by Anne Rice
And Guido, hearing these simple words spoken with uncommon feeling, could only nod in confusion. "Yes."
Tonio rose and drew Guido close to him, his hand on Guido's lips as if to make him silent, just as she had reached for Carlo's lips in the supper room that last night. But Guido was speaking yet.
"Forget them, forget them now."
"Yes, for an hour," Tonio answered. "For a day, for a week, I should so like to do that," he whispered.
And yet he saw her lying in that rank and darkened bedroom; he saw her deep in drunken sleep, her face the waxen mask of death, her moans inhuman. And now it's filled with lights; it's filled with people, those halls, those rooms, that vast salon, just as I had always dreamed, and she is in his arms, and he has saved her. Yes, there you have it laid bare. He has saved her! He cut you down to save her. And she is not doomed, and you are doomed, and you are in that dark room and you can't get out, and she is no longer there!
"Oh, if I could just take the pain out of your head," Guido said, ever so softly, his hands on Tonio's temples. "If I could only reach in and take it out."
"Ah, but you do, and you do it as no one else can," Tonio answered.
And they are married.
Married. And little Francesca Lisani clutches the convent grille to look at me, my betrothed, my bride. Married. His mother, peering up at him from the dressing table, suddenly threw back the great mane of her black hair and laughed.
Does she dance, does she sing, does she wear pearls around her neck, and is the long supper room thronged with guests, and has she her cavalier servente now, and what does she believe happened to her son, what does she believe!
But then he kissed Guido's open mouth slowly, with all the semblance of real feeling. And then pressing Guido's hands together, he let them go as he backed away. Never, he thought, will you ever know what happened, and what must happen, and just how brief this time is that we have together, this little span we call life.
It was near daylight when he rose from bed and penned his response to Catrina:
In my father's storerooms on the first floor of our house were several old, but still fine swords. Please ask my brother if I might have these weapons, and if he would send them to me here when it is convenient for him to do so. And if there is some sword which was our father's which he is willing to send to me, I should be profoundly grateful for that weapon, as well.
He signed the letter and sealed it, and sat watching the morning light appear in the little courtyard, a slow and silent spectacle that never failed to fill him with an extraordinary peace. First the shadowy shapes of the trees distinguished themselves beneath the arches of the cloister; then the light broke out in patches everywhere so that he could see the tracery of limbs and leaves. The color was the last to come, and then it was morning, and the house was giving off its full vibrations like a giant instrument sending its sounds through the pipes of a vast church.
The pain was gone.
The confusion in him had subsided. And as he looked at the smooth mask of Guido's face in sleep, he found himself humming softly the hymn he'd sung the night before, and thinking, Giacomo, you gave this little gift to me; I had not known how much I loved it, all of it, until you came.
10
DOMENICO WAS A SENSATION in Rome, though Loretti was hissed and attacked by the audience, particularly the abbati--the clerics who always took the front rows of the Roman house--accusing him of stealing from his idol, the composer Marchesca, so that all during the performance they hissed "Bravo Marchesca! Boooo Loretti," keeping quiet only when Domenico sang.
It was enough to unnerve anyone and Loretti was back in Naples, swearing never to set foot in the Eternal City again.
But Domenico had gone on to a grand court appointment in one of the German states. And the boys at the conservatorio laughed to hear that he'd enjoyed an escapade with a count and his wife, playing the woman for one and the man for the other in the same bed.
Tonio listened to all this with relief. Had Domenico failed, he would never have forgiven himself. And he still could not hear the stage name "Cellino" without shame and something of grief. Guido was distraught over Loretti's reception, muttering as always that the Roman audiences were the worst.
But Tonio was too caught up in his own life to think of much else.
*
Right after Christmas, he began visiting a French fencing master every chance he could. No matter what his other obligations, he managed to get out of the conservatorio at least three times a week.
Guido was furious. "But you can't do this," he insisted. "Practice all day, rehearse with the students all evening, the opera on Tuesdays, the Contessa's on Friday night. And now you want to spend these hours in a salle d'armes, this is nonsense."
But Tonio's face took on an elongated and determined expression, complete with an icy smile. And he won out.
He told himself that there were times when after a day of music and high-strung bickering voices, he must be away from the school and among those who weren't eunuchs, or he would go mad.
Actually the opposite was true. It was very hard for him to go to the fencing salon, hard for him to greet the Frenchman who instructed him, to take his place among the young men who were lounging about in their lace shirtsleeves, faces already glistening from earlier exertion, and quick to offer him a match.
He felt their eyes on him; he felt sure they laughed at him behind his back.
Yet coldly, he took his position, left arm crooked in the perfect arc, legs bent for the spring, and commenced thrusting, parrying, striving for ever greater speed and accuracy, his long reach giving him a deadly advantage as he moved towards an obvious ease and grace.
After others were spent, he carried on, feeling the tingle of hardening muscles in his calves and his arms, the pain melting into added strength, as with a strident energy he took the sport out of it for his partners, sometimes driving them right to the wall before the fencing master himself stepped forward to restrain him, whispering, "Tonio, come now, rest a while," in his ear.
