They had met that morning at breakfast and agreed that they would spend the day together. A particularly heavy snowstorm had brought all traffic to a halt in Brno for the last two days, but now the skies had cleared and the horses were moving on the streets once more. Today Mendel would be returning to the Realschule and his duties as teacher of science, so he had asked Makyatta to accompany him. While Mendel had been getting ready, his old schoolteacher had waited at the bottom of the stairs. That was when he had heard Sembera's rehearsal and gone to investigate.
"I get little chance to listen to such music back home," Makyatta replied regretfully. "As you must remember, apart from feast days and holy days, there is little entertainment in our village. But the Mummers come regularly and there is singing in the church."
He looked at Mendel, "I did once hear the work of Mozart at a festival in Olomouc, but I cannot remember much about it."
"This piece," Mendel said, indicating the music coming from the chapel, "was written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in 1791. It was the last thing he composed, and some say, he never finished it." Makyatta nodded.
"We have a particular affection for the works of Mozart in this Monastery," Mendel went on, "and not just because of the Prior." He explained to his old schoolteacher the passions of Sembera and the upcoming, completely unauthorized, musical competition.
"Mozart visited Brno when he was a boy, and actually performed some of his own music during his stay here."
"How do you know?" Makyatta asked.
"We kept some of it," replied Mendel with a grin. At which his old friend looked most puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"Come," said Mendel, "I'll show you". And he led the schoolteacher towards the library, where they found Brother Matthew sitting among his books chewing on his cuff.
"Brother Matthew, could we see the Schrattenbach book please?" Mendel asked his fellow monk. "I would like to show Herr Makyatta the Mozart score."
"I thought you were teaching today?" Brother Matthew grunted, pushing himself out of his comfortable chair and lumbering towards an ornate Chinese cabinet in the corner of the library.
"I am," Mendel told him, "and Herr Makyatta is coming with me. I asked him to watch me teach my classes and give me some help."
"Perhaps he can help you with your Czech pronunciation," Klacel said, opening the cabinet with a large key and removing a package wrapped in green blaze cloth. All three men laughed at the joke made at Mendel's expense.
With great reverence Klacel placed the parcel on a nearby table and removed the cloth covering. Inside the protection was an unremarkable volume of poetry about 10 inches wide and 14 inches long.
"This book is not ours," Brother Matthew explained opening the volume randomly to show its contents. "It is on loan from the Schrattenbach family. Prior Sembera persuaded them to lend it to us several years ago, and we just never got round to returning it." He slowly turned the pages back towards the frontispiece.
"But here is the reason this book is so valuable."