tug of war between tension and tenderness... It was jarring in the best possible way!"

  ~Alanna Rusnak 

   Editor 

   Blank Spaces Magazine

  

“As I read Zaide, I felt like I could hear it & see it (and sometimes even smell it)! The author does a beautiful job of weaving together a story of trial and romance with music that inspires and provokes.”

   ~Sallie Franchuk
   Designer 

   Made by Sallie

First Chapter

1NE

Overture
 
Zaide only had one picture. In those days, you had to be someone important to have one. A portrait. A talented soul painstakingly shaped and shaded each fine feature. Zaide kept hers in a pocket close to her heart. She had a love/hate relationship with the portrait. It was beautiful. Everyone said she was beautiful, but this picture carried a different kind of beauty. The picture was a portrait of who she wanted to be, not one of who she thought she was.
 
Crowded with dirty peasants, the port streets roared of rogues and merchants. Janissary soldiers scanned from various posts. Cloths fluttered from the top of their high, squared hats daring stowaways to press their luck. African eunuchs waited behind Zaide. They wore gray, collarless outfits and their faces were as stoic.
 
The multi-domed palace loomed high-hilled on the horizon opposite the harbor. Guard spires as high as the surrounding hillside pierced slim and sharp toward the sky. Rows of spear shaped cypresses surrounded the path leading to the commanding center arch.
 
The docks smelled of domesticated creatures: camels, oxen, and horses. If only, for just one time, spices would be the lone imports of the day. But then Zaide wouldn’t have been there, for her lot was to welcome the new livestock. She stood, trying to rid herself of any emotion. Trying to let herself stay hardened. Trying not to have empathy for the new lot, caring was to be crushed by loss.
 
The hem of her dress fluttered against her shins. As the seaward wind whipped, she held the red and black scarf wrapped around her head and face away from her eyes. She was not required to wear coverings, but she just couldn’t do her job without it. She couldn’t bear it. The mask freed her to act cruelly.
 
Osmin faced the Barbary pirate ship. His arms crossed his chest as if they were stamped there. A scourge dangled from underneath his arm. It was his special whip with bits of shrapnel tied into the ends, ‘to make a good first impression.’ Beneath his curled mustache, his smile twisted upward at each corner. His turban was red and gold. Bright colors to get them to remember him. His face carried the same glee Zaide’s cousin’s had held on Christmas morning.
 
Her home crept its way into her mind. Oh Vienna, you were not good to me, but you were a far better cage...
 
“Do you think there will be any beautiful ones?” Osmin asked Zaide.
 
Zaide scowled beneath her veil.
 
“I have to find a wife for an honored slavemaster among this lot.” Osmin chuckled. “I would not want to waste a beautiful one on him.”
 
Zaide said nothing, staring toward the ship.
 
Shouts and whip-cracks rumbled from the boat. Soon after, a line of neck chained prisoners walked down the ramp. The pirates yelled their foreign rants as if the volume meant their words were more likely to be understood.
 
The prisoners wore drab, dark clothes. Simple outfits without glamour.
 
“Puritans,” Zaide thought. “I need to go with English or Dutch.”
 
The pirates lined up the new lot, while Osmin negotiated with the captain.
 
Zaide scanned the slave crowd. Each looked down, some lips murmuring in prayer. 14 people in all. Most were men, but five individuals grouped together were clearly a family.
 
The little girl grabbed her attention first. Around 7, she was openly sobbing, not trying to be brave.
 
Next to her was the only woman, or girl, ripe for marrying. She was around 15. Zaide’s eyes burned. That’s the age I was when captured. Of all these puritans, she’s in for the most horror. At least, I had someone captured with me. Someone to share my burdens. But… they were all sold to other provinces. Apart from the big ears and nose, the girl did not stand out, but she was not unattractive either. Her hair was braided. Her cheeks soft and speckled. Her dark loose clothes left her body shape a mystery, but she was far from stout.
 
Next to the girl stood a man and a woman. Zaide assumed they were the parents. The mother was too old for the harem, and would most likely be sent to the palace kitchen, with the youngest girl. She resembled both the little girl and the older one. The father’s face hung with all sorts of emotions and qualities: brave, kind, sad (not for himself but for his family), and gentle. He looked like the kind of father, Zaide longed for.
 
At the other side, a sandy-haired boy held his mother’s hand. Zaide’s breaths fluttered like a floating, lingering oboe series, at the sight of him. His face scared Zaide. She didn’t know why. She had seen that expression before. No one with it had ever survived, and that didn’t seem to bother them. But, with head-butting irony, for as long as they lived, they made the best slaves.
 
His cheeks were soft. His nose as well. His eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. They shifted to Zaide. The kindest glance slapped her. She looked away. Her diaphragm and spine quaked, long and low as if the fluttering oboe started to weep. She had hardened herself from slaves’ pleading looks, but her quivers were akin to the fear-piercing nerves she had had when first put into the translating position.
 
“That’s too much. She’s not that beautiful.” Osmin’s voice rumbled as he haggled with the pirate captain. The slavemaster’s voice was not one of anger, but one of jocular banter. After he and the pirate agreed on a price, Osmin paid for the slaves. As soon as the coins clanked into the pirate’s palm, Osmin scanned the new lot. Waving his whip at all the men, he said, “Take them over there.”
 
Slavemasters unchained the three females from the group, and dragged the men to one side.
 
Her face filled with confusion and fear, the lone teenage girl let the slavemasters guide her to Osmin. She kept her head pointed down. He placed his hand below her chin, forcing her face up. She resisted until fear trumped rebellion. Scanning her, Osmin laughed, low from his belly. “She goes with the eunuchs.”
 
