The Second Life of Moztrot

by CrackedInkWell

Chapter 24: A Play on Bridleway

Author's Note:

In case you hadn’t noticed, I had changed the name of Broadway to Bridleway because I completely forgotten that’s what it’s called in the show.

We went inside one of the glass buildings to find, to our surprise, that it was quite warm inside. There were even more booths that sold not only trinkets but even food and drink to the ponies in the overcrowded space. Sauté had already bought me a cup of hot chocolate but I was still a little too stunned from what I’d heard out there. Not because of the ice skating, nor all the pretty lights, but from the music. It came to me as a shocking revelation: I had thought that I was indeed the best composer in Equestria, Celestia herself may have said so, but my ears never lie to me. What I’d heard back there, was something that was more real than anything I’d put on paper could amount to. True, it is very rare that I encountered a composer or a musician with skill superior to my own, but with more passion…? Was such a thing possible? If something like that could move me (an achievement that not many were able to accomplish), then, for all the work I’d done, was I a good composer at all?

“Is something wrong, Wolfgang?” my butler asked me, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“What?”

“You have been zoning out for a couple of minutes now,” Mr. Sauté told me.

“Yes, you’ve been really quiet all of a sudden.” Fan said, “Does it have anything to do with the ice skating?”

I forced a smile on my face, “Oh come, nothing is wrong with me. I just heard something new is all.”

“Then how come you looked afraid a moment ago?” my cook questioned me. “Wolfgang, we are your friends, you can tell us what’s wrong.”

“But there isn’t anything to be concerned about,” I lied. “Hey what’s that over there?” I hopped over to a booth in which the vendor was busy wrapping dabs of ice cream of many flavors into a dough-like substance before quickly dipping it in a vat that had mist pouring out and placing it behind the glass counter. “Excuse me, sir, can my friends and I have one of whatever you’re selling?”

“Mochi?” the vendor asked.

“Gesundheit,” I put a smile on, hoping that my staff doesn’t see through me. “Yes, just one of each, pick whatever flavor.” By the time they caught up to me, the vender hoofed over four of those ball things at random to me. “Here, try this thing,” I bite halfway through the frozen, gummy dessert.

“This one’s strawberry.”

However, the three of them were having none of it. “Wolfgang,” Fan sighed. “It doesn’t take a private eye to tell that something is really bothering you.”

I pouted, “Alright fine.” After paying the vendor and giving them their desserts, I had them walk with me outside. We walked over to a tree that was wrapped in white lights that were away from the mob and out of earshot from anypony. “If I’m going to be doing this, I need all three of you, to be honest with me.” They agreed while urging me to tell them what had upset me. “Do any of you really think that I’m a good composer?”

Three stunned faces stared back at me. “Sir,” Wilfred began. “What in the world brought this up? Of course, you are.”

“Yeah,” Sauté said, “You’re the greatest composer in history.”

“Everypony knows that pretty much everything you wrote down on paper is considered a masterpiece,” Fan finished.

“Am I really?” I questioned. “Or am I really second rate to that Beethoven fellow?”

“What is he --” the cook was about to ask, but the maid already knew the answer.

“Remember while we were skating that something from Beethoven’s started playing on the loudspeakers?”

“The Healing Symphony?” Wilfred raised an eyebrow. “What about it? Sure it’s a good tune but why --”

“Because it’s perfect,” I interrupted him, folding my forelegs.

There was a pregnant pause before my butler asked, “Wait a minute, are you saying that you’re jealous?” I didn’t answer. “Holy Celestia.”

“So that’s what this behavior is about?” Fan inquired of me. “That you’re envious of something Beethoven wrote.”

I shook my head, “It’s… It’s more than that. Look, whenever I write anything related to music, not only do I make sure that it’s all structured beautifully, but I give each piece a soul; I strive to make my pieces poetry in musical form. But after what I’ve just heard…? It’s as if…” I tried so hard at that moment to withhold the tears, to keep the mask on for dear life. “It was as if… that everything I wrote has turned into lifeless scratches compared to that.”

“Says the stallion that has written more memorable tunes than Buch, Beethoven, and Hayden combined,” my butler deadpanned.

My cook hummed in thought, “Wolfgang, maybe you need to have a completely different perspective about yourself.”

I cocked an eyebrow, “Oh really? How?”

His eyebrows rose up and he turned to Wilfred, “I’ve got an idea. But you need to trust me on this.”

“Wait, why?” he asked with suspicion.

“Um…” Sauté glanced over at me before saying, “Group huddle.” The three of them took several steps away from the tree that I was under and discussed something among themselves. Although they whispered to each other, occasionally one of them would exclaim: “Are you mad?” or “Are you trying to get us fired?” or “But do you think it’s a good idea?” or “You do know that it’s not entirely historically accurate, right?” and “He was in mourning for Celestia’s sake!”

Eventually, the three of them returned, Wilfred looking rather grumpy. “Wolfgang, we’ve agreed that in order to get your self-respect back, we’ve decided to have you see a particular play that’s on here in Manehattan.”

“A… a play?”

“But before we go to see it,” he added. “Do keep in mind that this was Mr. Sauté’s idea. That whatever the outcome will be, he will take full responsibility.”

I could do nothing but blink, “Take responsibility for what?”