It was almost Lent before he realized no one ever jested in his presence; no one ever spoke the word "eunuch" when he was near.
And now and then the young men made their gestures. Would he join them in drinking after? Would he care to go hunting, or riding? And always he said no. But he could see he'd won a respect from these dark-skinned and often taciturn southern Italians, who surely must have known he wasn't one of them. But that gave him scant warmth.
He shunned the company of young men, regular men, even the regular students of the conservatorio, who continued to defer to him as they had after Lorenzo's death.
But crossing blades with a man? He forced himself to it. And he was soon good enough for almost anyone he took on.
Guido called it mania.
Guido couldn't guess the cold flinty loneliness he felt in the midst of it, the relief he felt once he was back inside the conservatorio doors.
But he had to do it. He had to do it until he was so exhausted he might have dropped.
And when the awareness of his freakishness--of his increasing height and the inhuman gleam of his skin--when these things obsessed him, he took to stopping, to slowing his breath. Then he would move more slowly as he walked, or talked, or spoke; he would make each gesture graceful, languid. And that seemed to him less ridiculous, though no one had ever indicated to him that they found him ridiculous at all.
Meantime at the conservatorio, the Maestro di Cappella urged Tonio to take a small chamber near Guido's rooms, on the main floor. The death of Lorenzo obviously worried him. He didn't approve, either, of all this time spent with the sword. The students were looking up to Tonio, making something of a hero of him.
"But then I must admit," he added, "you surprised everyone with that Christmas cantata. Music is the blood and pulse of this place, and if you did not have the talent, you would not make the impression you so obviously make."
Tonio protested. He didn't want to give
up the view of the mountain; he didn't want to give up that snug attic place that was his own.
But when he realized all of these apartments on the first floor were linked by connecting doors, and that his lay exactly beside Guido's bedroom, he accepted. And he went out to furnish the room as he chose.
The Maestro was appalled to see the treasures coming through the front door: a chandelier of Murano glass, silver candlesticks, enameled chests, a coffered bed fitted with green velvet curtains, carpets from the Orient, and finally a splendid harpsichord with a double keyboard and a long triangular case. It was painted with galloping satyrs and nymphs, under a mellow glaze, in ocher, gold, and olive green.
This was a present for Guido, actually, though giving it to him outright might have been indiscreet.
And at night when the draperies were pulled against the cloister windows, and the halls echoed with dim and dissonant sounds, no one knew who slept in which bed, who came and went in which chamber, and the love of Guido and Tonio went on undiscovered as before.
Guido was meantime hard at work on creating a Pasticcio for Easter, which the Maestro di Cappella had gladly entrusted to him as the result of his recent Christmas success. This Pasticcio was a complete opera in which most of the acts were revisions of earlier and famous works. Scarlatti's music would be used for the first with part of a libretto by Zeno, something suitable by Vivaldi worked into the second, and so on. But Guido had an opportunity to write the closing act himself.
There would be parts in it for Tonio, and for Paolo, whose high sweet soprano was astonishing everyone, and for another promising student named Gaetano, who had just been sent to Guido in recognition of the Christmas work.
Guido was ecstatic. And Tonio soon realized that though he could have bought out all Guido's time for private lessons here, Guido wanted recognition from the Maestro for his students and his compositions; Guido was working towards the fulfillment of certain dreams of his own.
And on the day the Maestro accepted the Pasticcio, Guido was so happy he actually threw up all the pages of the score into the air.
Tonio got down on his knees to pick them up and then made Guido promise to take him and Paolo to the nearby island of Capri for a couple of days.
Paolo was brimming with excitement when told he was to go. Snub-nosed, round-faced, with a mop of unruly brown hair, he was loving and easy to love; and late at night in the inn, Tonio kept him up talking, saddened to discover the boy remembered no parents, only a succession of orphanages, and the old choirmaster who had promised the operation wouldn't be painful, when in fact it was.
But as Lent came on, Tonio realized what Guido's victory meant. Tonio must now appear on the stage not in the chorus, but alone.
Why should it be any worse than the chapel? Why should it be any worse than the processions which moved right through the common people to the church?
Yet it chilled him. He could see the audience assembling, and it was almost a sensual pain that came over him when he contemplated stepping before the lights: that old feeling of nakedness, of vulnerability, of...what? Belonging to others? Being something to please others, rather than one who is to be pleased himself?
Yet he wanted it so badly. He wanted the paint and the tinsel and the excitement; and he remembered how, when Domenico had been singing, he had thought: Some day I will do it and better than that.
Yet when he finally opened Guido's score, he discovered he was to play a woman. He was stunned.
He was alone at the time.
He had taken the score to the empty little theater with permission to practice it there, hearing his voice fill the place.
Little sunlight leaked into the hall; the empty boxes were hollow and dark, and the stage itself barren even of its curtains, so that furnishings and props were exposed.
Sitting at the keyboard and staring at the score before him, he had the instant flashing feeling that he had been betrayed.
Yet he could almost see Guido's astonished face when confronted with it. Guido hadn't "done" this to him deliberately. Guido was merely giving him the opportunities for training he must have.