The eunuchs walked over to the girl and grabbed her upper arms.
 
Osmin returned to Zaide’s side. “She’s pretty,” he said, pointing the tips of his mustache toward the young girl as the eunuchs unchained her. “But not beautiful enough for anyone important.”
 
Zaide clenched her teeth. Dog. Could there be a fouler spirited person? Even at great loss of myself, I’d destroy him if I could.
 
Osmin looked her way as if he had heard the grinding crack of teeth. “The slaves?” He spoke with a ‘do your job’ tone.
 
“Hold your tongue. I need to figure out the language. If you weren’t such a barbaric simpleton, you could do it yourself.”
 
“Beauty fades. Your mouth never will. The day that you fall out of favor…”
 
“You will sour Soliman before I.” Zaide didn’t waste her ears on him. She walked closer to the slaves.
 
As eunuchs dragged the teenage girl away from the rest, dreadful understanding contorted her expression. She flailed as they secured her with a new set of chains. “Why are you taking me away from everyone else? What are you going to do to me?” Her struggles did nothing to slow the slavemasters from securing her.
 
One of the men slapped her, mumbling shut her last set of complaints. They didn’t dare use the whip and mar the goods.
 
“Leave her alone.” Not yet fettered to any other slaves, the girl’s brother knocked a slavemaster to the ground. His leg chains rattled as he ran toward his sister with a galloping gait. He did not reach half the span before a slavemaster kicked him to the ground. Scourges weren’t afraid to dig into the boy’s skin. He tried to stand as they lambasted him. Osmin joined in with a giddy smile.
 
Sharp cracks and meaty thwacks throbbed inside Zaide’s ears. Her guts twitched toward him, but her outer sense kept her limbs still. With each lash, her muscles seized as if she had been the one being beaten.
 
“That is enough.” Osmin said shortly after they started. “He has much work to do. These kind are good workers.”
 
Osmin walked to the docks, dipped a bucket in the sea, and returned. “Hold him down.” He smiled big enough to sheen toothy yellow.
 
Slavemasters stretched out his arms and legs. The boy was too weak to fight.
 
Osmin dipped his head close to the slave. “You can let your spirit serve you well, or you can have it bring you misery. Either choice shall give me great pleasure.”
 
They boy did not understand the words, but could discern the tone. After a quick chuckle, Osmin dumped the saltwater over the boy’s bloody backside. He screamed, not like a kicked-dog yelp, but more like an ‘I can endure this’ growl.
 
Osmin nodded with pride, as if he had just discovered a prize stallion.
 
A deadening cold waved over Zaide’s back and neck, goading out even more tension. She tightened her fist, wishing she had the power and ability to use it.
 
Slavemasters yanked the boy off the ground by his chains. Although bloody and bruised, his previous peace-filled expression returned. Wrenching his elbows behind him, they forced a bar between the crooks of his elbows and the middle of his spine. His hands remained chained below his ribs.
 
“English.” Zaide swallowed and rotated her neck. She ached from having seized at each boy’s blow. She had seen plenty of floggings and even ordered a few herself, but none affected her like this.
 
For the most part, she was immune from receiving a beating, only the Sultan was allowed, but he never touched her. At least that way. And the ways he did touch her, didn’t happen too often. He had a big selection. Above all, Sultan Soliman loved Zaide, and he wanted her to be happy—within his confines. She had two responsibilities. Spend the night with the sultan at his request, and translate orders to European slaves. Otherwise, she had free reign of the palace.
 
She’d rather spend the night with the sultan, than crush captured souls’ spirits. Comparing her lot to that of the other slaves, she bore her nights with Soliman chiding herself. “I deserve this. I deserve this, for what I have done to these people.”
 
Zaide cleared her throat and spoke with as much domineering as she could muster. “Slaves. Welcome to your new home. I am Sultan Soliman’s fav…” Zaide spotted the boy staring at her with kind-hearted pity. Blood trickled beneath a blue eye.
 
Zaide’s heart plucked her vocal chord as sharp as a harpsichord quill. She murmured her lips silently for a bit.
 
“Well.” Osmin scowled.
 
“Calm yourself. It has been a while since I have had to speak English.” She faced the slaves again avoiding eye contact with that boy.
 
“As I said. I am the sultan’s favorite. An insult against me, would be as if you attacked Sultan Soliman himself. You no longer belong to yourselves. Your children, your wives, your friends now belong to the sultan. But, despair not. Sultan Soliman is a kind man. He does not treat his slaves as other nations. Do well, and you will be rewarded. Many of the highest officials and viziers are slaves. Disobey, and you will perish.”
 
“Do they understand us?” The boy asked.
 
A slavemaster scourged him where his elbow met the restraining bar. He gnashed his teeth and kept looking at Zaide.
 
“Slave. You are not to speak unless spoken to.”
 
He nodded with his lips, followed with a compassionate grin-frown.
 
“But, no. They do not understand you.”
 
“Can you do anything to allow families to say goodbye?”
 
A slavemaster lifted his whip.
 
“Stop,” Zaide said in Turkish. “I asked the slave a question.”
 
She turned back to the boy. “No. That would not be possible.”
 
“Thank you for allowing me to ask. I do not envy you. Your lot is worse than ours.”

Zaide whipped around, flinging her hands into the air, a sign ordering the men to take the slaves away.She covered her face, leaving the slightest slit in her veil. As tears and slime slathered her face, Zaide paced away, holding in her choking throat, looking for a safe place to weep.