At that point, the three of them became vague-ish (is that a word?) and they told me to follow them. Curiosity made me walk with them back to the streets and down towards the light show up ahead. Yes, “light show” is an accurate term to describe Times Square and Bridleway. When we entered, all around were signs, billboards, advertisements, boxes, and curls of light that lit up the pavement. At first, we were dazzled by the sophisticated lights that moved, taking on all sorts of shapes, colors, and forms. However, my cook scouted the area with an unknown goal in mind.

“There it is,” he pointed. “I see it.”

I looked over his shoulder, “See what? What are you looking for?”

“Follow me,” so we did. We went towards the billboards which advertised plays. Mr. Sauté went up to one of those theaters and suddenly stopped at a ticket booth. “Four adults please,” he asked and the pony behind the glass gave him the tickets. “Good timing,” he commented, facing us. “The show is in fifteen minutes.”

Puzzled, I backed up a little to see what sort of play that these three were referring to. I saw the illuminated sign with a masked, dark figure that had a large hat; his hooves open as if to beckon one inside. Right underneath it, was a single word in white.

Amadeus.

---

For the record, even when we went into the theater, the three of them still wouldn’t tell me what the subject of the play was. I was even refused a playbill so that I was left completely in the dark. Although, one amusing incident (in hindsight) was that as soon as we took our seats, the audience noticed me and used their cameras to take pictures while I made funny faces. Then the lights dimmed.

“Mares and Gentlecolts,” a voice spoke up. “The Spotlight Theater thanks you for coming to tonight’s performance of Amadeus. A few house rules before we begin: flash photography and recording without permission is not allowed. Outside snacks are not allowed except for those being sold in the lobby. Do be courteous to the actors on stage, and remember to be silent – for if you can hear them, they can hear you too. Other than that, enjoy the show.”

The audience applauded as the lights on the stage lit up, and to my confusion, I heard the first few bars of my Don Giovanni. But before I could turn to ask my friends about this, it stopped instantly as the curtain rose and moving whispers were heard. At first, I couldn’t make out what they said, but then I realized that they were repeating one word: “Salieri.” A wheelchair with a pony in it was moved towards the very center of the stage, his face still hidden in the shadows. As soon as he was put into place and the pony who’d pushed him there walked off, another word was muttered:
“Assassin.”

Two stallions from opposite ends of the stage walked on. They wore the kind of clothing that I was wearing. One of them had a newspaper. “I don’t believe it,” the one with the paper said, showing it to the other.

“I don’t believe it,” the other replied, taken aback. “They say --”

“They say?” the first pony rolled his eyes as the whispers repeated the name of Salieri. “The whole city is talking. You hear it all over.”

“The Opera?” His friend nodded. “The Café?” Another nod. “Even the gutter?”

“Yes, even Franz Moztrot, his old pupil, repeats it.”

The second stallion snatched the newspaper into his hoof, “But why now? After thirty-two years?”

“They say he shouts it out all day and cries it out all night.”

“Salieri? I heard he stayed in his apartment for over a year.”

“Oh longer… longer?”

“Must be at least seventy.”

“Older… older?”

The second gave a low whistle. “Antonio Salieri. The famous musician, shouting aloud --”

The first scoffed, “Crying aloud.”

“It’s incredible!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That he would cry --”

“Moztrot!” A shrilling, ghostly shout was heard, one that came from the stallion in the wheelchair.

“Moztrot,” repeated the first.

“Moztort, perdona il tuo assassino…” My jaw dropped when I heard those words. In Istallion, it meant --

“Moztrot, forgive your assassin?” questioned the first.

“Pietà Moztrot,” the one in the wheelchair begged. “Moztrot pietà.”

“Mercy, Moztrot?” the second raised an eyebrow.

His friend corrected him, “Moztrot have mercy. He speaks in Istallion when excited and Equestrian when not.”

The second folded the paper and gave it back to him. As they slowly walked off stage together, he commented, “There was once talk you know.”

“Thirty-two years ago, when Moztrot was dying.”

“Yes, some say that he claimed that he’d been poisoned, that he accused someone. And some say that that one was Salieri.”

“But everypony knew what he died of. A Syphilis in the liver, like everyone else.”

“But what if Moztrot was right?”

“That he really was murdered?”

“And by him? It can’t possibly be credible by any means.”

“And why?”

“Why on earth would he do it? Even if so, why confess now?”

“Moztort, perdona il tuo assassin,” the one in the wheelchair uttered, making the two stallions pause for a moment.

“What do you think?” asked the second in which the first repeated the question back to him. “I don’t believe it.”

The first agreed. “All the same-”

“Is it just possible?”

“Did he really do it after all?” both of them asked simultaneously before walking off. Leaving nopony else on the stage except for the one in the wheelchair. An aura lit up and the chair turned so that we might better see his face. The face of an old stallion that bore a haunting resemblance to my old friend, only this one looked broken; still, if I had to guess who it was (and what this play was all about) then it had to be none other than one who had been a good associate of mine.

Salieri.

Comments

[Chrome Masquerade]

Amadeus.

Aw yeah!

[Greenhorn]

“Mochi?” the vender asked.

“Gesundheit,”

Ask Japanese and you got German for reply.

[Voltaje]

I never thought you would put moztrot to wacht his own play, and if you did, you would have chosen the movie instead XD, that would have been more descriving, anyway, this will get more interesting now, and for my fantasis to get complete, you could make moztrot and equestria wacht the 3 hours BBC documentary "the genius of beethoven" XD, that will give then clousure, so for that to happen a lot of complicated stuff will have to ocour XD.