He forced his hands to sound the first few notes; and letting loose the full power of his voice, he heard the opening phrases fill the little house. The whole production came to life in his mind. He felt the crowd, he heard the orchestra, he saw that fair-haired girl in the front row.
And there he was at the core of it, that splendid horror, a man in a woman's dress. No, not a man, you forget yourself. He smiled. And in retrospect, Domenico seemed sublimely innocent and supremely powerful to him.
And he felt his voice dry in his throat.
He knew that he should do it. He should accept it as it was. That was the lesson of the mountain and within the unfolding petals of this new terror there lay the seed of greater strength. He wished he could go back to the mountain. He wished he understood why it had so helped him and transformed him that first time.
But without thinking, he had risen, closed the harpsichord.
And finding a pen in Guido's bedroom, he wrote his message on the top page of the score:
"I cannot perform women's roles, not now or ever, and if you do not rewrite the part for me, I do not perform at all."
There would have been an argument when Guido came in, except that Tonio did not speak. He knew all the arguments: castrati performed women's roles everywhere; did he think he could go through the world singing only men's parts? Did he understand what he was sacrificing? Did he think he could always pick and choose?
And then finally Tonio looked up and said in a small voice: "Guido, I will not do it."
And Guido had gone out. He had to obtain the Maestro's permission to rewrite, to completely refashion the last act.
It seemed an hour that he was gone.
And there was this unusual thickness, this dryness to Tonio's throat. It was as if he couldn't sing, and all the vague images of the mountain, and his night there, brought no comfort, and he was afraid. He felt he was being drawn into something that would utterly destroy him, and he had miscalculated all along. To be the simple and uncontemplative thing which could be all things a castrato must be--that would be the death of him and what he was. Always he would be divided. Always there would be pain. Pain and pleasure, intermingling and working him this way and that, and shaping him, but one never really vanquishing the other; there would never be peace.
He wasn't prepared for Guido's crestfallen attitude when he returned. He knew immediately something was wrong.
Guido sat at his desk for a long time before he spoke.
"He's given the good part to Benedetto, his pupil," he said finally. "He says you may sing the aria I wrote for Paolo at the end."
Tonio wanted to say something; he wanted to say that he was sorry, and that he knew he had disappointed Guido terribly.
"It's your music, Guido," he murmured, "and everyone will hear it...."
"But I wanted them to hear you sing it; you are my pupil, I wanted them to hear you!"
11
THE EASTER Pasticcio was a success. Tonio had helped with the revisions of the libretto, lent a hand with the costuming, and worked backstage at every rehearsal until he was ready to drop.
It was a full house, and the first time Guido had ever played in the theater, and Tonio had bought him a new wig for the occasion and a fashionable burgundy-colored brocade coat.
Guido had rewritten the song for him. It was an aria cantabile full of exquisite tenderness and perfect for Tonio's increasing skills.
And when Tonio stepped to the footlights, he wanted it so badly that the old sense of vulnerability was alchemized into exhilaration, a heady awareness of the swimming beauty around him, the expectant faces everywhere, and the obvious and reliable power of his own voice.
Breathing slowly, calmly, before he began, he felt the sadness of the aria, and then moved into it fully expecting to bring the audience to tears.
But when he saw that he had done this, th
at those before him were actually weeping, he was so astonished he almost forgot to leave the stage.
The young fair-haired girl was there too, just as he had suspected she would be. He saw her transfixed, gazing up at him. The triumph was almost more than he could bear.
But this was Guido's night, Guido's premiere performance before an audience of sophisticated Neapolitans, and when Tonio saw him taking his bows, he forgot about everything else.
Then later at the Contessa Lamberti's house, he saw the fair-haired one again.
It was very crowded. Lent was over, people wanted to dance, to drink, and of course the performance at the conservatorio had been very fine, and all the musicians were welcome. And Tonio, roaming about, glass in hand, happened to see the girl suddenly as she came through a door. She was on the arm of a very old, dark-skinned gentleman, but when their eyes met, she nodded to Tonio. Then she went to join the dance.
Of course no one noticed it. No one would have thought it remarkable. But Tonio felt immediately light-headed. He got clean away from her as fast as he could, wondering even critically, out of sorts suddenly, why was she here? She was so young after all. Surely she wasn't married, and almost all Italian girls of that age were shut up in convents. Rarely did they ever go to balls.
His bride-to-be, Francesca Lisani, had been so thoroughly entombed that when he was told he was to marry her, he could not remember her face. But she had been so beautiful when they finally met that afternoon at her convent! He still saw her through the grille, and why was he so surprised, he thought now. After all, she was Catrina's child.
But why think of all this? It was unreal to him, actually; or rather, unreal to him one moment, and then poignantly real the next. What was overpoweringly real was that every time he paused for an instant someone complimented his performance.
Sleek gentlemen he didn't know, their walking sticks in one hand, their lace handkerchiefs gathered delicately in the other, bowed to him, told him he had been delightful and that they looked to him for great things. Great things! The ladies were smiling at him, lowering those elaborately painted fans for an instant, making it quite evident he might come to sit beside them if he liked.
