Cry to Heaven (14 page)

Then before his eyes, the most hideous change in his father was taking place. He saw the eyes widen; he saw the mouth twist.

“What are you doing here!” Andrea whispered. “How did you get into this house without my permission?” He had drawn himself up with an immense and shattering anger.

“Father!” Tonio whispered. “It’s me…it’s Tonio.”

“Ah!” His father’s hand was raised. It hovered in the air.

And then there was a moment of infinite distress in which everything was realized.

Andrea was staring at his son in shame and embarrassment. A great anxiety caused his hands to quaver, the mouth to shudder. “Ah, Tonio,” he said. “My Tonio.”

For a long moment neither spoke. In the corridor, others whispered. Then they were silent.

“Father, come down to bed,” Tonio said. He felt, for the first time, the bones of the man beneath the fabric that covered him.

So light he felt; so without vitality or strength. It was as if he could have been completely overpowered.

“No, not now. I am all right,” Andrea answered. And he was a little rough as he removed Tonio’s hands and stepped again to the open window.

Far below, the gondolas moved like pods on the green water. A barge inched its way towards the lagoon. A tiny orchestra played brightly on deck, and the railing was twined with roses and lilies. Small figures flashed and turned as they ducked beneath a canopy of white silk, and rolling up the walls, it seemed, there came a thin laughter.

“I think sometimes that it has become an abomination against taste, to grow old and die in Venice!” Andrea said. “Yes, taste, taste, as if all of life were nothing but a matter of taste,” he raged, his voice dry in his throat, almost a rattle. “You great whore!” he breathed, staring out at those distant silver domes.

“Papa,” Tonio whispered.

The hand that touched him was like a claw. “My son, there isn’t time for you to grow up slowly. I told you that once before. Now mark my words. You must make up your mind you are a man now. You must behave as if this were absolutely the truth, all the chemistry of God notwithstanding. Then all else falls into place, do you understand me?”

The pale eyes fixed on Tonio, appeared to sharpen and then again to grow dim. “I would have given you an empire, foreign seas, the world. But now I can only give you this: once you have made the decision that you are a man, you will become one. Everything else will fall into place. Remember.”

Two hours passed before anyone could persuade Tonio to leave for the Brenta. Alessandro went back into his father’s rooms twice, emerging each time to say that Andrea’s order was absolute.

They were to leave for the Villa Lisani. Andrea was concerned that they were already late. He wanted them to go immediately.

Finally Signore Lemmo ordered everything placed in the gondolas, and took Tonio aside.

“He is in pain, Tonio,” he said. “He does not want you or your mother to see him as he is. Now listen to me. You must not let him know you are worried. I’ll send for you if there is any great change in him.”

Tonio was choking back the tears as they crossed the little dock.

“Dry your eyes,” Alessandro whispered, helping him into the boat. “He’s on the balcony above to bid us farewell.”

Tonio glanced up; he saw the spectral figure supported on either side. Andrea had put on his scarlet robe; his hair had been tamed and his smile frozen as if in white marble.

“I will never see him again,” Tonio whispered.

Thank God for the swiftness of the little boat, for the canal’s serpentine course. When he finally sat back in the
felze
, he was crying silently but uncontrollably.

He felt the continual pressure of Alessandro’s hand.

And when he did look up, he realized Marianna was gazing out of the window with the most wistful expression.

“The Brenta.” She was almost humming. “I haven’t seen the mainland since I was a little girl.”

I
N THE KINGDOM
of Naples and Sicily, Guido found no pupils worth the journey home. Now and then a promising boy was presented to him, but he had not the fortitude to tell his parents he would recommend “the operation.”

And of those boys already cut, he did not hear one worth encouraging.

But he pressed on into the Papal States, to Rome itself, and then farther north into Tuscany.

Spending his nights in noisy inns, his days in rented carriages, occasionally dining with the hangers-on of some noble family, he carried his few belongings in a shabby leather valise, his dagger clamped in his right hand under his coat against those bandits who everywhere preyed upon travelers.

He went to the churches of the small towns. He heard the opera everywhere in the villages and in the cities.

