HE HAD A CHILDLIKE EXUBERANCE FOR LIFE. And until those final days, a shrill laugh always waiting in his throat. I remember his touch. Others grabbed me or slapped me, but he would run his fingers gently along my curve, press me softly downward, and only then thrust me into the courtyard. I loved it.

I was the finishing touch to Rauhensteingasse 8, the finest residential building in all of Vienna. People came from far and wide to admire, and nobody left without stroking me, the cast-iron handle on the door. They said I was a glucksbringer, that I brought good fortune. I recall the hurtful comments after his death, that I hadn't done him much good. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

But nobody moved me like he did.

Cast from wrought iron by a smithy in Debrecen, my arm is two hand-spans wide, fixed onto a plate four spans long. The plate depicts grapes so true to life, some believed they were born from witchcraft. He was the best smithy in the Empire. It was all Hapsburgers then, greedy little Austrians and greedy little Hungarians, eating their way into Slovenia, into Istria, beyond. His arms were thick like your thighs. He burned and beat me for six hours before my final shape emerged. Smithy? Maestro. That's what I say. I would have snapped into a thousand shards if the blows and the fire had continued much longer. Water, finally water, stinging burning relief. The apprentice, no more than a child, filed my rough surface till I was smooth and glistened like the skin on his young, naked back. That, the flirtatious filing-tickling, that I enjoyed. The smithy beat the apprentice often during my stay there, without reason, and without speaking. With each blow the bulge under his apron grew larger. One time, his nose bled so hard he had to stop.

The journey from Debrecen to Vienna was full of anticipation, and I wasn't to be disappointed. Ten feet tall and ten inches thick. What a beautiful Door, what a truly exquisite piece of workmanship. Such grandeur, so polished, so fine. The Buergermeister himself fixed the last screw that bound me to the Corinthian Oak.

I'd been on Rauhensteingasse nearly 70 years when he moved in, Wolfgang. There was quite some excitement when his furniture and entourage arrived. The air was full of powder and paint, wigs and false moles. It was love at first touch, Wolfie and his Magic Fingers. Music. Nobody moved me like he did.

Constanze was always in such a fine mood. I overheard him tell her, 'Your entire beauty consists of two dark eyes.' They brought six offspring into the world, what eyes they were. And he wasn't only a prolific composer, he was as randy as randy could be, and had dozens of affairs. Dozens, maybe even more.

For the record, I don't believe he ever intended to finish The Requiem. They pipe it through the sound system here at the museum on occasion. His heart wasn't in it. His last commission, the patron in question wished to pass it off as his own. Wolfie would be upstairs, hour after hour, pushing out the notes on the harpsichord until I'd hear the inevitable Verfluchte Scheisse! Then he'd be off improvising again. Many years later I heard some Dixieland Jazz; it wasn't at all dissimilar. His spirits restored, it was never long before he'd bounce down the stairs and skip over the cobblestones to the tavern.

Once, actually in this room, they showed a TV movie of his life. It sewed up quite a few loose ends for me. I had no idea Salieri was such a bastard. He was just a regular composer back then. In the movie there was a mysterious visitor two nights before he died. Salieri, Salieri, how I wish I could clear your name. It was in fact Brunhilde, a tavern wench. She was no stranger. Like on previous occasions, Wolfie pinned her up against Door. She wriggled and giggled and burped. Big beery burps. Then, holding layers of petticoat up to her neck, she smiled, closed her eyes, and turned her head to one side. He was inside her in a flash. Her toes struggled to touch the ground and he hummed The Magic Flute the whole time. At one point I prodded her in the hip, for Constanze you understand.

A late summer's night, there was a lot of that went on, before street lighting was introduced. Door said it was the best massage he ever had.

Rauhensteingasse 8 stood for 200 hundred years before being demolished to make space for The Steffl Department Store. I know, I know, it's hard to believe. And wait, there's more: The entrance to a Mister Minit Show Repair & Key Cut Service is exactly where Door and I used to stand. I hear it's an excellent franchise opportunity. I hear all types of things.

After the demolition, they hung Door and I at the newly opened Mozart Museum. It didn't last though. Some bastard, intent on thieving me, removed my screws over a two-week period. Security only noticed when I was down to the last one. Apparently I'm worth a fortune on eBay. So they separated the Corinthian Oak and I, after a long, harmonious, symbiotic relationship. I miss the company. We're old now, and on quiet days I hear him creak down the hall. I never saw the new handle. Maybe I'm a little jealous, stuck here inside this glass display case, my tomb.

Wolfgang's demise and death are well documented. Debt and ill health got the better of him, and at 35 he was gone. 35! He was never one to linger. Have you heard Rondo Alla Turc? The authorities buried him in an unmarked communal grave. Austria is not always kind to her sons. Wolfie could never have imagined the hullabaloo today, as Vienna prepares for the 250th anniversary of his birth. I mean, they barely fêted him in his day. Fucking hypocrites, that's what he'd say.

But for the record, dear Wolfgang, let me be the first to wish you Herzlichen Gluckwunsch, and a happy, happy birthday.


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