The Box Number 5 Short Story (2012)

On the sixth of September, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and ninety-one, within the hallowed walls of the Estates Theater, Otto von Haller did seek the elusive box number five. The presence of Leopold II himself was anticipated at any moment, and on this morn, it was intended that he should be apprised of the unique and peerless fabrics offered by the esteemed store of Otto von Geller. With hopes high, Otto aspired that the emperor, or perchance his consort, Maria Luisa of Spain, might find favor with his wares and procure fabrics for her myriad ensembles through his establishment.

To this end, Mr. von Geller aimed to dazzle society, as it were, by attending the premiere of Mozart’s new opera, and claiming an entire box for himself. In so doing, he sought to present himself as a gentleman of sophistication and repute, though in truth, he was neither. Heretofore, Otto had ne'er set foot in a theater, and was thus unacquainted with the proper conduct, where to direct his gaze, or with whom to converse. His knowledge of theaters was gleaned solely from books and the discourse of his acquaintances.

Rarely did Otto von Geller indulge in evening entertainments, much less venture out as was the custom of the fashionable and the refined. Firstly, his industrious nature and relentless toil left him scant time for such pursuits. Secondly, he was quite ignorant of the diversions that captivated his contemporaries. He had but recently learned of the renowned Maestro Mozart, whose work he had come to witness this evening, only upon hearing of an opera composed in honor of Leopold II’s coronation as King of Bohemia—a spectacle that could not but draw the emperor himself to its premiere.

For Otto von Geller, this eve was to mark the zenith of his career, for after the performance, he aspired to secure an audience with the king. Yet, upon reaching the entrance to the box, Otto was regaled with a curious and somewhat amusing tale. It seemed that he had been erroneously sold a ticket to box number five of the second balcony—a box, it was said, that had been closed to spectators for many a year, particularly during performances.

The theater’s manager had decreed that none should be admitted to box number five, thus the door to it was perpetually locked. The box was opened but once a month for the purpose of cleaning, during which time the manager insisted that the cleaners enter in pairs and remain but five minutes, all the while with the stage curtain drawn and the orchestra pit vacated, the musicians forbidden even to touch their instruments.

The reasons for such stringent precautions were shrouded in mystery, though efforts were made to enlighten Otto von Haller with tales of several seemingly unconnected incidents.

First they did inform him of a German merchant, newly arrived in Prague, who was discovered hanging in his chamber. Then the theater worker did relate to Mr. von Haller the tale of the notorious French perfumer, Gerard Francois de Lafay, who, in the heart of the city and before the gaze of all, did open his veins with a broken absinthe bottle. Thereafter they discoursed of Wilhelm Auguste Schwartz, who, overtaken by madness, did slay his own wife and two daughters with his musket, and then did take his own life.

When the conversation turned to young Anna Warrenstein, whose demise had been much chronicled in the papers, Otto von Haller did seek enlightenment from a servant of the Estates Theater, for he could not fathom how these sorrowful events were linked, and particularly what their connection might be to Box Number Five. Furthermore, the affair with Frau Warrenstein had transpired near his store, and despite rampant gossip that the Devil had possessed the girl, Otto himself deemed it naught but an unfortunate mishap, for if one tumbles from a bell tower, it does not signify a deliberate wish for death; the chance of mere accident is often high.

Then the theater worker, whose duty was to usher guests within, whilst still barring Mr. von Geller from the box he had paid for, declared that all these seemingly disparate incidents were indeed united by a single, albeit subtle, thread: in the hours or days preceding their tragic ends, each of these ill-fated souls had visited the Estates Theater and sat in Box Number Five.

The director of the theater had long harbored suspicions about this box, and his fears were confirmed on the day he beheld a young cleaning maid, who, after entering the box during a rehearsal, emerged five minutes hence bereft of her name and her past. The physicians reported complete amnesia. And when, four years past, during the premiere of the opera “Don Giovanni,” a gentleman in Box Number Five imagined himself Don Juan and sought to leap from the balcony, the manager decreed that Box Number Five should be locked, and thenceforth, for safety's sake, none should enter there.

Yet the oddities persisted, for theater workers oft reported hearing strange noises and voices behind the closed door. And in the previous year, during the production of Salieri’s opera, the box required thorough restoration. The cleaning maids, upon entering after the performance, did find the wallpaper and silken chair coverings shredded, as though by some fierce struggle or wild beast. There were bloodstains on the floor and traces of dirty boots. When asked, “What foul event transpired here, and how, with the door locked?” no soul could proffer a sensible reply. Thus, Box Number Five gained a cursed repute. They even summoned a priest to exorcise demons, but to no avail.

Otto von Geller found these tales immensely intriguing, for he was a connoisseur of gossip and urban legends, though he, as any respectable man, held them in disbelief. But on that day, he had no leisure for jests, as the continued frightening stories still barred his entry to the box for which he had paid a handsome sum.

All the other guests had long since taken their seats, and the theater worker, standing resolute before the closed door of Box Number Five, invited Mr. von Geller to take a seat in the stalls. There, despite the multitude of spectators, empty seats were always found in the back rows. Yet Otto von Geller deemed this proposal an affront, for it was said that only second-class citizens sat in the stalls, those upon whom none would deign to turn their lorgnette. On the day he was to meet the king, Otto could not countenance such a slight to his dignity.