And by the time he left Florence, he had two boys of some talent boarded in a monastery until he should take them back to Naples. They were not marvels, but they were better than all he’d heard so far, and he dreaded the return journey with nothing.

In Bologna, he frequented the cafés, met with the great theatrical agents, spent hours with singers gathered there to pick up an offer for a season, hoping to hear of that ragged boy with a great voice who might be dreaming of the stage, who might want the chance to study in the great conservatorios of Naples.

Old friends now and then appeared to buy him a drink, singers who’d been in class with him. Glad to see him and feeling completely superior to him now, they proudly related their adventures.

But he found nothing.

And as spring came on, as the air grew warmer and sweeter and the large green leaves came back to the limbs of the poplar trees, Guido pushed on, north, to the deepest mystery of all Italy: the great and ancient Republic of Venice.

A
NDREA
T
RESCHI DIED
in the middle of the worst heat of August. Signore Lemmo’s immediate communication to Tonio informed him that Catrina and her husband were now his guardians. And Carlo Treschi, having been called home by his father as soon as death was certain, had already set sail from Istanbul.

T
HE HOUSE WAS FULL
of death and full of strangers. Elderly men in black robes and scarlet robes, endless whispering. And then from inside his father’s apartments that terrible sound, that inhuman roaring. He heard it commence, he heard it rise in volume.

And when at last the doors had been flung open, his brother, Carlo, stepped into the corridor and met his eyes with the palest, weakest smile. It was shy; it was defeated; it was the thin terrible embarrassed shield of outrage.

He had watched as his brother came up the Grand Canal. He had seen him standing in the prow of the boat, a cape unfurling lightly on the damp breeze, and that black hair, the very shape of the head familiar. He had watched as Carlo stepped on the dock; he had stood at the top of the staircase waiting for him.

Black eyes, black eyes exactly like his own, and that sudden start when Carlo, surely, perceived the likeness. The face, larger, darkened by the sun, suffused so suddenly with feeling. Carlo had come forward, his hands curling in the gesture of welcome, and taking Tonio in his arms, held him so close it seemed Tonio could feel the sigh coming out of Carlo before he had in fact heard it.

What had Tonio expected? Malice here, bitterness? Passion burnt to cunning? It was a countenance so open it seemed the guileless mirror of warmth. And those hands had so boldly caressed his head, those lips pressed to his forehead. There was a loving possessiveness to his touch, and just for an instant, as
they stood in each other’s arms, Tonio had felt the most secret and glorious relief.

“You are here,” he whispered.

And his brother had said, ever so soft, so it was a rumble from his massive chest, the name:

“Tonio.”

And then that inchoate roar, that appalling roar, rising, rising, that growl through clenched teeth, that fist coming down again and again on his father’s table.

“Carlo!” Catrina whispered, rising behind Tonio with a rustle of silk, her mourning veil thrown back as the doors opened to release him, her face full of sadness.

Soft noises, whispers. Catrina went behind him down the corridor. Signore Lemmo rushed to and fro on soundless feet. And Marianna in her mourning dress stared before her.

Now and then Tonio saw the glint of the rosary beads moving through her hand, the glint of her eyes should she look up for an instant.

She had not even raised her head when Carlo entered the room. And he from the corner of his eyes had quietly noted her.

When he did bow, it was to the ground: “Signora Treschi,” he said. He was so like his portraits it seemed the burning sun of the Levant had only deepened his color. The hair was dark on the backs of his hands, and a vague Eastern perfume, musky and full of spice, seemed to emanate from him. He wore three rings on his right hand.

And somewhere now behind yet another closed door, Catrina was pleading with him: “Carlo, Carlo.”

Beppo appeared at the head of the stairs, and behind him the tall figure of Alessandro.

Alessandro dropped his arm about Tonio’s shoulder. They moved swiftly and silently to Tonio’s room.

Catrina’s voice swelled behind the wall just for a moment: “You are home, don’t you see, you are home and young yet and everywhere around you there is life….”

And that lower, incomprehensible rumble of anger interrupting her.

Alessandro removed his dark blue cape as the door shut. He
was speckled with rain, and his large dreamy eyes were shadowed with concern.

“So he is here, already,” he whispered.

“Alessandro, you must stay on, I need you,” Tonio said. “I need you for four years under this roof. I need you until I marry Francesca Lisani. It’s all laid down in my father’s will, in his instructions to the guardians of the estate. But for four years, Alessandro, I must prevail against him.”

Alessandro pressed his finger to Tonio’s lips as if he were the angel making the final seal at the moment of creation.

“It’s not you who must prevail, Tonio. It’s your father’s will and those who must execute it. Is he disinherited?”

His voice dropped on this last word. This would have been a terrible thing, accomplished only if Carlo had ever laid hands on his father with the intent to harm him. That had never happened.

“The estate’s undivided,” Tonio murmured. “But my father’s instructions are clear. I am to marry. The bulk of the assets are for my education, training, and all the demands of my life as a statesman. Carlo is allowed a pittance, and advised to devote himself to the welfare of my children…”

Alessandro nodded. It was no surprise to him.

“Alessandro, he is outraged! He demands to know why he must abide by this. He is the eldest son….”

“Tonio, that means nothing in Venice,” Alessandro reminded him. “You have been chosen to marry by your father. You must not be frightened by all of this. It is not in your hands, it is in the hands of the law and your guardians.”

“Alessandro, he demands to know why the fate of this house must wait upon a boy….”

“Tonio, Tonio,” Alessandro whispered. “You couldn’t yield to him if you wished. Put your mind at rest. And for whatever good it will do, I am here to stay with you.”

Tonio sucked in his breath. He was staring off as if these assurances hadn’t penetrated. “Alessandro, if I could only despise him…” he started.

Alessandro had his head to one side, and his face had a look of limitless patience.

“But he does not seem…he is so…”

“It’s out of your hands,” Alessandro said softly.

“What did you know of him?” Tonio pressed. “Surely you knew of him?”

“Of him, yes,” Alessandro said, and without realizing it, he moved to wipe a strand of hair from Tonio’s forehead. His hand rested on Tonio’s shoulder. “But only what everyone knew. He was an impetuous young man. And there was death in this house, his mother’s death, the death of his brothers. There is little more that I can tell you.”

“Catrina does not despise him,” Tonio whispered. “She is sorry for him!”

“Ah, Tonio, she is sorry for him but she is your guardian and she will stand by you. When you come to understand that you are powerless in this, you will have peace.”

“But Alessandro, tell me. The woman he refused. Years ago, when my father wanted to arrange a marriage…”

“I know nothing of all that,” Alessandro said with a little shake of the head.

“But he refused a bride whom my father had chosen for him. He ran off with some convent girl, but the bride he refused. Alessandro, was it my mother?”

Alessandro had been on the verge of a denial when he paused, and for a moment seemed not to understand the question.

“If she was the girl Carlo refused, it will be unendurable for her here….”

Alessandro was silent for a moment. “She was not the girl he refused,” he answered softly.

Dark house, empty house, alien sounds.

He climbed the steps to the upper floor.

He knew Carlo was in the old room; he could see the uncommon daylight spilling out into the dusty passage.

That morning his brother had asked for him at table, sent his Turkish servants to invite him down, and he had sat alone in bed, his head in his hands, murmuring excuses to these alien faces.

Now he moved swiftly on the balls of his feet until he stood at the door and saw his brother moving among the ruined things, the bed a scaffold of dust and rags, a book in Carlo’s hand, swollen from the rain, its pages heavy and damp still as he turned them. He was reading in a whisper, the blue sky behind
him obscured by the grimed windows, and it seemed the sound of his whisper belonged to this place, and with a dull rhythm he spoke the words now, louder, yet to himself, his right hand moving in the air ever so slightly.

He saw Tonio. And that warmth came to his face, the eyes crinkled gently with his smile, and closing the book he laid his right hand open on it.

“Come in, little brother,” he said. “You see I am…well, at a loss. I cannot invite you to sit here with me in my old apartments.”