He demanded a meeting with the theater director to explain the situation, to complain of the impudent employee who barred his way, and to obtain the key to the box he had reserved. However, the director was preoccupied, as Leopold the Second himself had just entered the Estates Theater with regal grandeur, surrounded by his retinue.

Realizing time was short, with the performance about to commence and the emperor soon to scan the audience with his binoculars, Otto von Geller resorted to a somewhat ignoble but, in his view, necessary action. Entering the central hall, amidst the throng greeting the emperor, he surreptitiously slipped his hand into the pocket of another theater worker, extracted a bunch of keys, and quietly ascended to the second floor. Waiting until the corridors were empty, he discreetly unlocked the door of Box Number Five and entered.

Expecting to find something sinister, Otto was instead met with an ordinary theater box, no different from Box Number Four or Box Number Six. Bright lace wallpaper, three comfortable chairs, a gilded candelabrum on the wall, and a splendid view of the stage and auditorium greeted him. This decor enchanted Mr. von Geller, and he began to ponder saving more money to frequent such establishments.

Seated in his box, Otto felt a newfound sense of esteem. Gazing down at the spectators, he noted how they glanced at him and, seeing him alone in the box, nodded in admiration, though they knew not who he was. But Otto cared little for these people; he had come to be noticed by Leopold II, who sat in the royal box. Otto’s dream was realized when he saw a man approach the emperor and whisper in his ear, prompting the emperor to cast an approving glance in his direction. The empress, seated at Leopold’s right hand, also regarded him through her binoculars. Otto von Geller, sensing the onset of significant changes in his life, nodded back with slow and respectful reverence.

Presently, the audience’s attention turned to the orchestra pit, where a short but distinguished man in a blue suit emerged. It was Maestro Mozart himself, who, it seemed to Otto von Geller, received applause louder and longer than even the emperor. Otto, though familiar with Mozart’s renown, had yet to understand his genius. But as the conductor raised his baton and the musicians began to play, Otto, in Box Number Five, instantly grasped the reason for the universal acclaim of this composer.

The curtain rose, revealing a picturesque scene on stage that bespoke of the grandeur of the Roman Empire. The first act commenced.

And lo, ere long, upon the moment when the singer didst appear on stage, portraying Titus Flavius Vespasian himself—of whom Mozart composed this work, based on the play by Pietro Metastasio and the tragedy of Pierre Corneille—Mr. von Geller, bewitched by the music and the splendid acting, did not even perceive how he himself became enmeshed in the drama unfolding before him.

Otto, enthralled, transformed into Vespasian. Unaware of the secret machinations of the lovers Vitellia and Sextus, he, disenchanted with his betrothed Berenice, dispatched her to Jerusalem. He himself began to seek a new consort, and his eyes alighted upon the fair Servilia. Hoping to win her heart, he commanded Annius to deliver unto Servilia, along with many gifts, a love letter so persuasive that no maiden could resist. By the eve of that very day, the maiden had entered his imperial chambers, confessing her love for Annius, yet professing her readiness to be his loyal wife, should the emperor desire her thus.

Hearing this revelation, Otto, still in the guise of Titus Flavius Vespasian, displayed great wisdom and immediately decreed the union of Annius and Servilia, whilst he himself began to ponder an alliance with Vitellia. Yet a rebellion erupted, in which many believed the emperor met his demise.

However, anon the second act commenced, wherein Titus returned and deftly quashed the uprising, capturing the conspirator Sextus. The Senate found the traitor guilty and condemned him to death. On the day of execution, Vitellia appeared before the emperor in tears, confessing that she had incited Sextus to revolt in vengeance for her father’s death. With her plan thwarted and her lover on the brink of execution, she revealed all to the emperor, declaring her wish to die. Moved by her sincerity, the magnanimous emperor forgave her and ordered Sextus's pardon, whereupon the choir extolled the boundless wisdom and mercy of Titus.

Thus the opera concluded. Upon awakening, the spectator in box five discovered with horror that the wreath upon his head had vanished, and the majestic imperial palaces had given way to the confined walls of the Estates Theater. He was no Titus Flavius Vespasian having the entire world in his hands but merely Otto von Geller, a humble fabric store proprietor.

The hall resounded with thunderous applause, yet it was no longer his applause. A great throng of spectators expressed their ineffable admiration for the work of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, their voices raised in grateful acclamation for his gift of music. Only Herr von Geller remained impassive, for it was unseemly for an emperor, whose life he had so vividly inhabited, to clap and shout.

Exiting the box, he, oblivious to those around him, with a measured stride and unblinking gaze, departed the theater, forgetting even the long-desired audience with the King of Bohemia. Returning to his modest and uncomfortable apartment in a dreary alley, where sunlight scarce ever penetrated, Otto, deep in thought, recalling the grandeur of Rome, palaces, rebellion, intrigue, glory, women, and feasts, fetched a bottle of strong wine and drank himself into a stupor, still hearing the clamor of Roman soldiers and the creaking of chariot wheels in the Colosseum.

A few days hence, Otto von Geller was found dead. Smiling, his cold eyes fixed upon the ceiling, he lay upon his tiny bed, veins exposed, with the same imperial gilded wreath upon his head, stolen from the theater wardrobe.

May 13, 2012